Darkness.
Then pain.
And finally—a cry.
My cry.
What is happening? Panic bloomed like ink in water as his consciousness clawed its way out of the void. A second ago I was in my apartment... studying for the medical exam. And now...
Blinding lights. A chorus of excited voices. Shapes moving, pulling, wrapping.
"It's a boy!" a woman's voice exclaimed in a language he understood, yet felt... distant. Unfamiliar in tone. Too crisp. Too real.
Wait—Asian? He looks Asian? But I was in—
A wave of sensation crashed over him. Cold air. Warm cloth. The weight of being held.
"Congratulations, Mizutani-san. A healthy, strong child."
Through the haze of newborn vision, he saw her: a woman with soft features and tired eyes. Blue like glacier water. She was crying—but smiling. Her arms trembled slightly as she cradled him close.
"Ren," she whispered against his tiny head. "Our little Ren."
Ren? Who is— The thought evaporated.
A man approached. Tall, built like someone who knew how to survive. His gaze was gentle, but alert—always watching. Then his forehead tilted just slightly, and the room shrank.
Metal. Engraved. Familiar.
A forehead protector. Four stylized waves.
No...
His breath—or what passed for breath in this infant form—caught.
That symbol... I've seen it a hundred times.
Kirigakure.The Village Hidden in the Mist.
A jolt of primal terror surged through him, disconnecting thought from breath, logic from body. Of all the places... Of all the hellscapes he could've been reborn into—
Why here?
Outside the delivery room, past the steamed-up window, lay a fog so dense it seemed to press against the glass like a living thing. It curled and shifted. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
"A beautiful newborn," murmured one of the attendants.
"His eyes... they look so..." another began, hesitating.
"Aware," the first finished. Soft. Uneasy.
The man—his father, apparently—stiffened just enough for a trained eye to catch. The mother clutched him tighter, her heart beating faster.
What is this? What's happening? Am I still dreaming?
But no matter how hard he tried to force himself awake, the sensations persisted. The smells. The sounds. The weight of breath and skin and heartbeat.
He knew that symbol. He knew the history.This is the Bloody Mist.This is where children were made into weapons. Where the strong survived, and the weak—
"It's very quiet for a newborn," someone commented.
Stay calm, he told himself, forcing his body to slacken. Blend in. Figure it out later.
His eyelids fluttered. He let his breathing slow. He became still.
Sleep began to take him again—real this time. Thick and slow and heavy like the fog outside. But before it fully claimed him, one last thought lingered, fragile and sharp.
Please... let this be just a dream.
Outside the window, the mist thickened. Swallowing the world in silence. And hiding, just for now, the storm to come.
[ Hi there, this is my first post, if you can leave some powerstone, it helps me to grow and improve the quality]