A frame that doesn't fit

The sound of retreating footsteps echoed sharply in the corridor. Ren stood frozen, the coarse fabric of the hospital gown still clutched in his hands. He heard the frantic, rhythmic click-click-click of heels—likely her friends who had been waiting nearby, now scurrying away in a mix of shock and second-hand embarrassment.

Ren felt a heat rise to his face that had nothing to do with his recovery. He was baffled. He looked back at the mirror, then at the closed door. Just a few minutes ago, he had been struggling to even draw a breath, his body feeling like a shattered vessel. Now, he felt... powerful.

He rested back on the edge of the bed, his mind a chaotic whirl of images. He thought of the "Red House," the screams, and the blood. Then he looked down at his new, sculpted physique—the Y-shaped frame, the defined abs, the strength in his arms that had never been there before. It was a dream build he hadn't worked for. It was as if his body had bypassed years of training in a single, dark instant.The door pushed open again, much more slowly this time. It was the nurse. She didn't seem to notice the tension in the air, her face set in a professional, comforting smile.

"Back in bed, I see. Good," she said, checking the monitors. "The doctor has reviewed your scans, Ren. Honestly, it’s a miracle. Aside from that scarring on your chest, you’re in perfect health. We’ll keep you for observation tonight, but you should be cleared to go home tomorrow morning."

Home. The word felt heavy."Is there anything I can provide for you, Ren? A meal? Some tea?"

Ren swallowed hard, his throat feeling tight. He didn't want food. He wanted to understand why the world felt so different, yet everyone acted like it was the same.

"Just a glass of water," Ren managed to say. "And... my phone. If it’s still in one piece."

"Of course. Your parents left it with us. I'll bring it right back."

When the door clicked shut, Ren let out a long, shaky breath. He reached out and touched the 'X' on his chest again. It felt real. The muscle beneath it felt real. He took a long, steadying look at his reflection—the sharp jawline, the older face, the 

faint emerald shimmer in his dark hair.

He was going back to school. He was going back to his childhood friend. He was going to live the life he was "supposed" to have.But as he stared at the sunny sky through the hospital window, Ren couldn't shake the feeling that he was an actor stepping onto a stage, playing a role in a play he hadn't written.

Ren stood by the hospital bed, dressing himself with movements that felt eerily precise. He pulled on the white T-shirt with the black sleeves and the star emblem in the center, layering it over the long white sleeves. It was a combination he had worn dozens of times before, but something was wrong. This shirt, which usually draped over his thin frame like an oversized hand-me-down, now clung to his chest and shoulders. The fabric was taut, tracing the muscular V-taper of his new physique.

He slid into his baggy blue jeans, the star symbols on the denim swaying as he moved, and laced up his long brown boots. Finally, he reached for the most important piece: the long green scarf with the checkered pattern. As he wrapped the wool—hand-woven by his mother—around his neck, the familiar scent of home hit him. For a moment, he felt safe.

But the safety vanished the second he stepped through the sliding glass doors of the hospital.

The outside world hit him like a physical blow. The roar of the city, the screech of bus brakes, and the glint of sunlight off passing windshields sent a jolt of pure electricity through his nerves. An unexplainable, instinctive dread clawed at his throat.

The sidewalk beneath his boots seemed to tilt.

Dizzy.

Suddenly, the vibrant street blurred. In a horrific flash—a single, sickening second—Ren looked down at his hands. They weren't holding his bag. They were torn apart, the skin shredded and dripping with a thick, dark crimson that stained his white sleeves. The smell of iron and gasoline filled his lungs, and he felt the phantom scream of metal tearing through flesh.

Ren gagged, the bile rising in his throat as he doubled over.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, it vanished.

He blinked, gasping for air. His hands were clean. The street was peaceful. A bus hummed past, its exhaust a normal, dull grey. People walked by, giving the boy in the green scarf strange looks as he clutched his stomach.

"Ren? Are you okay?" "The doctor said you might have some vertigo," she said softly, smoothing out the scarf she had made for him. "Let’s get you home, honey. You just need a good night’s sleep in your own bed."

Ren stared at her, his heart hammering against the 'X' beneath his shirt. The world looked perfect. The sun was shining. But as he got into the car, he couldn't stop looking at his palms, waiting for the blood to come back.