When I opened my eyes, I saw a dimly lit room. The only source of light was a gas lantern on the table, its flame flickering as if it might go out at any moment. Still, the glow felt warm and cozy, filling the small room with an earthy scent. The soft patter of rain against the window, combined with the blanket wrapped around me on the narrow bed, made me feel incredibly relaxed.
Then suddenly, I became alert, realizing I was in The Walking Dead universe. I couldn't just lie here and relax, not in a place where danger could lurk anywhere.
As I tried to get up, a sharp pain shot through my left leg, forcing a grimace. Pulling the blanket aside, I saw my leg was bandaged and worse, chained to the bed. That was bad news in a world like The Walking Dead.
Then came an even more unsettling realization: my body was small. I was in the body of a child.
Those two discoveries, being injured and being a kid, made my hands tremble. When the angel said there would be a "little change to keep the balance," I never imagined this. A child version of Agent 47, injured and helpless, how was I supposed to survive?
The thought alone made my chest tighten with panic. Then, I heard footsteps approaching from behind the door. Instinctively, I pulled the blanket over myself and pretended to sleep.
The heavy footsteps stopped at the door, which creaked open slowly. I cracked my eyes just enough to see who it was. Two men entered, both in their mid-thirties, their postures slouched and their eyes heavy with exhaustion and despair.
The one in front wore glasses and a brown shirt. His red, hollow eyes stared blankly at my "sleeping" body. The man behind him, dressed in a leather jacket, tapped his shoulder gently, trying to bring him back to reality.
"Are you… sure you want to do this, brother?" he asked quietly.
The man with the glasses didn't respond. He simply raised his arm. Seeing that, the man in the jacket looked pained and helpless, reluctantly pulling a gun from his waistband and handing it over.
"Brother, let me do it," he murmured.
Still, no reply.
"If I had just gotten the medicine… I'm sorry, brother. This is my fault."
The man in glasses looked back slightly. "You can't do anything right, can you? Just leave me alone with my son for a moment."
His son. My heart froze. He was talking about me. Why would he want to kill his own child?
The man in the jacket hesitated. "Matthew, now!" The father barked, making him flinch. The once-cozy room suddenly felt suffocating. Lowering his head, Matthew reluctantly left, closing the door behind him.
Now, it was just me and the man—my supposed father—who was about to shoot me.
My heart pounded so fast I thought it would give me away. My palms were slick with sweat. I didn't know what to do or say. Would he even believe me if I told him I was fine?
He sat on the edge of the bed, placing the gun beside the lantern. "Forgive me, son," he whispered. "But I can't watch you turn into that… monster. Don't be afraid—I'll be coming with you. Then we can finally see your mother again… in heaven."
Tears streamed down his face, making his red eyes glisten. He took off his glasses and wiped them with shaking hands. I recognized that expression instantly—the look of someone who had completely lost hope.
"I wish I could have been a better father," he said softly. "I wish I'd been there when you needed me. I wish I hadn't blamed you… Max, my son, forgive me."
His trembling hand rested on my shoulder. After a long silence, he reached for the gun again, aiming it at me with shaking hands.
"Dad, what are you doing?" I said desperately, unable to keep quiet any longer.
He froze. Seeing me awake, he dropped the gun and pulled me into a tight embrace, sobbing uncontrollably into my shoulder.
Moments later, he pulled back, smiling through his tears. "You're awake… and talking…" he said, his voice trembling with disbelief. He pressed a hand to my forehead, and his smile grew wider. "Even the fever's gone. This is… a miracle!"
He hugged me again, tighter this time, then quickly released me, worried he might hurt me. His eyes softened as he kissed my forehead. "I promise you, I'll never leave you again," he said firmly.
"Your aunt and uncle will be so happy to hear this good news! Wait here—I'll go get them."
Grabbing the gun, he hurried out of the room.
Finally alone, I could think clearly.
So, my name was Max. These people were my family—and they thought I'd been dying from sickness. That's why I was chained to the bed. They were preparing to… put me down.
From the looks of it, the original Max had died—and I had taken his place. The thought made me uneasy, but I accepted it, vowing to treat his family as my own.
Once I confirmed the house was safe, my thoughts turned to the future. I had no memories of the original Max. What would I say if they began to suspect something?
And what timeline was I even in? From what I could tell, the infection had already spread—but I didn't know how long it had been. There was no point worrying about that now; I'd figure it out eventually.
For the moment, the problem of my missing memories was what I needed to focus on.
Outside the door, I heard several footsteps approaching. I took a deep breath and braced myself for what was coming next.