The flash disappears.
I can see now.
There's a buzzing in my ears, like after a loud concert. My eyes adjust slowly, and I look around the small room. The air smells kind of like dust and cleaning spray.
"Okay… where the hell am I?" I mutter. "That asshole didn't even say where I was going."
I take a deep breath. Alright. No point standing here like an idiot. Let's check this place out.
I open the door and step into a hallway. The floors creak with every step, and the wallpaper's peeling a little. It looks like an old apartment or dorm. I walk until I find a door with a sign. I don't know the language, but somehow—I understand it. It's a restroom.
I walk in, head straight to the sink, and look up into the mirror.
Then I freeze.
Brown hair. Brown eyes. A face I've never seen before.
"…What the fuck—why am I Asian?" I say out loud.
I lean closer. My face is sharp—cheekbones like I could slice paper with them. My skin's clear, jaw's strong. I squint a little.
"I'm gonna need clips to keep these eyelids open," I mutter.
Still, not everything's bad. I check my height. I'm around six feet. Not the 6'4" I was before, but I'll take it. I look like I'm about 14 or 15 years old. Definitely younger than before.
Then comes a knock on the door.
"Hey man, are you done? I gotta use the restroom. Hurry up!"
I blink.
That wasn't English.
But… I understood it. Like I've always known the language.
Let's try something.
"Don't get your panties stuck up your ass," I reply, casually.
It comes out smooth, in the same language. I understand myself perfectly.
Then comes the reply:
"Ooooo pantiiiieeesss~"
My face goes blank.
Seriously? That's what he focused on?
The door swings open.
We lock eyes.
And then it hits me like a truck—memories. A massive wave of thoughts, feelings, names, places. Everything from this life crashes into me all at once.
I know who I am.
I know where I am.
And I know who he is.
My twin brother. My perverted twin brother.
He's standing there, smiling like an idiot, a little bit of drool in the corner of his mouth. Still stuck on the panties comment.
I don't even think. I just raise my hand—SLAP.
He stares at me, shocked.
"Not sorry," I say, shaking my hand. "You just looked like Diddy for a second."
He touches his cheek. "Why'd you do that? Come on, I know you too. Imagine… pink fabric, really thin, and it has a strea—"
SLAP. Again.
He wobbles like a cartoon character. I give him a look.
"Yo, what the actual hell is wrong with you, man? I swear you've only got two settings: perverted and brain-dead."
I walk past him and leave the bathroom. Issei—yeah, that's his name—just stands there, stunned. He finally steps in and closes the door behind him.
Back in my room, I sit down on the bed and try to calm my thoughts.
The memories are still rushing in, one after another. I remember school, family, friends, random anime-like madness. Way too many memories about boobs. This place is insane.
And then something else clicks.
Powers.
Real powers.
Not just magic or anime stuff—Viltrumite powers.
Like from Invincible. Omni-Man. Mark Grayson. That whole universe.
My stomach flips.
I slapped Issei. Twice. With strength like this… I could've actually killed him.
I look down at my hands. They feel normal. But something's different inside me.
Then I remember. Omni-Man said it once—it's like flexing a muscle.
So I try.
And just like that, my feet leave the ground. I'm floating. Just a few inches, but I'm actually floating.
I shift a little to the left. My body obeys, smooth as anything. No effort. No thinking. It just happens.
I slowly lower myself back to the floor, landing softly.
I stare at my hands again.
"…Holy shit."
Just as I'm about to keep testing my powers—maybe try flying through the ceiling or punching a hole in the air—there's a soft knock at the door.
"Nissei? Is everything alright?"
Oh no. That voice. That gentle, warm, terrifying voice.
Mom.
"Yeah, everything's fine," I call out quickly, standing upright like I just got caught stealing cable. "Just got a headache, that's all."
Please don't say anything, Issei. Please, for once in your life, keep your nasty little goblin mouth shut.
But of course…
"Issei said you hit him, and I want to know what's going on. I need to make sure you both are okay."
…That little motherfucker really snitched.
I take a second to stare at the wall, jaw tight. Deep breath. Alright. Screw it. Time to double down.
"Yes, I did, Mom," I say, clear and honest. "Issei was being a pervert. He was about to say some nasty shit, so I—"
She cuts me off, her voice sharper this time.
"Nissei, there's no reason to use that kind of language in this house."
My eyes narrow a little. The memories I've regained from this new life slide into place like ammunition. I've seen this play out before. I know what this house lets slide.
"Well, why not?" I ask, stepping toward the door, voice calm but firm. "You let Issei say all that perverted stuff around you all the time. You should be telling him to stop before he gets labeled a sex offender."
The door swings open before I can finish my sentence. There she is.
My new mom.
She's got the look. You know the one—arms crossed, hip tilted, eyes that say 'I'm about to tell you something completely insane and expect you to thank me for it.'
She sighs and gives me a half-smile like she's scolding a toddler who just colored on the walls with poop.
"Well, either way, you shouldn't be putting your hands on your brother," she says, in that calm, "I'm the adult here" voice. "And Issei is… different, you know."
Oh.
Oh no.
She's one of those.
I stare at her, trying to figure out if I'm being punk'd. Like, maybe Ashton Kutcher's gonna jump out of the closet with a camera crew and yell, "Welcome to the Anime Reincarnation Prank Show!"
But nope. She's serious.
"He just has a different way of expressing himself," she continues, like we're talking about a kid who likes painting his emotions instead of a hormonal menace. "And honestly, it's not that bad. I think he's still just a child. Let him have his fun."
Let. Him. Have. His. Fun.
I stare at her, blinking in disbelief. Is this woman seriously defending Diddy's unpaid intern in a hentai-themed HR violation?
"You're defending him?" I ask, carefully. "You heard the kind of stuff he says, right? That's not normal, Mom. That's the kind of stuff that gets people banned from the internet."
But she doesn't stop. In fact, she doubles down.
"But you—you need to learn some manners about respecting others and not judging them."
Something in me shifts.
It's not rage. It's not sadness.
It's confusion. Cold, tired confusion.
She's really standing here, defending Issei's panty monologues and acting like I'm the problem.
I nod slowly, letting the silence build.
"I don't understand anything going on right now," I say, voice flat. "Please, just let me be and collect my thoughts… 'cause I'm starting to feel like I'm at Diddy's mansion."
That gets her attention. Her eyebrows twitch. She tilts her head, clearly annoyed.
"I have no idea what this 'Diddy' is, but I'm guessing I won't like it," she says, voice sharp with disapproval. "So keep it to yourself—and be nice."
She turns and walks off, leaving the door open behind her like some kind of passive-aggressive power move.
I stare after her for a few seconds.
The audacity.
First, she defends the local pervert like it's her hobby, and now she acts like I'm the one who needs fixing?
I slam the door shut—hard enough to make the frame rattle—and flop back onto the bed with a groan. I stare at the ceiling.
What the hell did I get dropped into?
This world is cracked. Bent. Fractured at the moral seams. It looks normal, but the rules are all wrong. The people let the dumbest things slide.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face.
Okay. Back to the memories. Gotta focus. Can't let anime logic rot my brain.
But just as I start focusing again—piecing things together, sorting through names, faces, hidden knowledge—another thought creeps in, cold and uncomfortable.
This is anime.
Which means the girls—oh no. Oh no.
They probabily look like kids but are hundreds of years old for some fucking reason. This world loves that kind of nonsense. One wrong move around any of them and I'll be on a one-way trip to Supermax.
I pause, eyes wide, and mutter to myself:
"…Do I need to call Chris Hansen?"
No. Nope. I shake my head hard like I'm trying to unplug a cursed thought.
Forget that. Focus. Focus on the important stuff.
I have powers. I have history. And I need to understand both—fast.