What the heck… it's full darkness. I can't see anything.
Did I die? Shit—I had too many things to do. I didn't want to die.
He squinted, then suddenly his eyes flew open. Air rushed into his lungs as he gasped hard, breathing ragged and enraged, chest rising and falling out of control.
Hands first.
He lifted them—intact.
Legs next.
They moved. No pain.
He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, checking himself piece by piece. Alive.
Then the main thing.
My shotgun.
His hand slid under his boxers.
Still there.
Ash let out a shaky breath of relief.
Was it really a dream?
It felt too real. The adrenaline still burned in his veins. He could almost smell the burnt metal, see the sparks, hear the roar of the fans—sirens screaming over everything.
A slow, uneven creak cut through his thoughts—metal grinding against metal.
Like a massive fan turning somewhere in the dark.
Ash froze.
The sound repeated. Closer this time. Heavy. Mechanical.
His body felt… wrong.
Nothing hurt, but nothing felt right either. The weight of his limbs was unfamiliar. The way his chest rose when he breathed—off. Like he was wearing himself incorrectly.
He checked again.
His arms were thick. Muscular. Too solid.
Not the lean build he knew.
He clenched his hands. The strength felt unfamiliar.
His fingers traced his face. A sharper jawline. Different angles.
This wasn't his body.
Dim, irregular—like a dying signal blinking from a far corner of the space.
It didn't illuminate anything. It only reminded him the darkness wasn't endless.
The metal creaked again. Ash touched his face once more, panic tightening his chest.
His eyes darted around the dark room—and there it was. A mirror in the corner, dim light flickering across its surface.
He staggered to his feet, legs trembling, and stepped closer.
His reflection stared back at him. Broad jawline. High cheekbones. Eyes… not his own. Every angle, every line unfamiliar.
He pressed his hands to his face, fingers tracing the contours as if touching it could make it real—or make it go away.
"No… no, no, no—" he whispered, breath snapping short.
Ash touched his face once more, panic tightening his chest.
His breathing snapped short.
"I died," he whispered. "Shit. I died."
He cursed everything that had dragged him here—fate, luck, the race, himself. Dead, then thrown into an unfamiliar world, trapped inside a body he knew nothing about. No answers. No control.
"Shit… I didn't even get to enjoy life."
The thought twisted deeper than the fear.
Then pain exploded inside his skull.
"Wait—no. I wasn't ready for this shit."
The words tore out of him between ragged breaths.
"My luck… seriously?"
His fingers dug into his scalp as the pain spiked again—sharper, crueler—like it was punishing him for daring to wake up at all.
"Did I reincarnated," he gasped, half-laughing, half-choking.
Another wave slammed through his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched so hard his jaw trembled.
"Intense pain," he spat. "That's it. That's my welcome."
His body shook as he fought to stay upright, veins standing out, heartbeat slamming like it wanted to tear free.
"Fuck… fuck this world already."
Slowly—too slowly—the pain dulled.
The hammering faded into a deep, throbbing ache. Still there, but bearable. Ash sagged, breath shaking as he rubbed his temples, forcing the pain down.
Then it hit.
Not pain.
Memories.
They flooded in all at once—faces he didn't recognize, places that weren't his, a life that wasn't his. Knowledge slammed into place: who this body belonged to, where he was, what kind of world this was.
And finally, a name surfaced.
Ash.
Still Ash.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that twist of fate.
Same name.
Different body.
Different world.
The metal creaked again in the darkness.
Ash stayed still, breath shallow.
Whatever this was—it wasn't done with him yet.
"I need to calm myself," he muttered, voice rough and shaky. "Let me digest everything that happened. It was all too fast."
His throat was dry. He swallowed hard, saliva sticky and thin, and it reminded him of something he'd forgotten.
Water.
He stumbled toward the faint outline of a tap, finding a cap nearby. The metal felt cold under his fingers as he filled it, the simple act grounding him—if only a little.
As he drank, his mind flicked over the room, almost like it remembered itself. The layout came back piece by piece, as if he had lived here countless times before.
He tilted the cup back and gulped the water greedily, the liquid sliding down his throat with a sharp, satisfying rush. A few droplets escaped, trickling onto his chin, then traveling down the front of his chest.
When he finished, he slammed the cup down hard on the metal surface.
Tink.
The sound echoed through the dark room.
Ash wiped the water from his chin with the back of his hand and let out a long, slow sigh. It was refreshing—shockingly so.
For a moment, the darkness didn't press as hard.
He scanned the room, taking everything in— Nothing looked familiar, yet somehow it all felt remembered.
He moved to the floor, where only a thin mattress lay waiting. Collapsing onto it, he let his body sink, finally allowing the tension locked in his muscles to loosen.
He closed his eyes, trying to digest everything—death, rebirth, pain, memories that weren't his.
Slowly, sleep crawled over his eyelids. He fought it, but his body had taken too much.
In the end, he surrendered.
Sleep claimed him.
And for the first time since waking in this strange world, Ash rested—his body exhausted, his fate uncertain.
Ash lay still.
His body barely moved, but sweat soaked his back, darkening the fabric beneath him. His breathing grew uneven, shallow at first—then harsher, dragged out of his chest like something was pulling the air away.
Behind his closed eyes—
The track stretched endlessly.
Lights blurred into long streaks of white and red. The engine screamed beneath him, vibrations rattling his bones. The crowd was there—thousands of voices merging into a single, thunderous roar.
Too loud.
Too close.
The speed climbed.
Metal barriers rushed past, twisted shapes warping at the edges of his vision. Sparks flew as something scraped underneath the car.
Then—
A sharp crack.
The tire burst.
Time slowed.
Rubber shredded apart, fragments spinning through the air like shrapnel. The car jerked violently, snapping sideways. The steering wheel tore against his grip as the world twisted out of alignment.
Steel screamed.
The car flipped.
Once.
Twice.
Glass exploded, spraying like rain. Fire bloomed across the frame, orange and white, swallowing everything. The sound of metal folding in on itself drowned out the crowd.
Silence.
A single heartbeat.
Then sirens tore through it—shrill, relentless—cutting into the wreckage as smoke poured upward.
Ash watched it all.
Unable to move.
Unable to look away.
No—
His body convulsed.
Ash's eyes flew open.
"NO!"
He shot upright, gasping violently, air ripping into his lungs as if he'd been buried underwater. His heart slammed against his ribs, sweat dripping down his face, hands shaking uncontrollably.
Silent.
Real.
Ash clutched his face with both hands, fingers digging into his skin as he dragged in shaky breaths.
"Ho… fucking hell," he muttered, voice cracked. "It was a nightmare."
His hands slid down slowly. His chest still heaved, sweat cooling against his skin as the adrenaline refused to fade.
Light seeped into the room.
Not bright—just enough for him to finally see it clearly.
A small, cramped space. A battered fridge shoved against one wall. A narrow table cluttered with junk. A table fan humming unevenly, its blades clicking like they might give up at any second. Clothes and scrap lay scattered around, the room kept in a quiet, careless mess.
Ash exhaled.
His stomach growled.
Loud.
He froze for a second, then let out a dry, half-broken laugh, clutching his stomach.
"Great," he muttered. "I die, wake up in some other body, and now this stupid thing's growling like I'm about to get my shit handed to me."
The sound echoed weakly in the room.
Still… hunger was real. Solid. Proof he was awake.
Ash pushed himself up, muscles protesting as he stood. He started toward the fridge—
Then he stopped.
Ash glanced around, then checked the time.
2:30 PM.
His breath hitched.
"Shit," he muttered. "I slept that long?"
He opened the fridge for a moment he just stood there, staring, disbelief giving way to a slow, tired exhale.
Not much. Just a small packet of oats, a lone energy drink, and a carton of milk.
His stomach growled, and he let out a quiet curse. "Well… this is it, then."
He didn't argue with it, didn't wish for anything else. He was here, in this body, in this world. This was what he had.
Grabbing the oats, the energy drink, and the milk, he sat down at the narrow table. The chair scraped against the floor as he lowered himself, the sound echoing faintly in the small room.
He opened the oat packet and poured some into a bowl. The routine small act grounded him in the moment. It wasn't luxury, it wasn't comfort—it was survival. And right now, survival was enough.
Ash sat back slightly, taking a breath, and started to eat. No hope, no anger—just acceptance.
"I need something to cool my steam," Ash muttered. "Maybe a quick bath."
He stood up and walked toward the shower. The floor was cold under his feet, the air still heavy. He stepped inside and pressed the switch.
The light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then it went dead.
Silence rushed in.
Ash stared at the switch, jaw hanging open.
"…Of course," he said quietly.
He let out a short breath and shook his head. "Did all my luck get used up just for reincarnation?"
The words echoed weakly in the small space.
He stood there for a moment longer, then reached for the water anyway.
Cold water ran off his body as Ash straightened.
He rolled his shoulders once. Then again.
"Damn…" he muttered, turning slightly, checking himself from different angles.
Broad shoulders. Proper ones. Not sloped, not narrow. He flexed his arms—solid muscle, clean lines, forearms thick enough to look dangerous. He clenched a fist, veins rising just enough to notice.
He drew in a breath, chest expanding. Lean. Strong. Balanced. He turned sideways, checking his core. Flat. Tight. No softness anywhere.
He planted his feet and straightened fully.
"So I'm tall too," he said, a quiet chuckle slipping out.
He shifted into a half-pose without thinking—arms crossed, then hands on his hips. The body followed easily, like it knew the movements already.
Ash nodded once, approving.
"Whoever you were," he said calmly, "you kept this body in damn good shape." Cold water continued to run over him, steady and numb. Ash closed his eyes and let it wash everything down—panic, anger, questions he didn't have answers for yet. The chill sank into his skin, easing the heat in his head, slowing his thoughts one by one.
For now, he didn't think about death.
Didn't think about fate.
Didn't think about what came next.
He just stood there, breathing, letting the cold ground him—accepting this body, this place, this moment.
When his mind finally went quiet, Ash opened his eyes.
This was reality now.
--------