The moon was hanging in the sky, the rapid raindrops were hitting the ground to create a soft pitter-patter of echoed sound through the streets, and of course it was the perfect time to miss the ineffable person who lived in the dream.
However, there was a lone figure who was running for his life through this dramatic situation. His heart pounded in rhythm with the rain each drop falling like the tick of a countdown. His back against the cold stone wall and, had to stay hidden by the narrow alleyways.
His whole world had dissolved into raw, relentless pain. Every desperate breath dragged the metallic, coppery scent of his own profuse blood loss deep into his lungs. Mentally, he was utterly adrift; the sheer volume of pain had burned away all identity and will.
F**k, am I going to die?
I just can't sit here. And wait to die
His fingers tightened around the grip of his gun, breath slow and controlled. He seemed to be a well trained professional assassin agent from the government-at least, that's what he believed. The alley was in deep silence. He was ready.
Pat Pat Pat! (the foot steps coming toward him)
The first shot rang out, sudden and loud, echoing like a warning bell toward him from the enigmatic people who also look like him. He returned fire, ducking low, moving like a shadow in the darkness. His thoughts were sharp. He was fast. He was better than them.
Time goes on, it was not the good timing in his broken body. His muscles began to tremble, his vision blurred, and the weight of exhaustion dragged at him. He needed a way out. Fingers trembling, his hands reached for a grenade quickly.
With a grunt, he pulled the pin and hurled it toward the advancing group. The explosion was huge, a blast of heat and force wave knocked him out so that he couldn't even stand a chance.
Boomm!
Then_slience
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the cold alley; instead, he was lying on a floor in a room that looked like a hospital setting. (especially a psychiatric hospital)
The weapon in his hand—the life-saving instrument he had gripped with such focused desperation—was also no longer a real steel, hard gun. It had transformed into a cheap, bright-orange plastic toy that children used to play with. His tight black suit, soaked with rain and blood just moments before, had vanished, replaced by a blue-striped, baggy pajama set that felt loose and ridiculous. The entire dramatic landscape of his fight—the bullets, the rain, the fear—all seemed to have vanished.
And suddenly, a nurse stood beside him, her expression calm, her voice was gentle but firm.
It's time to go to bed, Lax
He frowned, bewildered, and said "Do you know me? Who are you?"
The nurse smiled—a polite, distant smile. "Just rest," she said softly. "Everything will be fine."
As she turned to leave, he lay back against the pillows, struggling to make sense of what had happened. The rain, the fight, the explosion. It all felt so real. Yet here he was, in a quiet and sterile room. It was like waking from a dream that still clung to the edges of his mind.
And as his eyes drifted shut, the dream returned.
Images surged through his mind. He was no longer in a hospital bed. Now he stood in strange places, his body transforming with each passing moment.
First, he was a sharp-eyed undercover agent again, standing in the middle of a chaotic city street. Sirens wailed. Bullets flew past him. His grip tightened on the gun. The badge pressed against his chest. He knew this role. Or thought he did. But something was off. He couldn't remember how he got there or why.
The scene shifted.
Now, he stood before a towering castle, mist swirling around its base. A staff crackled with magical energy in his grasp, the ground beneath him humming with arcane power. He was a sorcerer, but the robes felt strange, like a costume. The magic coursing through him responded to his thoughts, yet nothing he tried worked. The air grew heavy. The world trembled, as if uncertain of its own reality.
Another shift.
He was in a sleek metallic room lit with neon blue and purple. His hands were gloved, fingers flying across a glowing interface. He was a hacker, surrounded by data streams and towering skyscrapers. But the words on the holographic screen kept shifting, flickering out of sync with his commands. Something was broken. And he couldn't fix it.
Each time he began to understand who he was, the world twisted again. New roles. New identities. Soldier. Scholar. Rebel. Leader. The transitions came faster, crashing into each other like shards of broken glass. Nothing stayed. Nothing was solid. Nothing was vivid.
Well-trained agent. Magician. Scientist. A thousand versions of himself fractured across countless realities. His sense of self unraveled with each passing second.
Then—everything went dark.
The world vanished. No sound. No light.
Only silence.
His thoughts spun wildly in the void, but there was nothing to hold on to. Every reality, every identity, slipped through his grasp like water.
And just before consciousness faded, one desperate question echoed through his mind:
Who am I?