Ouch.
Smoke.
It stung his throat and filled his lungs why was there smoke in the air?
It burns.
The words ripped from his scorched lips, sounding so alien that it hardly felt like his own voice. Toon Horst coughed, his breath feeding the flames that clung to him like a relentless curse.
His skin blistered and cracked, red flesh bubbling beneath the charred surface.
Yet death wouldn't take him.
Fire wrapped around his chest, his arms, his face—alive, hungry, and cruel. Each flicker sank deeper, marking him as its own. The stench of burnt flesh and hair filled the narrow street. Every gasp pulled in smoke like shards of glass.
He screamed.
A raw, broken sound. More beast than man.
"WATER! SOMEBODY—WATER!"
No one moved.
Dozens of eyes glimmered through the smoke, cold and distant.
Shadows of people. Spectators.
Some whispered, others smirked. Not a single hand reached out. To them, he was no longer a man, just a warning. A spectacle.
His vision swam. His knees buckled. The heat clawed at his soul. He tore at his chest, ripping away pieces of his melted shirt, only for skin to come with it. The agony was beyond human, a primal madness gnawing at his sanity.
"Please—!"
His voice cracked, barely more than a whimper.
No compassion. No mercy. A child pointed at him, giggling as his flesh burned. The fire roared louder, drowning out the sound of his own heartbeat. His hair turned to ash, his lips split and bled.
Still, his body refused to die.
Why is this happening?
A public execution in broad daylight.
"What is this—old fucking China?!"
The world spun.
He fell to his knees. A filthy puddle reflected his melting face. Steam hissed as drops hit his skin, a cruel mockery of relief.
With the last of his strength, Toon plunged his face into it.
Steam billowed up, and his scream shattered the stillness.
Through the boiling ripples and the blood-streaked water, Toon caught sight of a stranger staring back at him. Those silver eyes glimmered like molten metal, with cheekbones that were sharper than they should be. His hair was blackened, and something about it felt… off.
That face wasn't his.
He blinked once. Twice.
Still, the same reflection stared back.
"Who is this…?"
The whisper came out shaky.
This isn't me. What happened?
Then came the thought that twisted his stomach—
Have I… transmigrated?
It sounded utterly insane, like something ripped from a novel. But the pain was all too real, and the body felt so foreign. No matter how much he tried to deny it, reality clawed back: wherever he was, it definitely wasn't home.
A sudden jolt of pain split through his skull.
"Oww… my head."
He dropped to his knees as memories surged in a tiny apartment engulfed in flames. Laughter from young men marked by the streets.
Gunfire. Blood on asphalt. Sirens. Handcuffs. Cold bars.
It all crashed into him like shards of glass.
Toon gasped, clutching his head. The migraine roared, then gradually faded to a dull throb. He took a breath, trembling.
"My clothes are gone… burned to ashes. At least my pants made it."
A dry chuckle slipped from his lips. The scent of smoke clung to his skin.
"What now?" he muttered. "I have no idea where I am… but one thing's for sure."
The body he now inhabited belonged to a boy named Assad—no last name, no legacy. A dropout lost to the streets.
"No surname? What kind of fool lives like that?"
He snorted, but the insult felt empty.
Assad was eighteen. A dropout. Once bright, perhaps, with decent grades but swallowed by the underworld long before he could put them to use. The streets had claimed him.
And this city Kurayamiya. A name that slipped off the tongue like ash. The syllables had a Japanese ring to them, yet the place felt stranger, heavier. It was foreign, yet oddly familiar. Was it really Japan? Or just a distorted reflection of it? He couldn't quite figure it out.
Fragments of Assad's life swirled in his mind faces, gunfire, betrayal—all fading before he could grasp them. The harder he tried to remember, the quicker they slipped away, cutting him each time.
"Why was Assad executed?"
The question hung in the air, heavy as the smoke above the city.
A pale moon loomed over Kurayamiya—its light silver and harsh. The city below whispered secrets in every shadow. Doorways stared back like unblinking eyes.
Toon shivered. He could feel it He definitely wasn't welcome here.
His stomach growled, echoing loudly in the stillness.
"Damn… already feeling hungry."
He checked his pockets. Nothing.
"Figures. I guess I'll have to follow Assad's lead if I want to eat… even if it means getting my hands dirty."
The alleys twisted on and on, cluttered with trash and broken signs. Groups of men laughed like hyenas, but none had anything worth taking. A city full of criminals, and not a crumb of bread in sight.
Then—crunching.
Someone was eating.
Toon's head whipped around at the sound.
A faint glow flickered in the darkness a cigarette ember, lazy smoke, a shadowy figure holding food.
Don't think. Just take.
He dashed forward, grabbed the food, and bolted down the alley. The stranger didn't even flinch, just watched him disappear.
"Yes! Finally, food."
He dropped to his knees, devouring it.
"Time to get diggin'—"
He froze mid-bite. The words felt wrong. Harsh. Not his own.
Assad's accent. Assad's voice.
Before he could process it, a sharp voice sliced through the night—
CRACK!
A boot slammed into his face, sending him sprawling. Blood trickled from his lip.
"You little shit."
The voice was low. Feminine. Cold as ice.
"That's not how we do things around here."