*** "Issac's POV (The MC's POV.)" ***
The chilling air of a moonless night in Tokyo brushed against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. My empty pocket offered no comfort.
My pocket wasn't always empty two or three hours ago it used to hold my wallet, which contained my money, identification papers, and passport. And because of that…
I was a 34-year-old penniless foreigner in Tokyo. How did I find myself in this situation? I had been pickpocketed when I least expected it. I had been enjoying the city until that thief ruined everything.
While I was walking back to the hotel, I muttered curses under my breath—not for anyone to hear, just to calm myself a little.
(If only I'd listened to Emma and waited for her, or at least kept a backup ID or cash. I wouldn't have had to walk to the hotel, and I don't even remember the rest of the way back.)
"Oh fuck! And if the day wasn't bad enough!" I cursed as it started raining out of nowhere. The rain was only getting heavier, and I could barely see the street ahead.
I kept walking until I reached a crossroad with a green light, but I stopped anyway to rest. I leaned my back against the wall and slowly caught my breath.
(Walking for four hours straight isn't a walk in the park at all. And this damn leather shoe isn't made for strolling — if I had known I would have to walk this much, I would have worn something easier to move in.)
As I was catching my breath, a very-smelly man stood next to me to do the same. His mouth was dripping blood, possibly from an injury hidden beneath his clothes, which were covered with stains of questionable origin. His clothes weren't fancy to begin with; he wore striped pajamas, like a prisoner's outfit from old movies. The pajamas were worn-out, frayed, and covered in unwashable stains. Sweat marks clung to his armpits, and his trousers were just as grim as his ancient shirt. He was even barefoot.
(If I had to describe him in one word, it would be an elephant. But it's better to keep that thought to myself.)
"Excuse me, mister. Do you happen to know where the Havana Hotel is? The four-star one?" I asked in Japanese. The man looked at me with a disdainful gaze, then shrugged. I sighed, forcing myself not to curse in front of him.
(Now I'm literally homeless. If only this country weren't so racist, I could've gone to a police station, reported what happened and asked for help. But no identification means no help. They even tried to throw me in jail once because I didn't have my ID pap—)
My train of thought was cut off by loud shouts coming from the middle of the road.
"Hey! Listen to me, Nanahoshi!" a boy with brownish-black hair shouted, grabbing a girl's arm. The girl responded with an arm chop, sending his arm away before pushing him and shouting back.
"No, Shinohara! You didn't even apologize—and you still keep wasting my time!"
I looked at the three teenagers—middle schoolers or maybe high schoolers—two boys and a girl. Only the boy and girl were arguing, while the other boy seemed desperate to calm them down. None of them realized they had wandered into the middle of the road.
"Apologize? You are clearly the one who wronged—Nanahoshi!"
"No, you are the one who wronged—Shinohara!"
(They continued to argue and there shouts just got louder to the point even the smelly man next to me stopped caressing his strangely inverted rib to look).
"Calm down, you two, Nana, Aki. Calm down."
""Shut up! Kuro!""
(Before anything else could happen, a part of me wanted to step in, while another part wanted to mind my own damn problems.) Yet somehow my feet moved on their own toward them — and the fat man beside me started moving too.
Out of nowhere, the fat man opened his mouth as if to shout, "Watch out!" while pointing at a speeding truck far down the road. I recognized it only by the strong glare of its headlights. But no sound came out. Frustrated, he tried to run toward the kids, slipped on the slick, rain-soaked pavement. He crashed with a loud thud, blood running freely from his head and jaw.
(Well, at least he tried. He really did try to help the kids out of the goodness of his heart. Maybe, after I deal with this, I'll call him to the hotel and help him if he needs it.)
I shouted in English to catch their attention. "Watch out!" As I shouted, one of the boys hugged the girl tightly, preparing to take the impact himself. (The one arguing with her… I believe his name was "Shinohara").
The other boy tried to run to the sidewalk, but the slick muddy road made him slip too, and he fell on his face.
(I had to get him out of the way first).
I ran as fast as I could, scooped up the fallen boy—then threw him out of the way.
Before I could do anything else, a blinding light appeared where the kids had been. (It almost felt like getting stung by a flashbang again.) It blinded me for a few seconds. Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through my back. I found myself flying through the air. "Oh, shit!" (That's what I tried to say, but only a groan of pain came out.) I'd been hit by the truck. Blood spilled from my mouth as I flew.
When the truck hit me, time seemed to stretch as I spun helplessly through the air, my body twisting uncontrollably. While rotating, I saw the truck lose balance and crash into a wall, nearly squashing the boy I'd just saved. As I tried to locate the other two kids, a loud thud echoed across the street, and blood splattered everywhere.
My vision blurred as a cough tore from my mouth, splattering blood from my crushed ribs.
The impact slammed me onto my back with a bone-crushing thud, leaving my entire body numb.
When I slammed into the ground, the impact didn't soften the pain—it amplified it. My spine, already shattered by the truck, finally gave way completely. My spinal cord was destroyed; my nervous system out of commission. I tried to move my legs, to even twitch a toe, but nothing responded. My body was a heavy, numb weight. My hips throbbed with unbearable pain, every nerve screaming, and I could do nothing but lie there, helpless.
I felt a sharp pain on my left side. Focusing on it, I realized my left arm was gone—or at least unresponsive. Maybe it was still attached, but I couldn't feel a thing. All I could sense was blood pouring out of it.
My head was pinned facing the sky. My eyelids wouldn't close, my eyes forced open, and all I could see was red—blood pooling on the surface of my eyeballs.
The rain kept washing my face, cool against the burning agony beneath. My throat bled heavily into my mouth, instead of producing any sound. (All my attempts to ask for help just produced more blood.) All I could do was cough—more and more blood pouring out. At least the rain washed it away.
That's when it hit me. Am I.. dying?
No. NO—NO! I CANNOT DIE HERE. Not like this. Not now. Not yet. Emma will never forgive you, Isaac Harold. If you leave her a widow like this… You promised her you'd adopt a child when you got home, because she can't get pregnant. You know that. She calls it a vacation, but she came here because Japan's ahead in medicine. She's… she's…
AHH—my breathing's too heavy.
(Stand up, you useless piece of shit. I won't die yet. Whether you like it or not, I refuse to die he—
Stand up, please...
It doesn't matter if I can't stand up, just staying alive is more than enough, please... just keep breathing).
I was pleading to a dead body to hold on until help came.
*** (After 5 minutes). ***
(Well, that's my life, I guess. At least I died a hero. I hope this will be sufficient for entering heaven. I can't imagine selfless Dad or pure Mom in hell. Well, I'm sure when Dad sees me, he'll think I committed suicide. Because, in his last year, I was planning to one, but failed).
Suddenly, a strange voice snapped me out of thought! "Lades zaltok, Zenith!" (What the hell is that language? I probably should stop swearing. I am quite literally a smashed, dying corpse in the middle of the road.)
Other voices could be heard too, but this time it seemed that the screams of the fat man and the kid had roused the entire neighborhood, prompting them to call both the police and ambulance for help.
I could barely make out the sounds of someone moving quickly—metal clanging, cones being placed, and the faint hum of flashing lights. It must have been the policeman, securing the lane to prevent more accidents.
*** (After 45 minutes). ***
(How long had I been stuck like this? An hour or two? I don't know.) All I could register was the policeman closing off the lane to prevent more cars from coming through. He glanced at me once, a look full of disdain, then turned away. I could hear him tending to the fat man—helping stop the bleeding, grabbing blankets, and guiding the boy to sit down so he could calm him and explain what had happened.
(I don't know why the policeman gave me that hateful look, especially with a big accident happening, but it didn't matter.) I could barely process anything beyond the sounds around me—voices giving instructions, the shuffle of someone moving, the dull thump of movement nearby. I wanted to recite my beliefs, pray, anything—but I couldn't remember the last time I had been at church, maybe twenty years ago at Mother's funeral.
Then the strange voices returned—louder this time. (Like someone screaming in pain right beside my ear.)
"Hahen faiom, Paul!" Either I'd taken a hard blow to the head—(and strangely, out of my entire wrecked body, this was the only place that didn't feel damaged)—or someone was speaking a language I'd never heard before.
(Which is hard to believe, considering I can literally speak five different languages fluently like a native, and I can understand another seven. I've learned many words across these languages by attending meetings around the world, hoping to improve medicine in Africa by absorbing new inventions and discoveries. And did this voice just say "Paul"? Isn't that my younger brother's name?)
"Zaltok mouy haho, Zenith!" I must have hit my head harder than I thought, because the voices didn't stop—they kept getting louder.
(I still couldn't understand a thing, but the words "zaltok" and "Zenith" came up again for the second time.)
"Eto.. um. Hey! Are you… okay? Can you… hear me?" the fat man said, his face twisted with concern as he tried to keep himself from throwing up. When I managed to focus my eyes on him, I saw him talking directly to me while making useless attempts to stop the blood pouring from my arm and back.
(Yes, loud and clear. And to answer your other questions—yes, I'm fine not a big deal. It's just my back feels like it's been split in half, I can't feel my legs, my left arm might as well be missing, and I'm basically a breathing corpse right now. You know—totally normal. Happens every week. I just got hit by a truck, nothing serious. But thanks for asking. Out of all possible things to say, "Are you okay?" is the absolute worst. Stupid.)
God, how much I wished I could say that last part out loud instead of only in my head.
Suddenly, the policeman came over and scolded the man harshly. He told him that by trying to help, he could make the situation even worse, and if that happened, was he ready to bear the consequences?
He said this while looking straight at me, biting his lip before leaning toward the shoulder radio.
"Unidentified dark‑skinned foreign male, struck by a truck," he reported. His face twisted with pure disgust as he added, "He's done for."
(He said it coldly—no concern, no hesitation, nothing. Not even the kind of sadness someone shows when a stray animal dies. Just… nothing.)
He returned to his car, grabbed a small flashlight, and I could hear him moving around the nearby alleys and bushes. Through the radio, I caught him saying with authoritative in his voice: "Witnesses said three kids were on the road… only one found… need a full search." Then he moved off, presumably to look for the missing boy and girl.
(For real, this country and the discrimination in it. Even though I'm slightly brown, they're just going to treat me like a monkey. It's better than before, sure, but still… Before Mandela's presidency, they would have ignored my skills in chemistry, physics, biology, my high IQ, and my ability to learn languages. They might as well have dumped me in some military station or a mine just because of my build and hand-to-hand combat skills, using me as a disposable slave under the guise of work. Well, it doesn't matter now. If anything, I only regret not signing with a higher life insurance policy.)
All I could do was sigh internally.
(Well, Emma, you, Paul, Richard, and if you still want to adopt a child, Emma, you'll all have to split that 120k dollars. Try not to fight over it.)
*** (After yet another hour). ***
Another one of the strange voices showed up, yelling along with the other two, but I forced myself to ignore them. They kept shouting for hours while the doctors and nurses worked on me—CPR, IV lines, blood transfusions, everything they could throw at me. Honestly, they were doing it remarkably well for someone they kept labeling as an "unidentified dark‑skinned foreigner."
(Did someone shout "Code Delta?" Is it really this bad? Am I.. done for? Looking at bright side now no one said "DNR" yet, so I still can make it, there is still hope. I wish.)
(Oh right, forgot to mention the idiot who thinks I'm deaf because he shouts every single question at me. The idiot don't have a clue that I can't use my vocal cords. If I could use them, I would have given him a nice medical advice or two as his senior. But the nurse over there wouldn't like to hear them with him).
These voices were going to drive me insane. If I somehow survived this mess, I'd probably need a rehabilitation center just to deal with whatever screaming inside my skull. They hadn't stopped once—not for a breath, not for a heartbeat—and every second they clawed harder at my mind.
But, I heard five words too much to be considered a coincidence: "Zenith," "Paul," "Lilia," "Zaltok," and "Shinne."
Zenith, that's a new name to me, but it's a nice one. This Paul is clearly not my Paul. And Lilia was called an hour ago. The fourth word I can't understand it yet. As for the last one, it almost sounds like the word 'death' in Japanese.
Well, whoever was saying that word, it isn't funny as sarcasm, buddy or Miss, because it was a woman's voice. But, it doesn't matter anymore, the pulse is fading anyway.
Things started to blur even more before blacking out while the doctors tried to keep me with alive with all they had by shocking my chest, injecting adrenaline increasing oxygen dose. They really did their best. But the body is already done for.
'Well, see you in heaven, Emma.'
Suddenly, after everything blacked out, I thought it was over. (And I should be prepared for my judgment.) But what happened is when I reopened my eyes I started to see two very blurry silhouettes. Describing them, they would be giants. (My vision is unnaturally blur even considering how it was after the accident).
I was still trying to move my arm or make a sound or even breathe freely since I got hit by that truck. But I couldn't do either, the best I can do is to breathe painfully.
After some time of trying to make any sound, I was barely able to make a very hurt sound of pain. It could be heard from me if you were very close, for some reason I don't know why, my vocal cords weren't working at all.
Suddenly, one of the giant silhouettes came and lifted me and started saying strange words. I only understood the word "Shinne." (She finished the words with it.)
That apparently made me slightly better, because after she said it, and when she said the word itself her hand lit a dim green light. And because of it, my vision had become slightly better.
(And why does the woman carrying me crying?) Anyway, finally, I could make an audible sound of pain. (Wait a second! How huge was this woman to be able to lift me this easily? And what's this new-born cries am I hearing?)
The woman repeated some words but added another (I think) and then said "X-Shinne." (She finished her words with it.)
Her hand lit the room, and my vision instantly became better, and my cries of pain became like the normal sound of a crying newborn. That's when I realized many things in the next few seconds.
First, there were three persons in the wooden room we were in (yes, a wooden room, and it was clear that this wasn't a hospital and didn't seem to be somewhere to be judged in).
The first person was a very well-built man (dwarfing my past proud muscles).
He had dark-blonde hair with shining green eyes and a beautiful mole below his left eye. He wore golden earrings of some kind, like an ear cuff. (And did he wear a ponytail?)
The second person was a very reserved woman in the corner of the room wearing an outdated maid outfit from the old big houses. (I barely felt her presence in the room).
She had too much sweat on her forehead (like she was in the middle of a war or something).
She had maroon hair with… are those purple eyes? I couldn't see them at first because of her glasses. Her hairstyle was a top little-bun.
And lastly, the woman who I was in her hands. She was a blonde with charming blue eyes. She was wearing a very adhesive... (What can I call this?) I'll call it a nightgown since I can't identify what it is. But describing it, it was a very revealing dress. (I could barely see some things I'm not supposed to see.) The woman who was wearing it while carrying me had the most sweat of all of them. (Her hairstyle was a very short top ponytail.)
(I didn't want to know. And before realizing my state, I didn't want to imagine what kind of fight they were in. My mind was too occupied to focus on those useless details.) But she was pretty. All of them were very beautiful people. If anything, I'm sure they could all advertise in face cream ads with these sweet faces. But the woman carrying me was on a whole another level.
(Well, that's when I saw everything. My brain finally decided to work and stopped its long vacation to tell me that I had died in the accident. Now I'm reincarnated, and those people are my new family.)
When I got this answer, I cried as hard as I could, finally making an audible sound. Everyone in the room sighed in relief when they heard my cries.
(This wasn't rebirth. It was a coma dream, right? My brain was just hallucinating as a last joke. Right? I'll wake up any time now. Wake up. WAKE UP!—Wake up, please! But the pain was too sharp. And the blonde woman's hands were too warm. O' God. It's real.)
My screams just got louder until the blonde woman showed me her breast and started to nurse me.
(What is that? Is this some kind of mental torture? I can't see either my alive family or the dead ones? That's must be hell. And why is all of my body screaming in pain? Did the pain from the accident reach this new body too? No, that's physically and logically impossible. Then, I received the body of a dead kid. ((Stillborn.))
"Oh fuck my luck." So even my second chance I received is a dead body. And they did revive me with CPR and the unnatural green light. No, it must be my mind still hallucinating. I'll wake up any time now next to Emma, and she'll make fun of me and my big imagination. PLEASE GOD, make all of this a dream and wake me up.)
While I was crying from inside myself, the dark-haired blonde man, or apparently my new father, was now celebrating like he really believed his dead child had returned to life. Poor man, his son is probably dead, and the one who will live in his body will never give him the right love he deserves. (I just hope I didn't kill his real son by receiving this body.)
*** (After three minutes). ***
Now the blonde man and the blonde woman (my supposed new parents) were hugging me warmly and muttering soft words (not that I could understand them, but the way they were talking was warm and relaxing) while cuddling me, and the blonde m— father had given me kisses on the face more than I could count.
(Thinking about it, why can't I see this through to the end? I'm dead anyway. And I can't return to my family, so it doesn't matter anymore. I'll take it like a test, a very hard one indeed. Starting all over with a new family, ignoring my past and memories. I just hope they don't hate me like the past one. And while enduring the unbearable pain, for this young couple. "Well, Mom, Dad, nice to meet you. I think.")
When I thought that, I felt a sudden urge to sleep. My eyelids suddenly became heavy. I didn't fight it, and I slept immediately.