Darkness. Again.
It was becoming a pattern I didn't appreciate—being swallowed by nothingness, my consciousness floating somewhere between a dream and a void. The last thing I remembered was that blinding light, that voice calling itself Nika, the promise of freedom dangling in front of me like a carrot. And then… nothing.
But this darkness felt different. Warmer. Tighter. Like I was wrapped in something soft and suffocating all at once. I tried to move, to stretch my arms like I'd done a thousand times before in my old life when waking up from a bad night on a park bench. But my limbs wouldn't obey. They felt useless, floppy, like they weren't attached to my brain at all.
What the hell?
I tried again, focusing all my willpower into my right arm. Nothing. Just a pathetic little twitch that probably wouldn't have moved a feather. Panic started to creep into my chest, that familiar tightness I knew so well from years of waking up in alleyways or shelters, disoriented and afraid.
Then I heard voices. Muffled, like they were coming through water.
"He's so small…" A woman's voice. Soft, trembling, full of something I'd rarely heard directed at me. Wonder. Love, maybe. "Look at his little fingers."
"Ma'am, would you like to hold him?" Another voice, professional and calm. A doctor, probably.
I felt myself being lifted. The warmth intensified, and suddenly I was pressed against something soft and warm—a chest, a heartbeat. My eyes, which I hadn't even realized were closed, fluttered open against my will.
And I saw her.
A woman with tired eyes and dark circles that told stories of sleepless nights. Her hair was messy, plastered to her forehead with sweat. She looked exhausted, drained, like she'd just run a marathon. But when she looked down at me, her whole face transformed. A smile broke through the fatigue, so genuine and pure that it made something in my chest ache.
Is this… my mother?
I tried to speak, to ask her who she was, to tell her I was scared and confused and didn't understand what was happening. But all that came out was a pathetic gurgling noise, like a dying frog.
She laughed—a tired, breathy laugh—and hugged me closer. "He's perfect," she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. "Absolutely perfect."
I wanted to cry. Not because I was sad, but because this was the first time in my entire existence—both lives—that anyone had looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn't a burden or a mistake. Like I was wanted.
But the tears wouldn't come. My body didn't know how to work yet.
"He's not crying," the doctor observed, a note of concern creeping into his voice. "That's… unusual. Newborns usually cry. It helps clear their lungs."
I felt my mother tense. "Is something wrong? Is he okay?"
"I'm sure it's fine," the doctor said quickly, but I could hear the hesitation. "Sometimes babies take a moment. Let's just give him a minute."
I lay there in her arms, staring up at her face, trying to memorize every detail. Her nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken before. She had a small mole above her lip. Her eyes were the color of warm tea, and they crinkled at the corners when she smiled. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with conventional standards and everything to do with the kindness radiating off her.
"I'm going to name you Suon," she said softly, her finger tracing my cheek. "It means 'simple' in my grandmother's language. Because sometimes the simplest things are the most precious." She paused, her smile wavering. "My little Suon. My little miracle."
I didn't understand why she was calling me a miracle. I didn't feel like one. I felt like a fraud, a thirty-year-old soul stuffed into a day-old body, pretending to be something I wasn't.
But I let her hold me. I let her rock me. And for the first time in a long, long time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this second chance could be different.
---
The first few weeks were torture.
Not the kind of torture I was used to—the gnawing hunger, the biting cold, the loneliness that ate at your bones like a disease. No, this was a new kind of hell. I was trapped in a body that couldn't crawl, couldn't speak, couldn't even hold its own head up. Every time I tried to communicate, all that came out was babble and spit. Every time I tried to move with purpose, my limbs flopped around like a fish out of water.
This is what I get for wishing for freedom, I thought bitterly, lying in my crib and staring at the mobile above me. A stupid mobile with little plastic stars that spun around and around, mocking me. Freedom to lie here and crap myself. Great job, Suon. Really winning at life.
But there were good moments. More good moments than I'd ever had in my first life.
My mother—Betta, I learned from hearing the nurses call her that—was always there. She'd hold me for hours, singing lullabies in a voice that was slightly off-key but so full of love it didn't matter. She'd tell me about her day, about the heroes she saw on the news, about her dreams for me.
"I want you to be whatever you want to be," she said one night, rocking me in the dim light of the nursery. "Hero, doctor, artist, or just a good person. It doesn't matter. As long as you're happy. As long as you're free."
I almost choked on my own spit when she said that word. Free. Did she know? Could she somehow sense what Nika had promised me?
No, that was ridiculous. She was just a woman with a good heart, saying the right things to her newborn son. But still… I clung to those words like a lifeline.
My father, Kenji, was a different story.
I first met him properly when I was three days old. He burst into the hospital room like a storm, all broad shoulders and heavy footsteps, his face a mixture of excitement and something darker—anxiety, maybe, or fear. He rushed to my mother's bedside, kissed her forehead, and then turned to me.
He didn't smile.
He just… stared. His eyes were hard, assessing, like he was sizing me up. I stared back, my infant eyes probably looking wide and unfocused, but inside my head, I was screaming.
What? What do you want from me?
"He's quiet," Kenji finally said, his voice gruff. "The doctors said he hasn't cried once. That's not normal, is it?"
Betta's smile tightened. "He's just a calm baby. There's nothing wrong with that."
"I'm not saying there's something wrong." Kenji ran a hand through his messy black hair. "I'm just saying… I want him to be strong. My son needs to be strong. This world eats the weak alive."
I wanted to laugh. I'd been weak my whole first life—weak and hungry and desperate—and the world had chewed me up and spat me out. I knew exactly what he meant.
"Give him time," Betta said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "He's only a few days old. He'll grow into himself."
Kenji nodded, but he didn't look convinced. He looked at me again, and this time I caught something in his eyes—disappointment? No, not quite. It was more like… fear. Fear that I wouldn't live up to whatever impossible standard he'd set in his head.
I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. It was easier than dealing with the weight of his expectations.
---
Months passed. The world outside my tiny bubble kept moving, but I was stuck in the slowest, most frustrating version of existence possible. I learned to recognize the patterns of my new life: Betta's gentle hands feeding me, the constant hum of the city outside our apartment, the occasional explosion from a villain attack that made the windows rattle.
And slowly, painfully, I started to test my limits.
The first time I tried to move my arm with purpose, I was four months old. I focused every ounce of my willpower, picturing my hand reaching for the rattle on the edge of my crib. My arm twitched, flopped, and finally—finally—moved a few inches.
It wasn't much. It was pathetic, really. But it was mine. My control. My progress.
"You're so determined," Betta laughed, watching me from the doorway. "Already trying to grab things? You're going to be a handful, aren't you?"
I gurgled in response, which was the closest I could get to saying, You have no idea, damn woman.
But the most surprising thing happened when I was about ten months old. I was lying on the living room floor, staring at the ceiling, when Betta turned on the TV. Some hero show was playing—a documentary about All Might's latest rescue operation. The screen showed the Symbol of Peace punching through a collapsing building, his face split in that iconic smile, saving dozens of people with a single strike.
Something stirred in my chest. A warmth, a pulse, a rhythm that didn't match my heartbeat. It was faint, barely there, but I felt it.
Nika, the sun god. Luffy always said he felt and heard the drums like his own whenever he was at his true free self, and I soon realised that maybe it's similar to mine aswell.
I tried to focus on it, to pull it closer, to understand what it was. My arm twitched again, but this time it didn't just flop. It… stretched. Just a little. Just enough that I saw my fingers move further than they should have, like they were made of rubber instead of bone, and my soul stopped for a moment.
I stopped breathing.
Did I just—?
I tried again, reaching for the TV, desperate to replicate whatever had just happened. But nothing came. The warmth faded, the rhythm quieted, and my arm returned to normal.
"Suon? What's wrong?" Betta leaned over me, her brow furrowed with concern. "Are you okay?"
I stared at my hand, my heart racing. It had happened. Even if it was just for a split second, even if I couldn't do it again, it had happened.
Nika's power. It's real. It's inside me.
I wanted to scream with joy, but all that came out was a happy little gurgle that made Betta sigh with relief.
"You're such a strange child," she murmured, picking me up and cradling me against her chest. "But I love you anyway. I love you more than anything."
I snuggled into her warmth, feeling the beat of her heart against my ear, and made a silent promise to myself.
I made a promise to myself that I will figure this out. I'll unlock every piece of this power. And when I do, I'll make sure you never have to worry about anything ever again, Mom. I swear it.
---
By the time I turned one, I'd learned to walk—poorly, with lots of stumbling and falling—and I'd learned to say a few words. "Mama" was first, which made Betta cry happy tears. "Dada" came next, which made Kenji grin so wide I thought his face would split.
But the power? The stretching, the rubbery sensation, the drumbeat in my chest? It remained stubbornly out of reach. I could feel it, like a muscle I couldn't quite flex, but I couldn't activate it again. Not reliably, anyway.
Sometimes, when I was frustrated or sad, I'd try to reach for something just a little too far away, and my arm would twitch strangely. But it never stretched like that first time. It was like Nika had given me a key to a door I couldn't find.
"I hate this," I muttered one night, lying in my crib after Betta had put me to bed. "I finally get a second chance, and I'm still useless. Still trapped. Still alone."
But I wasn't alone, was I? Betta, still getting used to calling her Mom, was in the next room. My sisters—three girls I'd barely interacted with—were asleep in their own beds. Even Kenji, distant as he was, came home every night and at least pretended to care.
This life was different. Better. Harder in some ways, because I could see all the love I'd missed out on in my first life and feel it slipping through my fingers like sand.
Focus, I told myself, closing my eyes and trying to feel that drumbeat again. Just focus. One day at a time. One movement at a time. I've waited my whole first life for something good to happen. I can wait a little longer.
And somewhere, deep in the recesses of my soul, I heard a faint laugh. Not Betta's laugh, not Kenji's, but something older, wilder, freer.
I smiled in the darkness and let sleep take me.
Tomorrow would bring new struggles, new frustrations, new tiny victories. But tonight, I was okay. Tonight, I was loved for the first time in my existence.
And that was more than I'd ever dared to hope for.