(Jhin POV)
I was now laying down inside one of the many cradles scattered around the hospital nursery, my soft body bundled tightly in a blanket, my head resting against a cushion that smelled faintly of detergent and warmth. The lights overhead buzzed gently, flickering ever so slightly. My vision was still adjusting to this new world, but the initial wave of panic that had gripped me during my "arrival" had now dulled into a heavy, surreal haze.
The sheer absurdity of the situation gnawed at my brain like a splinter I couldn't pull out.
One second, I was in my room—my normal room—with a PS5 controller in hand, slouched lazily in my gaming chair, completely immersed in a heated round of Helldivers 2. I remember shouting commands to my AI squad, dodging enemy fire, dropping orbital strikes to "spread democracy." It was a good run. I was winning.
Then—nothing.
Just… poof.
Darkness. Confusion. Then light. And pain. And cold. And then this.
Now I was here. Reborn. Reincarnated. Respawned, if I wanted to be optimistic.
Everything was foreign yet oddly lucid. My surroundings were a strange blend of clean white tiles, soft beeping machines, pastel-painted walls with smiling cartoon animals, and an unsettling stillness in the air. I wasn't alone—other cradles were nearby, each housing another newborn—but I might as well have been the only soul in the world right now.
I tried to move—instinctively wanting to sit up, to stretch, to do something. But my arms were pathetically small and weak, like noodles made of jelly. My body simply refused to cooperate. My muscles twitched uselessly as I attempted to push myself upright.
The result?
I rolled. Clumsily. Helplessly. Like a potato.
I let out a sound—more like a squeak than a groan—as I flopped onto my belly, my face smushing into the fabric of the crib.
Great. I couldn't even sit up. What a way to start a new life.
As I lay there, groaning silently in my internal adult voice while my baby body betrayed me, I heard it.
Ping!
A soft digital noise, sharp yet melodic, rang out in the room. Not from a machine, not from a nurse's pager—but from somewhere far closer.
Curious—and honestly, slightly alarmed—I strained my neck and slowly turned my head.
That's when I saw it.
A red, semi-transparent screen. Floating.
Just… floating in front of me.
My eyes went wide. My newborn heart thudded in my chest—not from fear, but from raw, confused adrenaline.
"What the hell?" I thought, utterly bewildered.
There was no mistaking it: a literal red screen, hovering just a few feet above my cradle like a projected hologram from a sci-fi movie. It had a smooth digital glow, like a video game HUD, except I hadn't seen anything like this in real life—definitely not in any hospital.
This wasn't a monitor.
This wasn't a hallucination.
This was real.
"Yup," I muttered to myself internally, "that confirms it. I've gone completely insane."
Or maybe this was a dream? Maybe I was in a coma?
Maybe this was what dying felt like?
Whatever the case, I knew one thing for sure: floating red screens didn't belong in hospital nurseries.
I blinked.
The screen remained.
Mocking me.
I shut my eyes tightly, as if refusing to acknowledge it would somehow make it vanish. Maybe if I just focused on my breathing, on the weight of the blanket swaddling me, on the warmth of the air—I could convince myself I was imagining things.
But it didn't go away.
Instead—
Ping!
Another notification rang out, clear and assertive.
I groaned again, or at least I tried to. It probably came out as some kind of gurgle or grunt. Even my vocal cords were on cooldown. Being a baby sucked.
Just then, I heard soft footsteps approaching.
A nurse entered the room, her shoes clicking softly against the linoleum floor. She looked young—maybe mid-20s—with her dark hair tied into a neat ponytail and a clipboard tucked beneath her arm. She had kind eyes, and she smiled as she approached my cradle.
"Hey there, little guy," she whispered gently, more to herself than to me.
In her hand was a small white band—an armband, meant for identification.
She leaned over my cradle and carefully lifted my wrist. Her touch was warm and delicate, like she'd done this a hundred times before. She wrapped the band around my arm with ease, securing it snugly. Afterward, she wrote something on her clipboard, nodding slightly to herself as she checked off a few items.
Then, without much ceremony, she walked off to tend to another newborn, leaving me once again with my thoughts.
As soon as she was gone, I turned my eyes to my wrist.
There it was, written in neat black ink on the plastic armband:
Jhin
That was my name.
Jhin.
It felt strange. Alien. But also… comforting? Like it had weight. Identity. I didn't choose it, but it didn't feel wrong either.
I said it again in my mind: Jhin.
So that's who I was now. Not Alex. Not anymore. That life was over.
This was my new name.
My new start.
Ping!
The red screen lit up again—brighter this time, drawing my attention.
I sighed internally. It was clearly not going anywhere.
I finally decided to give in and actually read the damn thing. With a bit of effort and a lot of squinting, I was able to focus my baby eyes enough to make out the first two lines on the floating interface.
> Gain consciousness
> Know your name
I blinked.
Wait.
Were these… objectives?
Like game achievements?
That couldn't be right… could it?
Was this some kind of system? A reincarnation tracker? A UI for my new life?
It seemed too cliché to be true—but then again, so did being reborn.
I hesitated for a moment before trying to interact with it. I lifted my stubby little arm and attempted to poke the screen.
Nothing.
I tried again—slower, with more concentration.
Still nothing.
My arm flopped uselessly back to my side, drained of energy. It took far more strength than I had to even raise it halfway, let alone touch something floating above me.
"Ugh," I thought. "This is going to be a long tutorial."
With no other options and nothing else to gain from flailing around, I let my body relax once again. The screen pulsed softly, still floating, still watching—or waiting, maybe. For what, I didn't know.
There wasn't much point in doing anything else. I was exhausted. Every little movement felt like running a marathon in molasses. It was a miracle I was still awake at all.
So, I gave in.
Sleep called to me like a lullaby, soft and relentless.
I let my eyes flutter shut and allowed the warmth of the cradle to envelop me. The red screen faded from my vision, becoming just another strange detail in this weird new world.
There was no point in worrying right now.
Whatever this screen was—whatever it meant—I'd deal with it later.
After all, I was only a few minutes old.
And honestly?
I could really use a nap.