Los Angeles Hospital
Sometimes life puts you in situations where you have no idea what to do or how to solve them.
It seems I've been reincarnated into the body of a sixteen-year-old teenager. It's hard to process; the last thing I remember was being trapped upside down in my car, the smell of gasoline flooding everything just before the tank exploded and darkness swallowed me whole. The next second, I woke up here.
I'm in another body. I don't have a single memory of his previous life, but as for mine... everything seems normal. Except for one detail. I don't know if I paid some kind of toll for this second chance at life, because it doesn't seem like I've transmigrated to a fantasy world or anything like that; I'm still in the same world.
At first, I tried to look on the bright side, but as the days go by, that optimism has been fading. Right now, nothing seems good to me. In this life, I am completely alone; I don't have my previous family, and the family of this body... well, they are gone.
My current family died in a fire. Or at least, that's the official version from the doctors. They say they found me lying outside the house with my clothes completely charred, reduced to ashes against my skin. What left the doctors in shock was that my body didn't have a single injury. My skin was intact.
They ran some tests, but found nothing unusual.
"It's strange even to me," I thought. "But thinking about the reincarnation stories I've read, it makes some sense: I suppose the God who gave me this opportunity had to heal the body until it was perfect."
And well... I also confess that I tried to test my theories. For a moment I thought maybe I was in the Marvel universe or something like that, so I tried to make fire with my hands. I tried again and again, concentrating as hard as I could, but nothing happened. All I achieved was embarrassing myself when a nurse walked into the room and stared at me like I was a "weirdo." I had to pretend I was just stretching.
.....
My new name is Luke Holloway.
According to the doctors, I suffer from dissociative amnesia caused by extreme trauma. I know that's not true. I know I don't remember anything because, quite simply, I am a different person inhabiting this body. But I can't tell them that. If I mention the word "reincarnation," I'll go from the trauma ward to the psychiatric wing in five minutes.
I have no choice but to cooperate, pretend to be the "Luke" they expect, and let them believe my only problem is a mental block.
Right now, I'm sitting on the hospital bed while the doctor reviews my notes for the tenth time.
"Tell me, Luke, have you managed to remember anything?" he asked without looking up from his tablet.
"No. Nothing at all," I replied with a sincerity that, ironically, was my biggest lie.
"It's strange. We did several cognitive tests and your brain is perfect; in fact, the results are outstanding. It seems your mind blocked the past to protect you from the trauma of the fire."
"I see," I whispered.
The doctor sighed and set the folder aside.
"We've reviewed your parents' records. You have no direct living relatives… but we found something else. Your paternal grandparents owned a property in Beacon Hills, in Northern California. The house is still in the family name."
I looked up for the first time.
"Beacon Hills?"
"Yes. While the inheritance and your parents' life insurance are officially settled, the state has authorized you to reside there under legal supervision. It's a small, quiet county. We believe it will be a good place for you to start over and recover."
"Beacon Hills…"
"All right," I accepted, having few other options. "When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. We will also arrange your transfer to the local high school so you don't lose the school year."
He left, leaving me in a deathly silence.
So I could start over.
Completely alone.
The Next Day
I got up and went to the bathroom in the room to get ready. I splashed my face with cold water, but steam still slightly fogged the mirror. I wiped it with my hand and then saw myself for the third time since waking up in this body.
You could say I look much better than before. My face is that of a guy who isn't too handsome but isn't ugly either. My skin tone is light tan. My hair, jet black, falls naturally in subtle layers, with a slightly parted fringe framing my dark brown eyes.
I took off the hospital gown. My body is quite athletic; the previous owner surely played a lot of sports.
"Well… at least I'm not fat like I used to be when I was a kid."
I put on a white shirt and blue pants they had brought me, along with some black and white shoes.
When I stepped out, a man was waiting for me in the hallway.
"Hello, Luke. I know you don't remember me… but I was your father's best friend here in Los Angeles," he said as he approached and placed his hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he added with a heavy sigh.
I nodded in silence.
"Boy… look. These were your parents."
He showed me his phone. A group photo appeared on the screen. He pointed to a couple standing together, smiling at the camera.
I made an effort to remember. I forced my mind.
Nothing.
"I'm sorry… I don't remember them," I said, handing the phone back to him.
"I see…" he murmured. "I heard you're going to Beacon Hills. I tried to request custody so you could stay with me in Los Angeles, but it seems I've arrived a bit late and… I think it's for the best for you right now."
He put the phone away and looked at me seriously.
"Your parents left everything in order. The insurance and accounts are protected until you reach legal age. You won't lack for anything, okay? Just... take care of yourself, Luke. And be a good boy."
I looked at him for a few seconds.
"I will be."
At least I can try—after all, I was already 25 in my previous life.
...
The trip from Los Angeles was long. The man, whose name I later learned was Mark, took me to the station where an official state transport would pick me up. He handed me an envelope with documents, a debit card, and a set of old keys with a tag that said: Holloway - Beacon Hills. Besides that, I stopped to buy a cell phone.
"Call if you need anything, Luke," he said before the car pulled away.
I nodded, though we both knew I probably wouldn't.
As we left the city behind and headed into Northern California, the landscape changed, entering an area with many trees. I looked out the window, watching the sun begin to set, tinting the sky a purplish orange.
I took out my new phone and searched the map: Beacon Hills.
"A small and quiet town, huh? Sounds like a good place to live."
Finally, we passed the sign welcoming us to the county.
Welcome to Beacon Hills.
The transport veered off the main road and into a more wooded area. After a few minutes, we stopped in front of a two-story house, colonial style but somewhat neglected by time. The white paint was peeling and weeds surrounded the porch.
"Here it is, kid," the driver said, looking at me with a mixture of pity and strangeness. "Your supervision officer will come to see you tomorrow. Will you be okay alone?"
"Yes. I'll be fine," I replied, getting out of the car with my only backpack over my shoulder.
"Okay... Take care, kid," the driver said before turning the car around and disappearing down the driveway.
The vehicle drove away. I walked toward the front door, put in the key, and after a short struggle with the rusty lock, I entered. The interior was covered with white sheets over the furniture; the air was stagnant and smelled of years of accumulated dust.
"Let's see if the electrical system still works," I muttered to myself.
I turned on a flashlight to find the main switch. After a few seconds, I found it behind the front door. When I flipped it, the living room bulbs flickered a few times before emitting a warm, steady light.
The place looked quite cozy. I guess they did some repairs before I came, or maybe the insurance took care of maintaining the basic structure. Although, of course, there was still a deep cleaning to be done.
I sighed, dropping my backpack on the floor.
"I'd better start with a room so I can sleep tonight," I decided.
I went up to the second floor and chose the room that seemed to have the best ventilation. There I found a mattress covered in plastic and a thick cloth, which fortunately had saved it from humidity and bugs.
After several hours of scrubbing surfaces and removing layers of dust, I finally finished cleaning the room. I flopped onto the bed with a sigh of relief, though before sleeping I forced myself to go through the bathroom in the same room, which I had also left spotless.
As the water ran, I lay there thinking. Tomorrow a new life would begin... back to school again. It was a strange feeling. Not only was I in another body, but I seemed to have transmigrated a few years back from the time I lived in before I died. The year I seem to have landed in is 2011.
Coming out of the bathroom, I looked for my phone on the nightstand. I looked at it with a grimace.
Sighing... "At least it was a touchscreen."
I lay down and stared at the ceiling in the shadows, processing the absolute silence of the house.
"Tomorrow will be a long day," I said to myself, before exhaustion finally overcame me and I fell fast asleep.
The Next Day
I was ready, sitting on the front steps of the house while I waited. To pass the time, I took out my phone to play for a while.
Until the sound of an engine broke the neighborhood's calm. Looking up, I saw a Beacon Hills police cruiser. It stopped right in front of the house and a middle-aged man, with a tired but kind expression, got out of the vehicle.
He wore the official uniform: a khaki shirt with a "Sheriff" patch on the right shoulder and a badge on the left chest that clearly read the name: Stilinski.
The Sheriff paused for a moment to observe the house's facade before turning his gaze toward me.
"Wow... this house brings back quite a few memories," he said with a nostalgic tone, as if he were seeing ghosts of the past. Then, he walked a couple of steps toward the stairs. "You're Luke, right?"
"That's right. Nice to meet you, Sheriff Stilinski," I replied, putting my phone away and standing up. I extended my hand.
He accepted the handshake, evaluating me with the expert gaze of a cop, but with the warmth of an old acquaintance.
"Well... by the way, I read your case. Although you might not know it, I knew your father well. We used to drink together after the shift sometimes," he paused, looking toward the woods. "At least until his parents died and he decided to move to Los Angeles. I didn't hear from him again after that... I had no idea he had a son."
He cut himself off, realizing he was talking to someone who had no memories of any of that.
"Oh, sorry," he added with a look of regret. "I know you don't remember... but truly, my deepest condolences about your parents, kid. Your father was a good man."
"Thank you, Sheriff. It means a lot to know that, even if they're just stories to me for now," I said to reassure him.
He nodded, grateful for my reaction, and patted the roof of the patrol car.
"Well, get in. We don't want you to be late on your first day," he said, walking around the vehicle to the driver's seat.
I got into the passenger seat and buckled my seatbelt as the Sheriff started the engine. As we began to move and leave the dirt road of my grandparents' property, I realized something I hadn't noticed arriving at night: the house wasn't as isolated as I thought. It was at the edge of the woods, but only a few minutes from the main neighborhoods.
I watched through the window as houses began to appear more frequently, all with perfectly manicured lawns and that movie-like American suburb vibe.
"It's not that far from downtown," I commented, breaking the silence.
"In Beacon Hills, nothing is really far, Luke," Stilinski replied with a half-smile, keeping his eyes on the road. "But the area where your house is located is the quietest. Your grandparents appreciated their privacy."
"I can tell," I replied.
Upon arrival, the Sheriff stopped the patrol car in front of the main entrance. I got out of the vehicle and the first thing I saw was the large mural that read: Beacon Hills High School. There were people everywhere; teenagers getting out of their cars, groups chatting on the stairs, and the typical bustle of a school morning.
"Well, kid, here we are. Your new school," the Sheriff said, resting his arm on the window. "You might run into my son around here. His name is Mieczysław Stilinski."
I blinked a few times, processing that tongue-twister.
"Sir... don't you think that name is a bit too difficult to pronounce?"
The Sheriff let out a laugh and shook his head.
"What? Not at all, it's very easy once you get the hang of it. But anyway, he prefers people to call him Stiles."
"I see... much better," I nodded with a half-smile.
"By the way, Luke, I'll be able to drive you two or three more times, but right now I'm a bit stressed with a grave-robbing case and trying to find someone... You'll have to find another way to get around after that."
"That's fine, I'll manage."
"See you soon, Officer," I said, closing the door.
"Grave robbing, huh? I guess there are people who ask to be buried with something valuable," I thought.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment as the patrol car drove away. "Grave robbing, eh?" I thought to myself as I adjusted my backpack strap. I suppose there are always people desperate enough to ask to be buried with valuables, or crazy enough to desecrate them. In a town like this, that kind of news travels fast.
I started walking toward the entrance. At first glance, the place looked like the heart of any teen series: teenagers laughing, groups in the hallways, and guys carrying a kind of stick with a net at the end—a sport I didn't know at all.
I soon noticed something uncomfortable. Several people were looking at me and whispering as I passed. I guess getting out of a police car in front of the whole school is always going to draw attention, giving me a "bad boy" or "protected witness" vibe that I wasn't interested in cultivating.
I ignored the murmurs and walked through the double doors. Inside, the noise was even louder and the hallways were lined with endless rows of metal lockers.
I went straight to the principal's office. While he read my documents, I took the opportunity to analyze him. He seemed like a stressed man, but his expression changed to one of relief as he reviewed my file. Apparently, the previous owner of this body was a very diligent student; at least I wouldn't have to deal with the mess of fixing someone else's bad grades.
"Well, Holloway. Your records are impeccable," the principal said, standing up. "Follow me, I'll introduce you to your first class."
We walked through the hallways until we stopped in front of a classroom. The principal entered first, calling for silence.
...
Professor Harris, with his usual unfriendly expression, approached the principal. Both spoke in low voices for a few seconds while students took the chance to whisper about the interruption. Finally, Harris nodded and turned to the class with a stern look.
"All right, class. It seems you'll have a new classmate today," Harris announced in a monotonous tone. "But don't get excited, that doesn't mean you'll be saved from today's exam."
A collective groan went through the room.
"Aaaaah, no way!" someone yelled from the back.
In the middle row, Stiles gave Scott a quick elbow nudge, without taking his eyes off the door where I was waiting.
"Hey, Scott... that must be the kid we saw getting out of my dad's patrol car," Stiles whispered urgently.
Scott narrowed his eyes, concentrating. His nostrils flared slightly before he nodded.
"Yeah, it's him. It's the kid from the patrol car..." Scott replied in the same low tone. "By the way, how come you don't know anything about why your dad brought him?"
Stiles rolled his eyes, frustrated with himself.
"Maybe because last night we were busy looking for Lydia in the middle of the woods?" Stiles shot back sarcastically. "My police gossip radar was a bit off, sorry."
"Ah... that's true," Scott admitted, remembering last night's chaos.
"Silence back there!" Harris barked, glaring at them. "McCall, Stilinski, if you're so eager to talk, you can do it during detention after class."
Both sank into their seats immediately. Harris looked back toward the door and gestured with his hand.
"Come in, Holloway. Introduce yourself quickly so we can start the exam. We don't have all day."
...
I took a step forward when the principal signaled me.
Eyes pinned on me immediately. Some curious. Others bored. A couple clearly evaluating me.
I took a deep breath.
"I'm Luke Holloway. I just moved to Beacon Hills… and I hope I don't fail the exam on my first day."
A few soft laughs were heard around the room. Even Professor Harris raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't expect a sense of humor.
"That will depend on you, Mr. Holloway," he replied dryly. "There's an empty seat in the back."
I nodded and moved between the desks. I felt the eyes following me, but this time they didn't bother me as much. It was normal. New town. New school. New life.
Passing the middle row, I noticed the two boys who had been whispering.
The one with dark hair and an intense gaze watched me just a second longer than normal, as if he were analyzing something. The other one, more restless, gave me a quick smile and barely raised his hand in an informal greeting.
I returned the gesture with a slight nod and continued to the empty seat by the window.
The exam landed on my desk seconds later.
I looked at the sheet.
"Chemistry."
"So we meet again... I don't remember much, since I was studying for software engineering before... but I was good at this subject in high school."
I took the pencil and started reading the questions. To my surprise, they were easy. Too easy. I answered the first one. Then the second. The third.
Despite the years that had passed since my school days in my other life, the logic of the formulas was still there, engraved in some corner of my twenty-five-year-old brain.
I answered about covalent bonds and stoichiometry as if I were completing a Sunday crossword. While others around me sighed, scratched their heads, or bit their pencil erasers, I was already on the last page.
Suddenly, the silence of the exam was broken. A boy sitting a few rows away from me, a white guy with a quiff hairstyle, stood up abruptly. He seemed to be on the verge of panic; he covered his nose with one hand as he almost ran out of the classroom.
Everyone stared at him, confused by the interruption. Professor Harris, with a sigh of annoyance, approached the student sitting next to where the boy had just fled to ask what had happened.
"An allergy?" I thought, glancing at the floor where the boy had been. My eyes caught a tiny detail: a thick drop that hit the floor. It looked like blood, but it was black.
I frowned. "Black blood?? What kind of disease does he have?" I wondered.
"Better finish this," I whispered to myself.
I marked the last answer on the exam and set the pencil on the table.
END OF CHAPTER