It was strange to think about, how I had been born into this family and this life. I remembered dying. I remembered everything. There was no soft transition, no gentle fade to black. One moment I was gone, and the next I was here—tiny, helpless, screaming. A fresh start that didn't feel fresh at all.
Two months passed .
I couldn't do anything but lay in my crib, observe, think. And I did a lot of thinking. My name was Samuel Shore now, apparently. Born into a small American village tucked in Colorado. My father—a tall man in his mid-twenties with messy brown hair and sharp green eyes—always had a calm, grounded energy. My mother was his opposite: short, vibrant blonde hair, and wide blue eyes that sparkled when she laughed. They didn't seem to have any secrets, at least none that I could sense, which was a relief. That was new.
The colors in this world were brighter. People moved in ways that reminded me of choreography, like every expression was a bit too clear, every gesture a bit too perfect. I paid attention to things people never noticed—how light shifted in rooms, how emotions played on faces in microseconds. It was like seeing the world through a different lens. A sharper one.
four years and ten months time skip.
Five years now.
The charade I called my life was starting to settle into a rhythm. I was a small blond boy with green eyes, and—if I'm being honest—I thought I was too much. Too much attention. Too many compliments. Adults constantly cooed about how smart or cute I was. I hated it. I just wanted to be left alone.
Out of curiosity, I tried looking up my old family. Nothing. As if they never existed. That was when the sinking realization hit—I wasn't just reborn. I was moved. Different world. Different rules. The void-thing, whatever it was, had tossed me into a reality stitched together by strange versions of the world I kind of recognized—but not quite. Close enough to feel familiar. Different enough to be unsettling.There were some tv shows i remember coming out around this time but nothing.The news was also different added with some names of companies i don't recongnise
Then came my fifth birthday.
That night, as I drifted to sleep, I felt it again. the nothing came back.
The void.
Not quite the same as the first time—but close. Same sense of nothingness stretching in all directions. But now it felt... theatrical.
There it was.
a wheel.
Big, flashy, spinning on its own axis with stupidly bright colors like a carnival ride from hell. Next to it, in barely legible handwriting, was a glowing message:
"Ugh. I have to write this only because you won this prize by spinning the previous time. Every year you get 1 spin of random characters. Have fun..."
Of course it was the weird void-thing.
I sighed, stepped up, and spun the damn thing.
It spun.
Same chaotic colors, same stupidly dramatic pace, like it thought this was supposed to be exciting. Click. Click. Click… slowing down now…
And then it stopped.
"Shirt from Jesse Pinkman."
I blinked.
Then I squinted.
And then I said, flatly, "What the actual hell?"
Out of nowhere, a shirt floated down from the void-sky like it was some sacred treasure. Only—it wasn't. Not even close.
Oversized. Filthy. Neon green and purple, with some kind of cartoon skull melting off the front. It looked like it hadn't seen a washing machine since the Bush administration. It smelled like fast food wrappers and weed.
"This is a prize?" I muttered, disgusted. "This is the thing I get? Really?"
Another flickering message popped up:
"Until here is it good then i want you to stop and let me continue."
I waited.
The wheel didn't disappear.
And then it hit me.
Below it: "4 spins remaining."
I laughed. That bastard gave me late spins.
Spin two: an umbrella.
Spin three: Cooking skills: Gordon Ramsay.
I stared at the wheel, then slowly turned to the side and muttered, "I guess I can cook now."
Spin four: Oliver Queen Physical.
I paused.
"Oliver Queen—is that the Arrow guy? Who the fuck uses arrows?"
Still, something shifted. My body tingled, like something quiet had changed.
Spin five: a comb.
I just stared at it. A plastic comb floated down like it was some divine artifact. I caught it in my hand and held it up like it meant something.
"This was a weird birthday."
The void shimmered, gently pulling me into sleep.
Then I woke up.
First thing I noticed? The weird taste in my mouth.
It was... too much. Too sharp. Too everything. And then I realized—Gordon Ramsay.
He didn't just teach cooking. He tastes everything. No wonder he's always yelling on those shows.
Over the next couple of months, I tried figuring out what the Oliver Queen upgrade meant.
I expected maybe some crazy fighting skills to just kick in. But no. Nothing instant.
What I did notice? My reflexes were freakishly good. I could catch things mid-air without looking. My aim was scary accurate. I could throw things perfectly, even across a room. My parents thought it was impressive. I thought it was... boring.
No rooftop parkour. No abs. No green hood. Just sharper senses, better movement, and some kind of instinct with bows and targets.
So yeah.
Time moved on.