Mark reopened his eyes, and the world slapped him in 4K.

  White light — vicious, the kind of sun that clearly had a personal grudge against his retinas.

  The air was cold, sharp, laced with the smell of old ashes and someone who’d tried to cook and failed spectacularly.

  He pushed up on one elbow, and the first coherent thought hit him like a truck:

  Holy hell. I have abs.

  Not “a little definition.”

  Real abs — the motivational-reel kind you scroll past while eating cereal straight from the box.

  Arms fuller, shoulders broader, back that — for once — didn’t crack like a bag of chips opened sideways.

  It was as if someone had force-downloaded two years of gym life straight into his body overnight.

  Cool.

  Also terrifying as hell.

  He looked down at his clothes, and the panic leveled up again.

  A cream-colored linen shirt, open collar with leather ties instead of buttons, sleeves rolled and actually filled out by his new arms.

  A short, worn black leather vest with a scratched silver buckle that looked like it had a tragic backstory.

  Black pants, fitted but flexible, made of some heavy fabric that felt like wool but moved like expensive joggers.

  Low boots, practical, reinforced soles.

  He looked like he’d walked off a Pinterest board titled “dark academia, but make it menacing.”

  In the middle of the clearing sat a classic campfire stone ring.

  Ash still warm.

  A lazy ribbon of smoke curled up like it was saying “morning, loser.”

  Mark stood up.

  His legs held better than they ever had in nineteen years of couch warfare.

  His brain, though, was still blue-screening.

  Okay. Either I’m dreaming, or that muffin was the worst thing I’ve eaten since that absinthe in high school.

  Then he heard it.

  A sob.

  Short, choked.

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  Followed by a muffled curse and another, louder sob.

  A woman’s voice.

  Broken, terrified… but with that specific edge — the kind that sounds ready to roast you even while crying.

  Mark headed toward the sound without really deciding to.

  Because honestly, anything was better than standing alone with his brand-new abs and zero answers.

  He pushed through ferns and low branches.

  And saw her.

  Kneeling in a shallow stream, water soaking her skirt, hands clenched on her thighs like she was trying to stop the shaking.

  And—holy hell.

  She looked like the exact reason you stop scrolling at 3 a.m. and hate your life choices.

  Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.

  Dark hair plastered everywhere, big eyes shiny with tears, trembling lips.

  A white silk outfit shot through with silver threads, soaked to the knees, torn slightly on one side.

  She was crying quietly, muttering half-sentences between sobs.

  “...this can’t be happening… this can’t be real… damn it…”

  Mark took a step. A branch cracked.

  Her head snapped up. Wide, terrified eyes, red from crying.

  Time froze for one solid second.

  Then she spoke, voice cracked but sharp.

  “You… you’re real?”

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  “Tell me you’re real. Please.”

  Mark opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  Because right then his brain was stuck in a two-track loop:

  I’m dead and this is heaven, but the Wi-Fi is down.

  If I keep staring at her like this, I’m gonna need a lawyer.

  He swallowed hard, tried to look at her face, failed for half a second, then managed.

  “I… think so?” he croaked.

  She stared at him like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

  And for the first time since waking up, Mark felt something worse than panic.

  He felt responsible.

  She rose slowly from the water, still shaking, but with her eyes locked on his.

  “Mark.”

  The name came out soft, trembling — like saying it might make the whole thing real.

  Mark stepped back; the branch cracked under his boot like a gunshot.

  “How the hell do you know my name?”

  She wiped her eyes, sniffed, and looked at him with something between disbelief and recognition.

  “It’s me.”

  A sob broke the sentence in half. “It’s… Anton. Mark, it’s Anton.”

  The world tilted hard.

  Mark blinked. His brain tried to make the connection and tripped over its own feet.

  “...what?”

  “Hold it right there,” he snapped, voice shaking. “Proof. You prove it.”

  She stared at him, then gave a broken grin through the tears.

  “I know your name, idiot.”

  “Anyone could know that.”

  “You’ve always been a paranoid pain in the ass.”

  He hesitated, mind scrambling.

  She muttered, “What a pain…” and then smirked through the tears.

  “And since when do you talk this smoothly to a hot girl, nerd?”

  Mark glanced at his chest for a split second, then back up.

  “Since I got abs, apparently.”

  She gave a shaky laugh that cracked into a sob, one hand pressed to her mouth.

  Then she breathed — a long, trembling inhale — and wiped her eyes again.

  “I can’t believe this,” she whispered. “Less than you think, asshole.”

  The brief absurdity flickered, then died.

  Her eyes clouded again; she looked down, hugging herself as tears welled anew.

  The fear hadn’t left — it was just trying to breathe under the humor.

  ---

  The forest held its breath.

  Silence — thick, real.

  Mark’s instincts screamed.

  “Something’s here,” he said quietly. “Close.”

  The warning came a heartbeat too late.

  A shape dropped from above — not just muscle and rage, but something wrong. Its skin shimmered like oil on water, shifting colors with the light. Eyes too many. Teeth like splintered glass. It smelled of wet stone and old blood.

  Mark hit the ground hard, the air punched out of his lungs.

  The first blow cracked across his face — white flash, hot blood, ringing ears.

  Another hit to the temple — the world doubled, then quadrupled.

  And then—

  A pulse in his chest. Hot, electric.

  For an instant before the next strike, he felt something coil under his skin, humming, alive.

  The third punch never landed.

  A roar — not from a throat, but from the air itself — burst around them.

  Something invisible slammed into the attacker, hurling it backward into a tree with a bone-snapping thud.

  Silence.

  Mark lay there, staring at the spinning sky, blood pouring from his nose.

  Then he heard her screaming.

  “MARK! HELP!”

  He pushed himself up, vision swimming.

  The creature was on top of her — pinning her down, ripping at her torn clothes.

  She kicked, screamed, fought — terrified.

  Something in Mark snapped.

  A surge of heat, electric and raw, erupted from him like a pulse.

  The shockwave hit the beast square in the chest, sending it flying into the trees.

  It hit a trunk and crumpled.

  Still.

  Mark staggered toward her, blood dripping from his nose.

  She sat there, trembling, clutching her torn clothes around herself.

  “...is he dead?” she whispered.

  “I think so,” Mark answered, voice thick.

  “I think isn’t good enough,” she snapped weakly. “Check.”

  He approached the body — neck bent at an impossible angle, eyes open, no breath.

  Dead. Probably.

  But a thought clawed at him: What if death doesn’t work the same here?

  He shook his head and went back to her.

  Antea — that’s what he’d call her now, because “pseudo-Anton” wasn’t cutting it anymore — was sitting in the grass, still shaking.

  Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “He… he touched me. This body. It’s not mine, Mark. It’s not mine.”

  Mark didn’t know what to say.

  His best friend — trapped in a woman’s body that someone had just tried to hurt.

  He didn’t know what counted anymore.

  Only that she was beautiful — even broken, dirty, terrified.

  Beautiful enough that it hurt.

  And for the first time since he’d swallowed that damn muffin, Mark felt something new:

  Guilt.

  Desire.

  And rage.

  All tangled together in a knot tighter than the blood in his throat.