Gkfff.
That was the sound. A guttural choke from my own throat, scraping up like gravel. The heart monitor beside me, which had been content to sing its slow, monotonous lullaby for who-knows-how-long, suddenly snapped into a staccato panic.
Beep-beep-beep-beep.
Fast. Too fast.
I didn't know what was happening, but I had a creeping suspicion that the person panicking was me. My chest heaved. My skin felt too tight, like I'd been shrink-wrapped into a body that no longer fit.
Somewhere near me, a nurse gasped so hard she nearly dropped her tablet. I caught the flash of motion in the corner of my vision. She scrambled backward like I was a ghost come to collect her.
I tried to sit up. Couldn't. Everything hurt. Muscles I hadn't used in forever clenched and screamed in protest. My neck twitched, then flopped. A single finger jerked on its own like a marionette learning to dance.
I coughed again—wet, raw, inhuman. It sounded like something dead waking up.
And maybe I was.
Footsteps pounded outside the room. Urgent. Voices overlapped in alarm, but one cut through:
"Doctor! We have movement in Room X-12!"
Room X-12. Was that me? Was I in Room X-12?
God, how long had I been here?
I tried to form a word—just one—but my lips cracked at the effort. All I could squeeze out was air and confusion. My lungs burned. My whole body ached like it had been hibernating in broken glass.
Then I heard it.
Her voice.
Low. Crisp. Commanding. Familiar.
Like steel wrapped in softness.
"Get me his chart. Increase oxygen to five liters. Notify neurology."
Before I saw her, I knew she was the one in charge. She wasn't panicked—just moving. Sharp. Efficient. Like a conductor in the middle of a very precise, very high-stakes symphony.
She entered my line of sight slowly, as the blur of the room began to sharpen. Tall. Slim. Radiating quiet authority. A white coat cinched at the waist. Her dark blonde hair was tied back with military precision, every strand disciplined.
She looked like she didn't walk into rooms—she took them.
Her cheekbones could've cut glass. Her eyes were glass—ocean-blue and unreadable, calculating even as they softened.
Dr. Arno Theryn Solace.
I didn't know how I knew her name. But I did. Like my brain reached out of the fog and gripped it tightly. It stuck, like gravity.
She moved closer, and absurdly—I felt safe. Which made no sense. My body was foreign. My thoughts were soup. But her presence steadied something inside me. Her fingers brushed against my wrist, checking my pulse. Her touch was cool, clinical, but not unkind.
She looked down at me like she'd been waiting for this moment for a very long time.
"You're awake," she murmured—half to me, half to herself.
She leaned in a little, close enough that I caught her scent—sterile, clean, but somehow warm. Like fresh linen and peppermint soap. Her eyes searched mine, scanning for damage.
"You've been unconscious for ninety-four days," she said gently. "Do you know your name?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing.
Not even a whisper. My throat was raw, desert-dry. The frustration built like static in my chest.
But she didn't flinch. She just nodded, like she'd expected that too.
"It's alright," she said. "Take your time."
Then—thump. Thump. Thump.
Heavy footsteps approached with courtroom finality. The floor vibrated with each one. Someone was coming, and they had opinions.
A man entered behind her. Tall, broad, shoulders made for tailored suits and battlefield speeches. His presence sucked the air out of the room. His eyes were sharp and alert, but not unkind—like someone who'd seen too much and still chose duty.
I recognized him.
Faintly.
A shadow, stretched and blurry from a life I couldn't fully remember.
He stood just behind her, arms clasped behind his back with military posture.
"Assistant Shan," she said without turning.
"Yes, Doctor." His voice was deep, polite, carved out of steel.
"This is the moment," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "He's stabilizing."
Shan looked at me like I was both a miracle and a liability. Like I could save the world or burn it down, and he was ready for both.
Then she turned back to me. Her voice dipped again, gentle but firm.
"Can you blink twice if you understand me?"
I focused. Just enough strength.
Blink.
Pause.
Blink.
Her eyes flickered. Just barely. But the edges of her mouth curved upward.
"There he is," she said. "Welcome back."
And for the first time since whatever life I'd lived before—I believed I was really here. Whatever that meant now.
And then the dam burst.
"Oh my god. Lucien… President… Mr. Moreaux. You're awake! You're—oh, thank the doctors, you're awake!"
The man at my bedside looked like he'd just witnessed a resurrection. His voice shook with something between panic and devotion.
"Please don't move. Just… just stay still, sir. Please."
Lucien?
Wait.
That was my name. Or… it used to be. Lucien Chakma. Not this elongated, aristocratic-sounding version: Lucien Malric Moreaux. That sounded like a man who drank wine older than my hometown, had private jests with world leaders, and wore suits made from endangered fabric just to feel something.
Last I remembered, I was an Aedes mosquito. Yes, the buzzing kind. I'd died. Got squashed in a tragic end to a 24-hour fairy curse. And now?
Now I was lying in a hospital bed. In a body that wasn't mine. But definitely upgraded.
"Sir—uh—Mr. Moreaux," the man continued, visibly trying to pull himself together, "please don't strain yourself. You've been in a coma for ninety-four days."
He said it like it was an achievement. Like maybe I'd set a personal record.
I glanced at him again. Neatly pressed shirt, ID clipped to his chest. Assistant Shan, it said. I'd heard the doctor address him just moments before.
Assistant… Shan?
Maybe he was the personal assistant to this Lucien Malric Moreaux. That would explain the anxiety, the tablet, the trembling. And the almost tearful relief that I wasn't a corpse anymore.
He hovered awkwardly. "Do you… remember anything?" he asked gently.
I opened my mouth. My throat felt like I'd gargled sandpaper. The words dragged themselves out.
"Who… the hell… is Lucien Moreaux?"
Shan froze.
I watched the color vanish from his face like I'd just slapped him with a lawsuit.
"You… you don't remember?"
"I—" I tried.
He blinked rapidly, clearly not prepared to navigate a full-blown existential identity crisis before lunch. He fumbled with the tablet, nearly dropping it in his panic.
"You're the CEO of Moreaux Tech International," he said quickly, as if reciting from a brochure. "A multi-billionaire. Visionary. Some would say tyrant—but in an elegant, commanding way. You run the three biggest companies in the world. You own several mid-sized ones, and at least two islands. One's got a volcano. Sir, you really don't remember any of that?"
I just stared at him.
The name Lucien Malric Moreaux meant absolutely nothing to me. Yet… it rang in my head. Echoed, like a word I'd once known in a dream. Lucien. That was still me. Somehow. Somehow, this was still my name.
I tried again. "What… happened?"
Shan hesitated. His fingers twitched against the tablet.
"You were shot. On your way to a board meeting. It was an assassination attempt. We still don't know who ordered it. You were declared brain-dead for a few minutes but… well, you started showing signs of life again. Just faint, at first. We didn't pull the plug. I—I told them to wait. I said you'd come back."
He looked at me like he expected a bonus. Or sainthood.
I didn't say anything. My hand drifted to my chest, fingers grazing the bandages. I could feel it underneath—the scar. The wound that killed the man who owned this body. The weight of it.
This body was heavy with a life I didn't live.
But no one else was in here now.
Just me.
I turned slowly toward the window, squinting at the reflection in the glass.
A stranger stared back.
Sharp jaw. Piercing, cold eyes. That face could sell out a Fortune 500 company with one blink and still have time to ruin someone's day before brunch. This was not Lucien Chakma. Not the man who'd spent years dreaming small in a world that only kicked harder the harder he tried.
But it was me now.
Lucien Malric Moreaux was gone.
But Lucien Chakma?
Still breathing.
Still too stubborn to stay dead.
I closed my eyes. My voice barely rose above a whisper, but it rang with quiet resolve.
"Let me live in your body."
The universe didn't respond. There was no lightning strike. No cosmic music swell.
Just the beeping of machines and the weight of borrowed bones.
"I'll find out who killed you," I murmured, voice low and firm. "And I swear… every last one of them will pay."
Shan didn't move. He just stood there, stunned, like he'd seen something crawl out of a grave.
He didn't know it yet—but the man in that hospital bed wasn't the one he'd been waiting for.
That man was gone.
But I?
I was here now.
Alive.
And I decided, I, Lucien absolutely not wasting my second chance.
---