Dr. Patrick Graham had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. Every calculation, every simulation, every sleepless night had led him here. The laboratory's mirror-lined test chamber hummed with electricity, reflecting the cold glow of instruments and the soft pulse of a miniature particle accelerator at its center. Compact, precise, and impossibly dangerous, it was the culmination of years of obsession.
Hydrogen would have been safe. Predictable. Boring. But Patrick didn't want safe. He wanted impossible. Tachyons—unstable, theoretical, forbidden. Every physicist on Earth had warned against tampering with them, and yet here he was, standing on the edge of the unknown.
"Patrick, if you activate that thing with tachyons, you might as well climb into a coffin," Dr. Lee had warned that morning. Her hands trembled, a tablet clutched tightly against her chest. "Spacetime reacts violently to tachyonic compression. Magnetic fields alone won't contain them. You can't do this."
He had felt guilt. Brief, fleeting. Then it vanished. Progress demanded risk. Obsession demanded risk. Curiosity demanded risk.
He stepped closer to the accelerator. Sweat dampened his palms, and his fingers trembled as they hovered over the smooth switches and dials. The metallic tang of ozone filled his nostrils, mingled with the faint, acrid scent of heated circuits. He could hear the soft hum of the machinery vibrating through the floor, through the walls, through him.
Every light blink, every faint click of a dial, every whir of the accelerator made his heart pound faster. He pictured Dr. Lee's terrified face, the warnings of colleagues, the skeptical murmurs at conferences. Every warning that he had ignored flashed in his mind like lightning. But beneath all that fear, beneath every calculation, there was only one feeling: an intoxicating thrill.
"Computer," he whispered, voice tight with anticipation, "begin energy cycling for tachyon injection."
The machine responded immediately. A low whir became a symphony of clicks and hums. Lights flickered along the circular frame. A faint breeze stirred his coat as the containment field activated, humming with barely restrained energy.
Patrick's chest tightened. This was it. Decades of research, countless sleepless nights, every sacrificed meal and friendship had led him to this moment. If he succeeded… he would redefine physics.
A soft blue glow began radiating from the accelerator's core. The air itself seemed to vibrate, alive with energy that should not exist. Patrick's chest tightened as the glow expanded, a living pulse in the chamber. Tachyons. He was holding tachyons. Against all theory, against all logic.
He leaned closer, examining the readouts. They flickered like tiny stars, numbers dancing on the screen. One minute passed. Two. Patrick's grin widened. Three minutes. Containment held. His calculations were correct. His theory… was flawless.
Then the hum faltered.
An alarm chirped sharply.
Patrick's stomach dropped. Readouts spiraled into the red. Energy levels exceeded safe limits. "No… stay stable. Come on," he muttered, lunging for the console. Another alarm shrieked, louder this time. The circular frame shuddered violently. Mirrors rattled, clanging like teeth. Panic prickled at the back of his neck, but he ignored it.
"Manual shutoff!" he shouted, tools clattering across the floor.
It was too late. The tachyons had slipped free.
Lightning-blue arcs danced across the chamber, painting the walls in surreal, electric streaks. The air thickened, pressing against him as reality bent and warped. Patrick froze. Critical mass. He should have panicked. He should have run. Instead, he watched, fascinated and horrified.
"Nonononono—!"
The pulse erupted. Not outward. Not contained. Everywhere. Mirrors warped. The chamber convulsed, folding inward and outward at once. Dark matter twisted around him, crushing, stretching, tearing the very air. Every nerve screamed. His body stretched, dissolved, became something unrecognizable. He could hear himself screaming—but it was layered, multiplied, echoing into infinity.
And then… nothing.
---
Patrick woke with a sharp, ragged gasp.
The world was wrong. Quiet. Dim. Cold. No hum of machinery, no metallic tang, no faint ozone. Only damp earth, the scent of pine, and the lingering smell of wet stone.
He tried to move. Pain shot through every limb. Arms and legs trembled, alien and weak. Then he felt it—a cold, cruel weight.
Chains.
Iron shackles bit into his flesh, around his neck and ankles. Panic flared. He tried to rise, but the chains held him tight, each motion sending waves of agony through his body.
Water pooled nearby. Patrick's gaze fell to it. A puddle. His reflection stared back. Hollow eyes. Sharp cheekbones. A body pale, thin, starved, fragile.
Transmigration. The word tore itself from his throat, impossible and undeniable. He was trapped in a body not his own. Weak. Vulnerable. Enslaved.
Movement behind him made him snap his head around.
A woman stood in the doorway. Her lips twisted into a cruel, satisfied smirk. She ignored the bucket that tipped water across the floor and let it puddle around him. Her eyes glittered as they fell on him, chained and broken.
"You're awake," she said, voice sharp and mocking. "We wondered if you'd last. Truthfully… we were just going to throw you to the dogs."
Patrick's stomach dropped. His mouth opened, but no sound came. Legs that already trembled beneath him gave way entirely. Pain shot through his body as he collapsed forward, chains clinking loudly against the stone floor.
The woman laughed, a low, cruel sound. She leaned forward, eyes glinting. "But it seems you're stubborn enough to survive for now. Not that it will do you any good. You'll see soon enough what happens to the weak."
Patrick tried to flex his hands, trying to move, trying to rise, but the chains held him fast. He was trapped, powerless. Every instinct screamed: fight, run, survive—but his body, alien and fragile, refused him.
His mind raced. He thought of his lab, the tachyon experiment, Dr. Lee's warnings. How had it ended like this? He had survived the explosion—only to awaken in a body that could barely support itself, in a world where cruelty ruled, and danger waited at every corner.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him again was her smirk, watching, waiting, ensuring that his first taste of this new world was terror and humiliation.
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