Consciousness returned in fragments.
Warmth.
Pressure.
The steady thrum of a heartbeat not his own.
Elliot drifted in and out of awareness, each moment surfacing just long enough to understand something was wrong before being dragged back under again.
He tried to open his eyes.
They wouldn't cooperate.
His limbs felt distant, unresponsive. When he attempted to move his hands, all that came out was a weak, flailing motion that made the world tilt and voices coo softly around him.
Voices.
Gentle. Loving.
They spoke in a language he didn't know.
Panic flared.
I'm not supposed to be here, his mind screamed.
This isn't how it works.
But his body betrayed him again, letting out a thin, helpless cry.
Someone laughed.
"There, there," a woman's voice said, musical and warm. "You're safe."
Safe.
The word didn't belong to him.
Days—or maybe weeks—passed like this. Time lost its edges. Elliot learned the rhythm of this new existence unwillingly: sleep, wake, hunger, warmth, sleep again. His thoughts remained intact, sharp and adult, trapped behind a body that refused to obey him.
The first time he truly understood where he was came when his eyes finally focused.
A ceiling of carved wood stretched above him, dark beams etched with symbols he didn't recognize. Soft light filtered through tall windows draped in heavy curtains. The air smelled of clean linen and something faintly metallic—like rain on stone.
This wasn't a hospital.
This wasn't Earth.
He turned his head slowly, vision swimming, and saw them.
A man and a woman stood beside the bed.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture straight in a way that spoke of discipline rather than arrogance. His hair was dark, streaked faintly with silver at the temples despite his youth. A sword hung at his side—not ceremonial, but worn.
The woman held Elliot carefully, her arms strong yet gentle. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, her eyes bright with emotion she made no attempt to hide.
"My son," she whispered.
The man placed a hand on Elliot's tiny chest, feeling the rise and fall.
"He's strong," he said. "He'll endure."
The words struck Elliot like a verdict.
Endure what? he wondered.
"I want him named Elliot," the woman said suddenly. "It feels right."
The man hesitated only a moment before nodding.
"Elliot Myers," he said aloud. "A name worth carrying."
Elliot screamed.
Not in protest—he couldn't shape that yet—but in raw, animal terror. His body howled while his mind reeled.
That name is mine, he thought.
I already failed with it.
The days that followed were torture of a quieter kind.
He learned his parents' names: Michael Myers and Victoria Myers. Learned the cadence of their voices, the way Michael's presence filled a room, the way Victoria hummed softly when she thought no one was listening.
He learned there was a sister—Paige—older, curious, often peeking into the cradle with wide eyes.
Everyone touched him with care.
No one looked at him with disappointment.
And that hurt more than anything else.
Because every smile felt unearned.
Every gentle word felt stolen.
He began to notice something else too.
When Michael entered the room, the air seemed to shift. Not emotionally—physically. A subtle pressure, like the world itself straightening its spine. The sword at his side hummed faintly, resonating with something unseen.
Power.
This world was different.
Elliot knew, instinctively, that he had been reborn into a life of abundance—wealth, safety, strength.
Everything he had never deserved.
At night, when everyone slept, Elliot stared at the shadows on the walls and thought of an envelope lying on cold pavement under a broken streetlight.
He tried to cry.
Sometimes, he succeeded.
End of Chapter 6