When I opened my eyes, I saw a dimly lit room. The only source of light was a gas lantern on the table, its fla flickering as if it might go out at any mont. Still, the glow felt warm and cozy, filling the small room with an earthy scent. The soft patter of rain against the window, combined with the blanket wrapped around on the narrow bed, made feel incredibly relaxed.
Then suddenly, I beca alert, realizing I was in The Walking Dead universe. I couldn't just lie here and relax, not in a place where danger could lurk anywhere.
As I tried to get up, a sharp pain shot through my left leg, forcing a grimace. Pulling the blanket aside, I saw my leg was bandaged and worse, chained to the bed. That was bad news in a world like The Walking Dead.
Then ca an even more unsettling realization: my body was small. I was in the body of a teenager.
Those two discoveries, being injured and being a teen, made my hands tremble. When the angel said there would be a "little change to keep the balance," I never imagined this. A teen version of Agent 47, injured and helpless, how was I supposed to survive?
The thought alone made my chest tighten with panic. Then, I heard footsteps approaching from behind the door. Instinctively, I pulled the blanket over myself and pretended to sleep.
The heavy footsteps stopped at the door, which creaked open slowly. I cracked my eyes just enough to see who it was. Two n entered, both in their mid-thirties, their postures slouched and their eyes heavy with exhaustion and despair.
The one in front wore glasses and a brown shirt. His red, hollow eyes stared blankly at my "sleeping" body. The man behind him, dressed in a leather jacket, tapped his shoulder gently, trying to bring him back to reality.
"Are you… sure you want to do this, brother?" he asked quietly.
The man with the glasses didn't respond. He simply raised his arm. Seeing that, the man in the jacket looked pained and helpless, reluctantly pulling a gun from his waistband and handing it over.
"Brother, let do it," he murmured.
Still, no reply.
"If I had just gotten the dicine… I'm sorry, brother. This is my fault."
The man in glasses looked back slightly. "You can't do anything right, can you? Just leave alone with my son for a mont."
His son. My heart froze. He was talking about . Why would he want to kill his own child?
The man in the jacket hesitated. "Matthew, now!" The father barked, making him flinch. The once-cozy room suddenly felt suffocating. Lowering his head, Matthew reluctantly left, closing the door behind him.
Now, it was just and the man—my supposed father—who was about to shoot .
My heart pounded so fast I thought it would give away. My palms were slick with sweat. I didn't know what to do or say. Would he even believe if I told him I was fine?
He sat on the edge of the bed, placing the gun beside the lantern. "Forgive , son," he whispered. "But I can't watch you turn into that… monster. Don't be afraid—I'll be coming with you. Then we can finally see your mother again… in heaven."
Tears stread down his face, making his red eyes glisten. He took off his glasses and wiped them with shaking hands. I recognized that expression instantly—the look of soone who had completely lost hope.
"I wish I could have been a better father," he said softly. "I wish I'd been there when you needed . I wish I hadn't blad you… Max, my son, forgive ."
His trembling hand rested on my shoulder. After a long silence, he reached for the gun again, aiming it at with shaking hands.
"Dad, what are you doing?" I said desperately, unable to keep quiet any longer.
He froze. Seeing awake, he dropped the gun and pulled into a tight embrace, sobbing uncontrollably into my shoulder.
Monts later, he pulled back, smiling through his tears. "You're awake… and talking…" he said, his voice trembling with disbelief. He pressed a hand to my forehead, and his smile grew wider. "Even the fever's gone. This is… a miracle!"
He hugged again, tighter this ti, then quickly released , worried he might hurt . His eyes softened as he kissed my forehead. "I promise you, I'll never leave you again," he said firmly.
"Your aunt and uncle will be so happy to hear this good news! Wait here—I'll go get them."
Grabbing the gun, he hurried out of the room.
Finally alone, I could think clearly.
So, my na was Max. These people were my family—and they thought I'd been dying from sickness. That's why I was chained to the bed. They were preparing to… put down.
From the looks of it, the original Max had died—and I had taken his place. The thought made uneasy, but I accepted it, vowing to treat his family as my own.
Once I confird the house was safe, my thoughts turned to the future. I had no mories of the original Max. What would I say if they began to suspect sothing?
And what tiline was I even in? From what I could tell, the infection had already spread—but I didn't know how long it had been. There was no point worrying about that now; I'd figure it out eventually.
For the mont, the problem of my missing mories was what I needed to focus on.
Outside the door, I heard several footsteps approaching. I took a deep breath and braced myself for what was coming next.
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