"It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it."— Seneca, On the Shortness of Life
The man hummed quietly inside his small electric car, eyes drifting over the empty streets lit by dim streetlamps. One in the morning. The city felt hollow at this hour, like a stage long after the actors had gone home. He saw this view every night after work, and he had always assumed his life would continue like this—clock in, clock out, repeat—until the day he passed through that intersection.
A blinding white light burst from the left.
Then came the horn. Low. Deafening. Like a beast roaring straight at him.
He didn't even have time to react. His head turned on instinct—Ah. A truck.
The impact came instantly. The force felt like a firing pin striking a shell. The battery beneath the car detonated, flames erupting as metal twisted and collapsed. The truck never stopped.
This was the outskirts of the city. No cameras. No witnesses. By the time emergency services arrived, photos of the wreck had already spread online. The fire burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but a blackened shell of a vehicle. In the driver's seat, barely distinguishable from the wreckage, was the final trace of a man who had once existed.
The only person who noticed his disappearance was his supervisor. After several days of unexplained absence and unfinished work, the man exploded in anger. A termination notice was mailed to the employee's apartment—an apartment still burdened with a thirty-year mortgage. Months later, when the bank reclaimed the property, that letter was tossed into the trash.
No one came looking for him.
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When consciousness returned, he did not see a steering wheel.
There was no glass. No road. No headlights. Instead, he found himself staring through a curved, transparent surface. His body felt… held—secured tightly in place, wrapped in something molded to his shape. He could barely move, only his eyes.
Beyond the transparent barrier was darkness. Then stars.
Not the faint specks seen from Earth, but vast, brilliant clusters stretching endlessly into space. A massive planet drifted past his view, its surface streaked with pale brown bands.
Jupiter?
Another followed, encircled by a glowing ring.
Saturn.
His mind went blank. This wasn't a dream. No planetarium could recreate this. Which meant only one thing—he was in space, inside some kind of capsule.
His body felt wrong. Heavy. Small. When he forced himself to lift an arm, his thoughts froze. Short. Chubby. Smooth. Not an adult's arm. Not even close.
So ... reincarnation?
There were no memories rushing back. No divine voice. No system notification. Just silence, stars, and motion. Judging by the trajectory, he seemed to be moving inward—toward the inner solar system.
Earth.
Or worse.
The Sun.
He searched for controls. There were none. No panels. No switches. If this thing had guidance, it wasn't letting him interfere.
"Great," he thought. "Reborn and already on a suicide course."
The idea that followed was even worse. Was he some kind of alien infant sent to conquer a planet? Like in those old anime? The thought was ridiculous. Sending a baby to conquer anything made no sense. What was it supposed to do—cry menacingly?
His thoughts were cut short as the capsule began to shake.
Atmospheric entry.
Flames bloomed across the viewing window, painting everything red. Yet inside, there was no heat, no pressure, no sense of falling. The technology far exceeded anything humanity possessed.
Then—impact.
Not smooth. Not gentle.
It slammed into the ground like a meteor.
Silence followed.
Moments later, the hatch opened. Cold air rushed in. Bright lights flooded his vision. Men in thick winter gear surrounded him, shouting in Russian.
He tried to speak.
What came out was a baby's cry.
That was when reality finally settled in.
He wasn't just reincarnated.
He was an infant.
And it was freezing.
From that moment on, everything changed.
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If an alien fleet appeared in orbit with its cannons aimed at Earth, then alien rights would suddenly matter. But if an alien arrived alone, naked, and helpless?
Then congratulations. You became a research subject.
That was how Subject НЛО-один came to exist.
The room was spotless—unnaturally so. White walls. White ceiling. White bed. A sink. A toilet. No windows. No switches. The lights turned on and off according to someone else's will. It resembled a prison cell, if prisons were designed by people obsessed with sterility.
He wore a thin white gown. As a baby, he'd been bottle-fed. After weaning, his meals became identical blocks of nutrition paste—enough to survive, never enough to be satisfied. The temperature never changed. Seasons meant nothing here. Time passed only through the rhythm of lights and meals.
He was taken out regularly. Blood tests. Scans. Measurements.
The ones who touched him wore sealed protective suits. The ones in lab coats stayed behind glass. No one spoke to him.
And eventually, he understood why.
What information could he give them? He had no memories of another world. No alien knowledge. No technology to explain.
The only valuable things about him were the capsule that brought him here—and his body.
That realization made everything clear.
If he showed intelligence, he would become dangerous.
And dangerous things were dissected.
So he stayed quiet. Observed. Waited.
Sometimes he wondered if this was punishment for being reincarnated at all. Other times, he wondered if this was simply what came after death.
Either way, one truth was obvious:
In this world, the dead were safer than the interesting.
And right now—
He was very interesting.