Marcus Vale woke up screaming.
The sound ripped out of his chest before he could understand it, a raw cry that echoed through the room as air rushed violently into his lungs. His body convulsed with the effort of breathing, the sensation overwhelming and unfamiliar. His chest expanded again and again, dragging in deep gulps of air that burned slightly as they filled his throat.
It felt wrong.
Everything felt wrong.
The world was suddenly bright—painfully bright. Light poured down from above, washing over him in a blinding haze that made it impossible to focus. Shadows moved through the glow, tall shapes shifting quickly around him.
Voices filled the room.
Excited voices.
"Congratulations!"
"He's breathing strong."
"Healthy baby."
Marcus tried to speak, but the sound that came out was another thin wail. His arms flailed uselessly in the air, the movement awkward and uncontrolled.
His arms were small.
Too small.
His hands opened and closed in front of his face, the fingers short and unfamiliar, trembling as if they belonged to someone else.
Panic stirred in his chest.
His vision struggled to focus, the world swimming in blurred colors and shifting shapes. The bright lights above him slowly softened, and the outlines of faces began to emerge.
Strangers leaned over him.
Their expressions were filled with joy.
One of them was crying.
Not the quiet grief he remembered from the hospital room.
This was different.
This was relief.
Marcus tried to move his head, but the motion felt heavy, as if his body had forgotten how to obey him. Every movement required more effort than it should have, his muscles weak and uncoordinated.
What was happening?
The last thing he remembered was sunlight across a hospital floor.
His mother's voice.
His father's hand resting on his shoulder.
Closing his eyes and waiting for the quiet stillness of death.
Instead, the world had erupted around him.
A woman leaned over him.
Her face was flushed and exhausted, strands of damp hair clinging to her forehead, but the smile she wore carried a kind of overwhelming relief Marcus had never seen before.
"My baby," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He's here."
Marcus stared at her.
Something deep inside him responded to that voice—something instinctive, something older than thought. The arms that lifted him were warm and careful, cradling him against a body that radiated steady heat.
The sensation was strangely comforting. For the first time in a very long time he felt safe.
A man stood beside the bed, staring down at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. His expression held the same kind of awe someone might have while looking up at a night sky filled with unfamiliar stars.
"He's perfect," the man said softly.
Marcus tried to process the words.
But his thoughts moved slowly, like thick fog drifting through his mind.
His body felt unfamiliar.
His voice was wrong.
His limbs were too small.
Too weak.
Marcus looked down at himself.
Tiny fingers curled weakly in the air.
The realization arrived slowly, creeping through his thoughts with terrifying clarity.
He wasn't lying in a hospital bed anymore.
He wasn't dying…
Marcus Vale had just been born.