The steady beep of the heart monitor was the first thing Aren heard.

  He blinked, disoriented, his vision blurry, and his body aching like it had been crushed under a car. The pain was too intense for it to be a mere dream, but he couldn’t remember how he had ended up here. He could still taste the blood from the beating, still feel the weight of the blows that had sent him into unconsciousness. The metal taste of fear lingered in his mouth. His ribs felt cracked, and his jaw throbbed.

  It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He hadn’t even told anyone about the evidence. He hadn’t had the chance.

  He tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. He couldn’t feel his legs. His arms felt like dead weight, and even breathing hurt. Something was off.

  The harsh fluorescent light overhead hurt his eyes, and the room smelled too clean—sterile, even. He was in a hospital. But that didn’t make sense. How had he ended up here?

  Slowly, the sounds around him began to filter through—muffled voices from the hallway, a door creaking, and the occasional beeping of machines. A nurse passed by the doorway outside, speaking softly into a phone. He could hear her, but it felt like she was worlds away.

  Aren’s mind scrambled to put the pieces together. He should’ve been dead. He remembered the pain, the agony, the last thing he saw before everything went black: Kaito's grin, the sneers, the force of the blows... everything went dark after that.

  The door clicked open.

  Kaito stepped in, flanked by two others. His usual smug grin was gone, replaced by something far darker—cold, calculating. He moved quietly, almost too quietly, like he knew Aren was aware, but too weak to do anything about it.

  Aren’s heart rate picked up, the beeping in the background mirroring the sudden spike of panic. But instead of a rush of terror, there was a clear, cold realization.

  They came for me.

  Aren forced himself to focus. His vision blurred in and out, but his mind was still sharp. He wasn’t a fighter, but he was smart—always had been. If he had to, he could think his way out of this.

  "You should've stayed quiet, Aren," Kaito's voice cut through the fog, low and mocking. "You really thought you could burn everything to the ground and walk away? Thought you were smarter than us?"

  Aren didn’t answer. He couldn't. His throat was too dry, and the effort to speak felt like swallowing glass.

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  He had no idea what Kaito and his lackeys were planning, but he didn’t need to. He could feel it in the air, heavy like a storm ready to break.

  The other two men didn’t speak, but Aren recognized them—one was the former student council vice president, the other, a stranger. The stranger was the first to move. He stepped forward, his hand reaching into his coat. Aren tensed, bracing for another assault.

  "You should’ve kept your mouth shut, Aren," the vice president spoke, his voice flat. "The things you dug up... they were never meant for someone like you. Someone too smart for their own good."

  The stranger gripped Aren's wrist with brutal force, and Aren’s pulse quickened. What now?

  But the man didn’t strike. Instead, he produced a small vial—a thick, black liquid that caught the dim light from above. It was familiar, like something out of a nightmare. Aren’s stomach churned. He didn’t know what it was, but he had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to end well for him.

  "You think you're smart?" Kaito sneered, twisting his arm painfully. "You think you can outsmart everyone? You’re just a kid who dug too deep."

  The words barely registered. The vial was coming closer, and Aren felt his body go stiff. Whatever it was, he couldn’t move fast enough. His vision blurred once more. The room seemed to spin.

  Everything slowed.

  His hand shot up without thinking, but his body was too sluggish. Before he could react, the liquid was injected into his arm, cold as ice.

  And then there was nothing.

  There was no light, no warmth, no tunnel of peace. Only a vast emptiness. No pain. No fear. Just... silence.

  Aren’s mind tried to cling to something—anything—but it was useless. His thoughts felt like they were dissipating, floating away into the void. He had no body, no sense of self. Only the sensation of floating. Weightless. Silent.

  Then, a sound—no, a presence.

  Not a voice, but something ancient. A hum. A pulse.

  A heartbeat.

  And then everything shattered.

  The feeling returned. The coldness of the air. The hard ground beneath him.

  Aren gasped. His lungs burned with the effort, but he was alive. He could feel again, could move. His hands jerked, reaching instinctively for something to hold onto.

  His surroundings were a blur—he was cradled in someone’s arms. The smell of sweat, blood, and dust filled his nostrils. The air was thick with smoke and the sounds of distant cries.

  He was no longer in a hospital.

  He wasn’t in Japan.

  The air was sharp, harsh. The ground beneath him rough and uneven. When his eyes focused, he saw it—stone walls, towering buildings that seemed to be in ruins, and the faint flickering of a dying fire.

  A soft, ragged voice spoke above him.

  "You're awake, child," she whispered. "You’re in the slave pits now. This is where we survive... if we can."

  The woman cradling him looked tired, worn down by the world, but there was something about her that made Aren’s chest tighten. She was the first face to show him any kind of comfort in this nightmare. But that didn't matter. He needed to understand.

  What had happened? Where was he? Why had he come here?

  Aren’s gaze darted around the unfamiliar world, his heart pounding in his chest. He realized in that moment that he was not a hero. Not in the traditional sense. He was someone who had been tossed into a world of suffering. A world where only the strong survived.

  But Aren wasn’t weak.

  He had been given a second chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it.