"Reflections of a Stranger"

When Ren's parents left the room, Ren instinctively pressed his hand against his chest, he felt a raised texture, a void he never felt before. The room was empty, and so Ren didn't hesitate to lift off his hospital gown, just to realize an "X" carved in the middle of his chest. Ren froze. The heart monitor's beep accelerated sharply, echoing his rising panic.

The scar looked angry, a jagged cross of pale, raised skin that seemed centuries old, yet he knew it hadn't been there yesterday. As the monitor's beep-beep-beep grew into a frantic alarm, Ren’s eyes darted to the mirror on the far wall.

It wasn't just the chest.

In the reflection, his dark hair didn't just look black anymore. Every time he moved his head, a faint, toxic green shimmer danced through the strands, like a glitch in a digital screen. He looked like a photo that had been edited poorly, a person who didn't quite belong in the frame.

A sudden knock at the door made him jump.

"Ren? Is everything okay in there? The station's acting up," a nurse called out from the hallway.

He scrambled to pull the gown back over his head, his fingers fumbling with the fabric. He had to hide it. He didn't know why, but a primal instinct told him that if they saw the 'X'—if they saw the green in his hair—the "miracle" would end, and the nightmare would truly begin.

"I'm fine!" he shouted back, his voice cracking. "I just... I just tripped over the IV line."

Ren stood in the silence of the room, the air suddenly feeling too heavy. He stripped away the gown again, his breath hitching in his throat. He needed to prove to himself that his eyes were lying—that the trauma of the accident had simply fractured his mind.

But the mirror didn't lie.

He remembered his old self with painful clarity: a lanky, average teenager with a frame as thin as paper. He had been the kind of kid who disappeared into the background, with a soft, boyish face and a build that lacked even a hint of definition.

The person staring back at him now was a stranger.

His shoulders had broadened significantly, tapering down into a sharp **Y-shaped silhouette** that spoke of power and discipline he had never possessed. His torso was lean but densely packed with muscle; his **abs were chiseled and defined**, rippling with every shallow breath he took. Even his skin felt different—healthier, tighter, clinging to a frame that looked like it had been sculpted by Japanese genetics at their peak.

He didn't look like a boy anymore. The roundness of his cheeks was gone, replaced by a sharp, angular jawline and a gaze that carried the weight of someone much older than seventeen. It was his dream physique—the body he had always looked at in magazines or athletes and wished for—but seeing it here, gifted to him in the wake of a massacre, made his skin crawl.

It wasn't just a recovery. It was an **upgrade**.

He traced the 'X' carved into the center of this new, athletic chest. The scar sat like a brand in the middle of his newfound strength. He looked at his hands; they were larger, steadier, and when he flexed them, he could feel a foreign, restless energy humming beneath the surface.

This body was built for something. Something far more violent than the life of a student in a sunny city.

A terrifying thought crossed his mind: if his body had been rewritten to be this perfect, what else had been changed inside him? And more importantly, who was the "Ren" that had died in the Red House? 

Standing there, half-turned toward the mirror to catch the shadow of his new silhouette, Ren felt a surge of vitality that was almost intoxicating. Just minutes ago, every breath had felt like glass in his lungs; now, he felt as if he could sprint for miles. The heavy, aching ghost of the tragedy had been replaced by a strange, humming electricity.

But then, the heavy silence of the room was shattered.

"O-oh my god! Ren?!"

The sound was sharp—a mix of a gasp and a smothered shriek. Ren froze, his heart leaping into his throat. He spun around, his hands instinctively hovering in the air, completely forgetting that he was standing there in nothing but his own skin.

Standing by the door was a girl holding a small bouquet of white lilies. He recognized her instantly. It was a voice from his "before" life—a classmate he’d shared a hundred quiet moments with, someone who had always seen him as the skinny, unassuming boy in the back of the class.

Her face went from a pale, worried white to a deep, blooming crimson in less than a second. Her eyes, wide with shock, didn't just stay on his face. They darted down, taking in the sharp lines of his new shoulders, the chiseled definition of his abs, and the raw, mysterious 'X' that marked his chest.

"I—the nurse said... she said I could come in!" she stammered, her voice jumping an octave as she dropped the flowers. The lilies hit the floor with a soft thud.

She quickly threw her hands over her eyes, but Ren could see her fingers trembling. The air in the room suddenly felt ten times hotter.

"Ren, what... what happened to you?" she whispered through her hands, her voice a mix of embarrassment and genuine confusion. "You look... different. You don't even look like yourself."

Ren scrambled for the discarded hospital gown on the floor, his face burning with a heat that rivaled hers. "Close the door! Just—turn around, please!"

As he fumbled with the ties of the gown, his mind raced. It wasn't just the embarrassment of being seen; it was the look in her eyes. Even through her shock, she had seen the truth he was trying to hide. He wasn't the Ren she knew. He was a stranger inhabiting his friend's life, and the "miracle" was already starting to crumble.