Alone in the small room, my mind began to drift toward the future.
I'd watched a couple of seasons of The Walking Dead before, but that was a long time ago. I only remembered the major events and even those were a little fuzzy.
Ever since I arrived here, my body had been slowly changing. I could feel it—like I was getting stronger with every passing minute. Even the pain in my leg had become manageable. My hearing had sharpened, my night vision had improved, and my senses overall were becoming unnervingly acute. I could even pick up faint sounds from outside the house. My body was changing slowly to that of agent 47.
After unfastening the chain around my leg, I cautiously stood. This time, the pain was mild, just a dull, lingering ache. I took a few careful steps toward the corner of the room, where a small mirror hung on the wall.
I lifted it and stared at my reflection.
One thing stood out immediately—my bald head.
I looked like Saitama from One Punch Man.
True to the angel's words, I was in Agent 47's body but a younger version of it. Judging by my appearance, I looked around thirteen or fourteen years old. I had been burned to death when I was seventeen, so this body was three or four years younger than my original one. Thankfully, there was no barcode on the back of my head.
From downstairs, I heard faint voices. Curious, I decided to find out what was happening. Quietly, I crept toward the door, making sure not to make a sound. I turned the handle slowly, careful not to let it creak, and peeked outside.
The hallway was dim and narrow. Two doors stood opposite each other, one clearly marked as a bathroom by a faded sign, which made me assume the other led to another bedroom. Almost all the windows along the hall were barricaded with wooden planks, blocking out most of the light and casting deep shadows across the walls.
I crept down the stairs, following the faint sound of conversation. From behind the corner of a wall, I could see Ava sitting on the sofa, clearly sad. The room was dimly lit by a single lantern—the same kind as the one in my room—but it wasn't enough to brighten up the space. Combined with the barricaded windows, the atmosphere felt gloomy and suffocating.
I stayed hidden, listening carefully.
"Ava, don't be sad. Max will remember you—and he'll call you 'Mother' again, just like he used to,"
John, my father, said gently, trying to comfort her.
"Here, have a drink, honey. There's no need to be sad. We should be happy that our boy is alive."
Matthew handed her a glass of wine, hoping to distract her. Ava accepted it reluctantly.
"I am happy… it's just…" she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "You know I can't be a mother."
Matthew sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
"I've treated Max like my own son ever since he was a toddler," Ava said through trembling lips. "Every time he called me 'Mother,' my heart filled with joy. But today, when he called me 'Auntie,' I felt like I'd lost my child forever…"
She wiped her tears and let out a shaky laugh.
"I know I sound like a crazy woman… I'll go cook something for Max now."
Before she could stand, Matthew took her hand.
"Honey, we all know how much you love Max—and he loves you just as much. You've cared for him like a mother since he was a baby. I'm sure he'll remember you. Just give it time,"
he said softly.
A faint smile touched Ava's lips as she nodded.
"Thank you, honey."
With that, she headed to the kitchen on the left.
I hadn't realized that the original owner of this body—Max—used to call his aunt "Mother." No wonder she looked so heartbroken when I called her "Auntie." From now on, I'd call her "Mom," too. I didn't like seeing her sad.
It was strange, feeling sad over someone I'd only met an hour ago. I didn't understand why, but seeing her cry made something inside me ache.
Peeking around the wall again, I noticed my father's face twisted in guilt. Matthew caught sight of him and frowned.
"What's wrong with you, John? Why do you look like you just swallowed shit?"
He teased, trying to lighten the mood.
John forced a smile, but it quickly faded.
"Shut up, you idiot," he said, though his voice lacked bite. Then, after a pause, he sighed. "I was happy for a few seconds when I heard Max had lost his memory..." He took a deep breath and continued. "I thought maybe I could start over...be a better father this time. Make new memories where he remembers me as a good dad… not the one who blamed him for his mother's death. Not the father who abandoned him when he was just a toddler. Not the father who was too busy working to visit him, even when he had cancer…"
His voice cracked.
"I'm a piece of shit for feeling that way. Once again, I'm running away from my responsibilities—like a coward."
He paused for a moment, his shoulders trembling. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he added,
"You know... I was planning to kill myself after I shot him, I...."
The words hung heavily in the air. He stopped mid-sentence, his head lowering until his gaze fell to the floor. He couldn't bring himself to look at his brother.
Matthew sat silently beside him, unable to find words of comfort. Instead, he handed John the wine bottle.
"Thanks," John muttered before taking a long drink.
The room grew quiet, broken only by the soft sound of chopping coming from the kitchen. The entire house felt eerily still—three rooms in total, two upstairs and one below. The air was cold, colder than the small room I'd been staying in.
When nothing else happened, I moved toward the barricaded window. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a thick fog that made it hard to see outside. From what I could make out, we were in a suburban area—small houses, no tall buildings. That was good. Fewer people meant fewer walkers.
I hadn't killed anyone before, but I had a feeling that, if I needed to, I could.
Satisfied that there was no danger nearby, I quietly went back upstairs. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet not loudly, but enough to make me cautious.
Back in my room, I decided to rest. The place felt safe, and for the first time in a while, I was exhausted not physically, but mentally. So much had happened in the past few weeks, and I desperately needed a break.