I woke up exactly where I had fallen—on the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom floor.
The first thing that hit me wasn't the light, but the smell. It was sharp, acidic, and instinctively revolting. I scrunched my nose, turning my head slightly, and immediately regretted it. My cheek peeled away from the floor with a sticky, wet sound.
I was lying right next to a pool of my own sick. The stench of bile was overwhelming, thick enough to taste in the back of my throat. It was dried and crusty on my chin, a humiliating reminder of my body's weakness.
I didn't panic this time. I just lay there for a few moments, staring blankly at the white porcelain of the toilet bowl next to my head. My mind felt heavy, like a machine running on low battery, processing the situation with a detached numbness.
Get up.
It took real work to obey that command. My body felt like it was made of lead. I planted my palms against the slick tiles and pushed. My elbows locked up, and my shoulders screamed in protest. It wasn't just stiffness; it felt like my muscles had turned to stone while I slept.
With a groan that scraped against my dry throat, I forced myself onto my knees. My joints popped loudly—a dry, cracking sound like snapping twigs—echoing in the small silence of the room.
I swayed on my feet, grabbing the edge of the sink with a white-knuckled grip to keep from toppling over again. I deliberately kept my head down, refusing to look at the mirror. I didn't have the energy to face that stranger again.
I shuffled into the shower stall, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a puppet with tangled strings. I didn't even bother taking off the soiled shorts. I just reached for the chrome handle with trembling fingers and twisted it all the way to the red side.
The pipes rattled in the walls, shuddering for a second before the showerhead sputtered. A burst of cold water hit me first, making me gasp, followed instantly by a scalding hot jet.
I watched the water swirl around my feet. It turned a murky, pinkish-brown as it dissolved the dried vomit on my clothes and skin, carrying the filth down the drain.
Steam began to rise, fogging up the glass door. I leaned my forehead against the wet tiles and let the water hammer against my back.
It was searingly hot. On any other day, it would have burned, but against my unnaturally cold skin, it felt like life itself was being injected back into me. I closed my eyes, letting the heat soak through the grime and deep into my frozen marrow, slowly thawing out the corpse-like rigor that had held me prisoner.
But as the physical numbness faded, something else took its place.
I looked down at myself. The wet fabric of the shorts clung to my thighs, emphasizing just how spindly they were. My ribs were visible even through the steam, jagged ridges threatening to pierce the pale skin. My wrists were so thin they looked breakable.
A wave of nausea hit me again, but this time, it had nothing to do with the smell.
Pathetic.
The thought wasn't a conscious observation. It was a judgment. A sneer from the back of my mind.
I felt a deep, visceral repulsion towards this body. It wasn't just fear of being unhealthy; it was something colder. I looked at my trembling hands and felt... offended. It felt wrong to be this weak. It felt insulting.
Whoever I was before I lost my memories, I clearly wasn't a saint. I could feel the ghost of my past self in that reaction—an arrogant, egotistical phantom that looked at this emaciated form and wanted to burn it down rather than live in it.
I clenched my fist. The grip was weak, the knuckles barely whitening, but the intent was there.
I refuse to be this thing.
The fear of the unknown—the lost memories, the strange room—was suddenly drowned out by sheer, indignant pride. I didn't know who "Vann" was supposed to be, and I didn't know what this world was. But I knew one thing for certain: I was better than this starved, shivering wreck.
I wouldn't just survive this. I would fix it. Because the only thing scarier than dying was living as something I despised.
Determined, I twisted the handle shut. The water died instantly, leaving only the sound of my own ragged breathing.
I stepped out of the stall, water dripping from my hair onto the tiles. I reached for a towel, but my hand never made it to the rack.
The world suddenly lurched to the left.
A wave of dizziness hit me like a sledgehammer. Black spots danced across my vision, multiplying until they threatened to swallow the room. My knees buckled, and I had to slam my shoulder against the doorframe to keep from collapsing again.
Then came the pain.
It started in my gut—a hollow, grinding cramp that felt like my stomach was trying to digest my own spine. It wasn't just appetite. It was a biological emergency. My blood sugar must have been critically low.
Food. Now.
I pushed off the doorframe, stumbling back into the main room. I needed calories before I passed out again.
"Where is it..." I muttered, my voice cracking.
I scanned the apartment, hoping to find a kitchen or a pantry. My heart sank immediately. "Search" was too generous a word for what I was doing. The place was a shoebox.
It was just the bedroom and the bathroom. That was it. There was no kitchenette, no fridge, not even a mini-bar. Just four white walls, the metal desk, and the bed.
I yanked open the single drawer of the desk. Empty.
I dropped to my knees and checked under the bed. Dust bunnies, but nothing edible.
Panic flared in my chest, mixing with the dizziness. Was I a prisoner? Was I supposed to starve to death in this white cube?
I pulled myself up using the desk, my breath coming in frustrated hisses. As I gripped the metal surface, something caught my eye.
Resting on the far corner of the desk, blending into the shadows away from the window's light, was a rectangle of darkness.
I reached out and picked it up. It was a phone.
It was sleek, seamless, and pitch black—a void of color in a room that was blindingly white. It felt heavy in my hand, expensive and cold. There were no buttons, just a smooth glass surface that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
It was the only thing in this entire room that didn't look like it belonged in a hospital or a morgue. And right now, it was my only lifeline.
My thumb brushed against the cold glass surface.
I didn't expect what happened next. The screen didn't just light up; it erupted.
A soft chime echoed in the silent room, and a beam of pale blue light shot up from the device, fanning out into the air. It coalesced instantly into a spinning, three-dimensional hologram floating a few inches above the desk.
I stared at it, my jaw tightening.
It was a human figure—a man. He had my white hair and my sharp features, but that was where the resemblance ended. The man in the hologram was fit. His chest was broad, his arms defined with lean, healthy muscle, and his posture was upright and confident.
It was a mockery. It was showing me what this body was supposed to look like, juxtaposed against the shivering, skeletal wreck I currently was.
Next to the rotating figure, text scrolled rapidly in the air:
[ ID VERIFIED ]
NAME: Varhian
CITIZEN TIER: 9 (Provisional)
Age: 21
CREDITS: 1,500 Units
"Welcome back, Varhian," a synthetic, pleasant voice chimed from the phone's speakers.
The sound of that name hit me harder than the dizziness.
Varhian.
A spike of irritation drove through my headache. It felt... wrong. Unpleasant. Like biting down on a piece of tinfoil.
I looked at the floating text, at the name glowing in innocent blue letters, and felt a sudden, irrational surge of possessiveness.
No.
My name wasn't Varhian. That soft, multi-syllabic word felt weak on my tongue. It didn't fit the soul that was currently burning with indignation inside this chest.
Vann.
The name I had woken up with—Vann—felt heavy, sharp, and absolute. It was the only thing I owned in this wretched situation. It was the only anchor I had to the person I used to be. Hearing this machine call me something else felt like an infringement, an attempt to overwrite the only truth I had left.
"I am not Varhian," I rasped out loud, my voice cracking.
The machine, of course, didn't care. The hologram just kept spinning, the name Varhian mocking me with its persistence.
I took a deep breath, forcing the irritation down. I couldn't afford to have an identity crisis right now. I looked past the name to the only number that mattered.
1,500 Units.
I didn't know the economy of this world. Was that a fortune? Or was it pocket change? But judging by the "Tier 9" status and the shoebox apartment, I guessed it wasn't much.
But it was better than zero.
"Fine," I muttered, glaring at the perfect, healthy hologram. "You can keep the name for now. But I'm taking the money."