Cold.
That was the first thing Miguel felt when his eyes snapped open—cold seeping into his skin, into his bones, as if the air itself was soaking through him. Then came the smell. It was… bad. A mix of damp stone, rust, and something metallic, like dried blood.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his bare feet scraped against rough stone. That was when he saw the walls—dark, uneven blocks stacked together, with patches of greenish mold creeping up from the floor. In front of him, rusty bars stood like the ribs of some giant animal, blocking the way out.
A prison.It had to be a prison.
He blinked down at himself and felt his chest tighten.These weren't his arms.They were too thin, the skin too pale. His hands were smaller—almost childlike. His legs, just as frail. He shifted his weight and realized his height felt wrong too. He was… shorter.
He swallowed hard, the thought forming before he wanted to admit it.This body… is maybe seven years old.
Miguel's mind spun. Just a moment ago—or maybe it had been hours, days, who knew—he was on that bridge. He remembered the wind in his face, the jump, the black water swallowing him whole. His lungs burning. And then—
Nothing.
Now… here.
His eyes drifted to the side. That's when he saw him.
Another kid, curled up against the wall. About the same size as his new body, maybe a little taller. Messy hair, pale face. The boy wasn't moving much—just the faintest rise and fall of his chest.
Miguel hesitated, then got to his feet. The cold stone floor bit into his bare toes as he crossed the small cell. He crouched beside the boy and gave his shoulder a light shake."Hey… wake up."
No response.
"Hey," he tried again, a little firmer this time. Still nothing.
A small knot of unease twisted in Miguel's stomach. He leaned closer, pressing two fingers to the boy's neck—something he'd only seen done in movies.
And then his blood ran cold.
No pulse.No heartbeat.
Miguel froze, his mind stumbling over itself. He was about to pull his hand away when the boy's eyelids twitched… and opened.
Miguel stumbled back so fast he almost tripped. "You—! You weren't breathing! Your heart wasn't beating!"
The boy blinked at him, groggy and confused. "…Where am I?"
Miguel took a breath, steadying his voice. "I… don't know. But it looks like a prison."
The boy sat up, rubbing at his neck. "Figures. My luck's been crap lately anyway."
Miguel studied him for a moment before asking, "…What's your name?"
"Nick. Nick Freyan."
"…Miguel," he replied quietly.
Nick gave him a short nod. "Alright, Miguel. Guess we're cellmates for now."
Miguel didn't reply. He wasn't sure what to say to someone who had apparently just come back from being dead.
Nick broke the silence first. "Last thing I remember, I was walking home from work. And then—" he made a vague gesture "—truck. Big, fast, and definitely not friendly. Next thing I know, I wake up here… in a kid's body."
Miguel looked down at the floor. "…I was… on a bridge. I jumped. Hit the water, went under. Then woke up here."
Nick didn't comment, but his gaze lingered on Miguel a moment longer before he leaned back against the wall. "…Guess that makes two of us—both dead, somehow alive again, and stuck in… wherever this is."
Miguel frowned. "…You think this is… another world?"
Nick grinned faintly. "If it is, maybe we get magic. You know—like the stories. Boom, powers. Maybe we can shoot fireballs and break out of here."
Before Miguel could respond, Nick jumped to his feet and pointed his open palm at the wall. "Alright… FIREBALL!"Nothing happened.
"Uh… MAGIC BEAM!" Still nothing.
He scrunched his face and thrust his hand forward again, looking like a kid pretending to be a superhero. Miguel stared at him for a few seconds before letting out a short, quiet laugh.
Nick glanced back with mock offense. "…You're laughing at me?"
"You look ridiculous," Miguel said, shaking his head.
"Glad I could make you smile," Nick replied with a smirk. "Gotta do something to keep from going insane in here."
For a brief moment, the heaviness in the air seemed to lift. Two strangers, laughing in a place where laughter didn't belong.
Then Nick's expression hardened. "Alright, jokes aside—we need to find a way out—"
Heavy footsteps cut him off.
They both turned toward the sound. A figure was approaching the cell, the torchlight casting his shadow across the stone floor.
The man who appeared was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the kind of face you didn't want to meet in a dark alley. His hair was greasy, hanging in unkempt strands, and a scar ran from his brow down to his cheek. The keys at his waist jingled faintly with every step.
He stopped just outside the bars, his eyes narrowing. "Oi, kids. Keep your damn mouths shut unless you want me to come in there and teach you how."
Miguel instinctively stepped back, his shoulders brushing the cold wall. Nick, on the other hand, didn't move.
The guard smirked. "That's better. Stay quiet. This ain't no playground."
He turned and walked off, his boots echoing down the corridor until the sound faded completely.
Miguel exhaled slowly. "…He's scary."
Nick's gaze stayed on the bars. "…Yeah. But scary or not, we're getting out of here."
Miguel looked at him, doubtful. "…You think there's a way?"
Nick finally glanced back, a small, determined grin on his face. "There's always a way."