Beep... beep... beep... beeeeeeeeeep.
Flatline.
Well, that couldn't be good.
"He died before completing his mission as a mosquito—and now, his soul can't return to his body," said a panicked voice somewhere above… or maybe inside… or possibly behind me. Direction didn't make much sense anymore.
The voice sounded weirdly familiar, like a song you forgot you liked or an ex's ringtone you never changed. It hovered at the edge of recognition, teasing me.
"Wait a minute…" I muttered, or thought, or maybe soul-whispered. "Where have I heard that voice before?"
Then it hit me. Not a memory—an actual memory-fairy hybrid.
"Ohhh nooo," the voice groaned, as if realizing a very inconvenient plot twist. "I forgot to tell you... if you die before the 24 hours are up, you'll die both as a mosquito and in your original human body. Small print stuff. Very technical. My bad."
"Wait—what?" I said, alarmed. "You mean I really am dead? Like, human-dead? Not just mosquito-dead?"
A pause.
"Ahem," the voice said, shifting into a far-too-serious tone for someone wearing glitter. "Yes. You have died. And your soul can no longer return to your original self. That's on me. Big oops."
That's when I remembered her—the fairy. The drunk fairy who showed up last night after I drunkenly wished I could spy on my cheating ex. One thing led to another, and bam—mosquito form. Tiny wings. Bloodlust. Pure drama.
Now here I was, dead because some guy tried to slap me mid-flight. And apparently, that one slap punched my soul straight out of the reincarnation queue.
I blinked—or tried to. Hard to say what body parts I had anymore. "So… what now? Am I just… floating? Forever?"
"Oh, don't worry!" the fairy chirped, instantly chipper again. "I've found a workaround. I'll transfer your soul to a new body. Can't say where or when, but hey—second chances, right? Buckle up!"
"Wait, wait, hold on—"
But she didn't. Not even a second for me to protest. The air cracked like someone ripping open a portal made of static and bad decisions.
Everything around me spun. There was wind. There was water. There might have been fire, or at least something spicy. My whole being was flung across some invisible highway of the cosmos like a drunk intern hitting "send" on the wrong email.
And just like that—no body, no fairy, no mosquito—only motion and uncertainty.
And so here I am.
Through wind, water, and flame, my soul sets forth on a voyage I never signed up for, all because a fairy got tipsy and thought it'd be funny to turn me into an aedes mosquito.
Who knows where I'll land?
But one thing's for sure—I am never making drunken wishes again.
---
In another multiverse:
Room X-12 – ICU
A crisp ding-ding split the silence.
Then came the announcement:
"Code Blue. ICU. Code Blue."
The hospital corridor burst to life. Shoes thundered against polished linoleum. Nurses and specialists sprinted, weaving between rolling carts and swinging doors. All of them were heading for Room X-12—the eye of the storm.
A wall of muscle in a silver tie blocked the doorway.
He stood tall, unmoving, with the calm menace of someone who didn't need to raise his voice to threaten.
"You will save the CEO," he said, voice low and deadly. "If he dies… every last one of you goes into the ground with him."
The surgical team halted. Breath caught. Palms sweated.
But one woman stepped forward.
Dr. Arno Theryn Solace, head of surgery. At just 26, she was already a name spoken in reverent tones in hospitals across the country. Brilliant, beautiful, and utterly unshakable. Her eyes, sharp and grey as stormlight, met his without blinking.
"We're doing everything we can," she said, voice level. "But if you want him alive, get out of my way."
A moment passed.
Then the man stepped aside.
Arno didn't wait for permission. She surged forward, white coat flaring behind her like a battle flag. The team followed her into the room.
And there he was—Lucien Malrie Moreaux.
International tech icon. Billionaire by 22. Now 29, still absurdly handsome, still draped in whispered rumors—ties to offshore accounts, unsolved disappearances, underworld debts that no stock price could cover.
But none of that mattered now. Not with blood flooding the linens. Not with the way his chest rose, shallow and slowing. Not with each beat of his failing heart pumping him closer to death.
"Vitals are crashing!" a nurse shouted.
"BP's sixty over nothing!" another called.
Arno's voice cut through the panic: "Get me the thoracotomy tray. We're cracking him open."
The team snapped into motion. Gloves on. Tools out. The room a blur of practiced chaos.
Dr. Elaine Zhang took the head, intubating with clinical speed. Dr. Patel scrubbed and prepped the chest, hands flying.
"Scalpel."
Arno didn't hesitate. She sliced through skin with surgical precision. Blood spilled hot and fast.
"Sternal saw."
The bone screamed under the metal's bite. A second later, it split.
And then—the heart.
It twitched. A fragile flutter.
And stopped.
"Flatline," someone whispered.
"Charge to twenty. Internal paddles—clear!" Arno barked.
They shocked him.
The body jolted.
Nothing.
"Again."
Still nothing.
Arno dropped the paddles. Without a word, she reached in and took the heart in her hands. It was slick, too warm, disturbingly quiet.
She began compressions manually, palms squeezing the heart like it owed her something.
"Come on," she murmured.
The monitor stayed flat. A line of silence.
Sweat slipped down her temple.
"Five minutes of asystole," Zhang said, barely audible. "We've done all we can."
Arno stared down at the heart. Her arms shook. She let go.
The organ slumped back into place, still.
"Call it," someone said. "Time of—"
"Wait," a nurse interrupted. "We've got something…"
Beep.
The room froze.
Beep… beep… beep.
A slow, irregular rhythm blinked across the monitor.
"Pulse is back!" Dr. Patel shouted. "It's weak, but he's here!"
The team leapt back into motion—securing lines, closing vessels, stabilizing vitals with near-religious focus.
But Dr. Arno stood still.
She watched the screen, expression unreadable. Her hands were streaked in blood. Her gloves trembled.
Something had just happened—something she couldn't explain. She didn't believe in miracles. She believed in procedure. In science. In numbers and cold steel.
But Lucien Moreaux had been gone.
And now… he wasn't.
Across the room, the man in the silver tie—silent through the chaos—gave her a long, knowing look.
Then he nodded.
And walked away.
Arno didn't move.
She just watched the monitor flash, slow and uneven—but undeniably alive.
---
**"Mission successful. Mission successful."**
"An annoying sound kept ringing in my ears." It sounded like Siri's weirder cousin had hijacked my skull.
**"The soul has successfully transmigrated into the host body on Multiverse."**
I groaned. "What the hell just happened?" I mumbled, voice dry and hoarse. "And who's talking so loudly? Can someone please lower the volume in my brain?!"
"You ungrateful brat," said a glittery, smug voice. "You're now talking to me—Pokolo the fairy—directly in the void. You're welcome, by the way. I just gave you a brand-new body in another world! Ain't I amazing?"
I blinked. Or at least I tried to. Everything was dark. And loud. And my head felt like someone had replaced my brain with a blender full of soda cans.
"Oh, let's settle the damn score right now!" I snapped. "Aren't YOU the reason I'm dead?! You're the one who turned me into a mosquito and told me to go bite my ex!"
"To be fair," Pokolo said, completely unfazed, "you asked for revenge. I gave you a cool transformation. You were sleek, stealthy, aerodynamic—"
"You forgot to tell me I had only 24 HOURS TO LIVE AS A BUG!" I shouted. "And then I got slapped to death! SLAPPED! By some random gym bro out on his nightly protein jog!"
She snorted. "Okay, okay, my bad. Little oversight on my part. But hey—look at the bright side! You died… so I gave you the Premium Transmigration Package as compensation. Now you're in a new, powerful body. Congrats!"
"Compensation?! You call this *compensation*?! Where am I even—"
"Oh, minor detail," she said airily. "The body you're in now was shot. Multiple times. He's in the ICU. Might still be bleeding. But hey! Before he got full of holes, he was a rich, successful CEO. Tall. Handsome. Major assets. A real upgrade from your mosquito form, if I do say so myself."
"WAIT—SHOT?!" I screamed. "You gave me a corpse with bullet holes?! You could've at least put me in someone less… ventilated!"
"Relax. You're technically still alive," she said cheerfully. "Anyway, I'm off! I've got a jellybean spa appointment. If you need help, just chant my name: Pokolo. Toodles!"
"No—WAIT! YOU CAN'T JUST DITCH ME HERE! HOW DO I EVEN—"
**Boom.** She disappeared. Just like that. One sparkle fart and she was gone.
Silence. Darkness. Beeping. My internal monologue and heart rate were having a competition to see who could panic harder.
"Okay, okay… I can do this," I whispered. "Let's review. I'm Lucien Lu. Died in my world after getting *slapped* to death in mosquito form. Now I've… transmigrated? Or possessed someone's body?"
I paused.
"Wait. Did I just inherit someone else's face? Oh God. What if he's bald?"
I tried to move my hand, maybe feel my head. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. Was this body even connected to Wi-Fi?
"My hand won't move," I muttered, panic rising. "I can't feel it."
I tried wiggling my toes. Nope. Nada. Limp noodles.
"THE HELL?!" I screamed inside my brain. "AM I PARALYZED?!"
Oh wait—ICU. Right. Bullet holes. Pokolo mentioned *that* part. The original owner of this body had been lead-perforated like a block of Swiss cheese.
Still, the beeping nearby was rhythmic. Calming. Probably not the death alarm, then. Small win.
I was exhausted. My whole body—what little I could feel of it—felt like it had been tossed into a dryer on spin cycle. And yet, my brain was wired, zipping from panic to confusion to dread.
Who had this guy been? A CEO, sure. But was he a *good* CEO? Or one of those weirdos who insulted interns and kept a katana in the office for "motivation"?
And… wait.
"What if he had enemies?" I whispered. "Powerful ones? With *guns*?"
Oh god. What if the people who shot him weren't finished yet?
"I swear," I muttered, as sleep dragged me into its depths, "if I get killed again before breakfast, I'm suing that fairy."
And just like that, darkness took me again—but this time, with the terrifying realization that I might've gone from mosquito… to meat shield.
*Next time I'm offered a quest… I swear to God, I'm reading the terms and conditions.*
---