He woke to the faint hum of sunlight filtering through thin curtains, the sheets scratchy against his skin. For a moment, he expected to hear the distant clang of machinery and the steady thrum of the petroleum platform his office, his domain. But the room was silent, filled only with the unfamiliar scent of dust and old wood.
He sat up slowly, confusion prickling at the edges of his mind.
Did I doze off at my desk again?
But as his eyes adjusted, nothing looked right. The bed was narrow, the walls lined with faded wallpaper, and the only light came from a dirty window overlooking an alley he didn't recognize.
A chill ran down his spine.
This isn't my room. This isn't even my platform.
He rose, panic simmering just beneath the surface, and began searching the small apartment. Each step made his heart pound harder. The drawers were empty, the closet held only a simple set of clothes, and there were no photos, no reminders, nothing to prove who he was or why he was here.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, desperate for something familiar. The faucet creaked as he turned it, cold water splashing into the sink. He splashed his face and looked up, hoping for comfort in the mirror.
But the face staring back at him was not his own.
He recoiled, breath catching in his chest. His reflection showed sharper features, unfamiliar eyes, hair that fell in untidy waves. He raised a trembling hand to his cheek the stranger in the glass did the same.
Suddenly, a sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes. He clutched the edge of the sink as memories not his own surged through him: a world of heroes and villains, of chaos and hope, of power beyond imagination. Names, battles, tragedies stories he'd only ever read or watched flooded his mind all at once.
Then, beneath the torrent of those foreign memories, another image forced its way into his consciousness—his own. The thunderous roar of an explosion. The acrid smell of burning fuel. A flash of blinding light, followed by the sickening crunch of metal folding in on itself. He remembered falling, his vision exploding into darkness as alarms screamed, and then… nothing.
The two streams of memory collided, and he gasped. The stranger's world and his own violent recollection merged into a single, disorienting mosaic. He felt both powerful and powerless, an intruder in his own body.
He collapsed to the floor, gasping for air as the torrent slowed and clarity began to return just enough to terrify him.
This wasn't a dream.
He was not himself.
And nothing would ever be the same.
He stumbles back toward what he now thinks of as his "room," each step heavy with the throbbing in his head. The narrow corridor stretches before him, walls stained and bare, suffused with the same stale air he woke to. He grips the doorframe, fighting the dizziness, and pushes into the small living area.
The headache pulses relentlessly, like a drumbeat echoing through his skull. He needs answers something tangible to anchor him. He scans the room, spotting a small desk with a stack of papers and a pen, a battered laptop perched on it. He moves toward it, each breath shallow, as if the air itself resists him.
He flips open the laptop. The screen flickers to life, and he squints at the login prompt. On the desk beside it, a handwritten note reads: "Grey Saito, 21. Part-time reporter, college student." His heart jolts.
Could that be him? Grey Saito, a college student, working for a newspaper part-time rather than the man he thought he was: someone who died in a catastrophic petroleum platform explosion. The memory of that explosion still lingers, raw and vivid. But what if it wasn't his fate? What if it belonged to someone else?
He forces himself to sit at the desk and opens a file on the laptop. The screen loads photos: a young man with dark hair Grey Saitosmiling in a graduation gown, then hunched over a notepad at a small press desk, interviewing a local official. The name "Grey Saito" flashes in headlines: "Student Reporter Breaks Local Crime Story," "Young Journalist Wins Award."
His reflection in the dark screen stares back at him sober, terrified, yet undeniably familiar. The ache in his head sharpens as he reads a draft article on the screen: "An explosion caused by villainous forces ripped through the coastal district, claiming one life…" A photo embedded in the article shows a blurred figure collapsing amid flames and rubble.
A cold realization settles over him: that explosion and the world it belonged to aren't his reality. The villains, the chaos, the quirk-powered destruction… it's all from a universe he once knew only through stories. This body, this world it's not his.
But the explosion that he see in his mind, the blinding light, the roar of flames, the searing pain that wasn't a part of this world. It was the memory of his own death. A final moment from his previous life, now haunting his consciousness in this new body.
He leans forward, pressing his hand to his temple as the room sways. He closes his eyes, letting the pain wash anew across his senses. Memories from his past life flood back—he was a petroleum worker, overseeing pipelines on a coastal platform. He recalls the acrid smell of gas, the hum of machinery, and then the catastrophic explosion that ended it all. The searing heat. The blinding flash. The sudden, irreversible end.
When he opens his eyes again, his vision is clearer—haunted, but determined. A wry, sarcastic smile tugs at his lips as the realization settles in:
So this is what dying feels like.
Somewhere within him lies the truth: a collision of past and present, life and death, memory and identity.
His fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitation warring with urgency. He types the name Grey Saito into the search bar, clinging to the hope that the internet will offer some clarity. As the search results begin to load, his pulse quickens—he needs to know who he is now, and who he used to be.
Because whatever this is whatever he's become—he can't move forward until he understands how a petroleum worker, claimed by a gas explosion, could wake up in an entirely different world… in an entirely different life.
Then the results appeared, and the familiar names of that fictional world stared back at him: UA High School, Quirks, Heroes, Villains—this was My Hero Academia. He was reincarned in the world of My Hero Academia.