Author: Hi QwQ

1 chapter is planned at least once a week, maybe more.

Thank you for your attention ><

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---If losing my humanity is the price of my survival, I will easily reject it----

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Sharp pain… What dared to pierce the comforting veil of my sleep? Surely, I'm dead; this darkness wraps around me like a soft, suffocating blanket, lulling me back into blissful oblivion.

But then, a sharp thump echoes through the room, followed by a screech—like a pig in distress. It's so disturbing, pulling me from my haze. With great effort, I pry open my eyes, my vision blurring as the remnants of a dream slip away. He is dead. The thought strikes like a current, electrifying my sluggish mind. These fools can't even carry out a death penalty properly. Although, I suppose someone must have paid them. I'd gladly pay to watch my enemy writhe in agony, trapped in a hell of their own making. But sleep beckons again, pulling me down into its depths.

Another blow lands, and my cheek ignites with fire. I blink sharply, scanning the room. An old woman hunches over me, her gnarled hands trembling as she mutters something unintelligible. I can't be bothered to listen. I seem to be in some sort of childish sanctuary, cluttered with bright superhero figurines and posters that scream of innocence. My son used to love heroes, too—what a cruel joke. My thoughts swirl, heavy and disjointed.

I glance around and spot a pencil lying on the bedside table. Ah, I recall a tale of a Russian KGB agent who dispatched eight adversaries with a mere pencil in a bar. A grim smile tugs at my lips as I study the woman still hovering over me. How many times would I need to jab her in the neck to silence her incessant prattling? But I hold back. She's screeching about my mother being a whore and insists that I must go to school. Ah, the absurdity of it all. For now, violence can wait.

With a slow, deliberate movement, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and push myself up. I'm a thin, unremarkable boy—probably thirteen, with limbs that feel foreign and weak. I ponder whether it's time to shed this flimsy pajama fabric when the woman suddenly freezes, her mouth agape in shock. Shouting something incomprehensible, she bolts from the room like a startled deer.

I snort. Pathetic. I look around again, my curiosity piqued. The room is a chaotic jumble of bright colors, toys, and the remnants of childhood dreams. A small table with an aging computer sits by the window, a sentinel of this bizarre reality. I approach the window, feeling the cool glass against my fingertips. The view reveals a backyard and rows of identical houses in a bland suburb. Second floor—an escape route, perhaps.

Next, I turn to the closet, and as I yank the handle, a mountain of clothes collapses onto me, fabric smothering my face. I wrestle my way free, finally snatching a pair of jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with some superhero logo that mocks my current situation. With a deep breath, I make my way to the door.

I wrench it open, revealing a dimly lit corridor lined with four doors. Great. I choose the nearest one. Surprise—there's a sister, her face a blend of annoyance and concern. Next! The old woman again, back to her prattling. I slam the door behind me and dash to the next one—bathroom at last. I lock the door, leaning against it as I catch my breath.

In the mirror, another me stares back—blond hair, dark eyes, a nose too sharp to be charming. I'm not grotesque, but I can't shake the feeling that I've fared better in other lives. I stretch my mouth into a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. Alive. And yet, this is utter nonsense. Time travel? A parallel universe? Too many theories, not enough information.

I peel off my underwear and step into the shower, letting the water cascade over me. I grimace at the reflection—a body untouched by effort or ambition. It feels alien and wrong. After a quick wash, I pull on my clothes and take one last look in the mirror. I draw a smiley face on the foggy glass, a promise to myself. I step back, slamming the door behind me.

At the end of the corridor, I see the stairs leading down. I descend quietly, heart pounding. The old woman spots me, her eyes widening in surprise. She rushes toward me, grabbing my hand with surprising strength. I can't help but wonder—mother? Aunt? Grandmother? I need to slip away unnoticed.

She grumbles under her breath, pulling me toward the front door. Before I know it, I'm tossed into a car, a backpack flying through the air, narrowly missing my head. I think I'm being taken to school. As the engine roars to life, I brace myself for the chaos ahead. Time to consider a plan of action.