The sterile scent of antiseptic stung her nose before her eyes even opened. Somewhere nearby, a machine beeped in a steady rhythm—calm, cold, clinical. Anya's eyelids fluttered, heavy and dry, and the white ceiling above her swam into view—plain, unfamiliar, too bright.
She tried to lift her hand.
It moved, sluggishly, as if it belonged to someone else.
Her throat was raw. She parted her lips to speak, but no words came. Only a soft, rasping sound.
Panic tugged at her chest. She tried again.
"…Water…"The word came out distorted. Wrong.
That wasn't her voice — it was a baby's cry. Thin. Weak. Like air being squeezed from something too small.
A shadow moved near the edge of the bed. A woman in pale blue scrubs turned, startled. Her words came in a rush—a string of syllables sharp and fluid, in a language Anya didn't understand.
Anya blinked, confusion thickening into fear.
"Where…?" she croaked.
A man in a white coat appeared, checking her with quiet efficiency. A nurse followed close behind, watching the monitors.
Both looked relieved to see her awake.
The doctor said something soothing, his voice calm, as if explaining something important.
But the words meant nothing.
"I—I don't understand," Anya whispered.
Her hands moved — clumsy, tiny, barely responsive.
She couldn't lift her head, let alone sit up. Everything felt wrong. Her limbs were too short. Her muscles, too weak. Panic fluttered inside her like a trapped bird.
A nurse leaned over and smiled gently, unaware of the storm brewing behind the baby's eyes. The woman said something soft, sing-song, and turned the infant slightly—just enough for Anya to catch a glimpse of herself in a metal panel beside the warmer.
A distorted reflection looked back at her.
Not a woman. Not a girl.
A baby.
Red, wrinkled skin. Puffy cheeks. Eyes too large for such a small face. Damp black hair plastered to a round scalp. And just beneath her left eye—a small mole.
It wasn't her.
It couldn't be.
Her chest tightened. Her heartbeat felt louder than the machines. The reflection blurred as tears filled her eyes.
That wasn't just a new body.
It was a new life.
But behind that face… she was still Anya.
"No…" Her voice cracked. "Who is this?"
Her pulse raced. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a warning.
A shadow leaned over her. The, framed by harsh fluorescent light. His face was calm, unreadable. He didn't speak to her questions — couldn't have heard them in the way she meant. Instead, he glanced at the chart in his hand, then at her.
And softly, almost like naming something that didn't belong to itself, he said,"Li Anqi."
Just once.
No explanation. No comfort.
Then he turned away.
Li Anqi?
"No. I'm Anya," she whispered. "I'm… I was in Country B. I—"
She stopped.
The last thing she remembered—what was it?
Rain..A road..A car skidding—
Then silence....
A broken fragment of her old life.
Now replaced by this unfamiliar shell in a place that didn't speak her language.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not here.
She didn't know what had happened or why she was here, but something told her:
She had taken someone else's place.A girl named Li Anqi.
And there was no going back.