Rebirth

In a dimly lit bedroom adorned with cracked coffee-colored walls, a fragile silhouette lay cocooned under a thick, rumpled comforter.

This figure was Tyla White, a young woman whose delicate features were softened by the tousled strands of her long black hair, which spilled across the pillow like ink across a canvas. Her small face, framed by the dark locks, bore the flush of her rosy cheeks, hinting at a tender youthfulness that felt stark against the unsettling frown etched across her brow.

As she stirred in her troubled sleep, it was clear that whatever dreams haunted her were distressing, painting shadows across her serene complexion.

The gentle trill of birds chirping outside began to weave its way into her awareness, their melodies mingling with the warm sunlight that streamed through the sheer curtain, softly illuminating the room. It was a tranquil morning, but this peace was abruptly interrupted by a disconcerting mechanical buzzing that filled the air: "bind…atte…mp..b..ind.."

Startled awake, Tyla's heart raced, panic tightening its grip around her chest. "Did I die? Am I in heaven?" Her thoughts spiraled in a chaotic dance, filling her with confusion and dread.

A familiar sensation washed over her—this place felt hauntingly reminiscent of another time in her life, a detail that sparked a flicker of recognition in her mind. "Why does this room seem so familiar?"

In a rush of urgency, she threw off the comforter and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting upright as disorientation gripped her.

Her breath came in uneven bursts as she took in her surroundings with wide, bewildered eyes. To her right, a sturdy wooden cupboard stood against the wall, its surface marred by stains from years of use—a silent witness to her past. In front of her, the nightstand was a chaotic collage of half-read books, empty mugs, and forgotten trinkets, each item a fragment of memories that felt both familiar and distant. Behind her, the bed lay in disarray, its sheets crumpled and tangled, as if mirroring the turmoil in her mind.

Driven by a mix of anxiety and an insatiable need for answers, Tyla rushed over to the window and tugged back the curtain, letting in a flood of daylight. Outside, the world appeared vibrant and alive—a sunlit street lined with ordinary homes, where neighbors greeted each other with friendly waves and children played among the rustling leaves. The simple beauty of it all struck her, yet an unsettling sensation lingered in her chest like a heavy stone.

Then her gaze settled on a calendar hanging above her bed, the bold numbers glaring at her: 25 January 2025.

A wave of disbelief crashed over her as she processed the date. "What is happening?" The question spilled from her lips, hoarse and incredulous, as she frantically scanned the room again, desperate for validation. Her eyes caught sight of her mobile phone perched on the nightstand, and with shaking hands, she grabbed it and unlocked the screen. The display confirmed her worst fears—it was indeed 25 January 2025.

"Have I been dreaming all this time?" The realization hit her like a tidal wave, and a surge of tears cascaded down her cheeks, each drop embodying the anguish and confusion swirling within her.

After several moments, she took a shuddering breath, trying to find solace in the familiarity of the room as she wiped her eyes and sought to regain her composure.

Determined to anchor herself back to reality, she made her way to the kitchen, a small oasis within the madness of her thoughts. She opened the fridge door, the cool air brushing against her skin as she scanned the shelves for something to quell her gnawing hunger.

On the second shelf, she found raw chicken drumsticks nestled next to leftovers from yesterday's meal.

A lingering unease gripped her as flashes of a vivid, unshakable dream surfaced in her mind. She had lived through the apocalypse—through starvation, betrayal, and the ever-present fear of death. Food had been a luxury, trust an illusion, and every meal had felt like it could be her last. The memories of that world, so brutal and unrelenting, clung to her even now, making the sight of an untouched meal feel almost surreal.

With newfound purpose, Tyla seasoned the chicken and placed it in a sizzling pan on the stove, the comforting aromas enveloping her senses and offering a brief respite from her tumultuous mind. As she warmed up the remnants of her previous meal—savoring the rich scents that filled the kitchen—her stomach growled in anticipation.

In a rush, she devoured everything before her: five succulent chicken drumsticks, three generous plates of fluffy rice, and two servings of vibrant peas and carrots. Each bite was a moment of grounding, a reprieve from the chaos in her thoughts, yet with every morsel, she wondered if this was all a fragment of a dream or a cruel reality.

Finally, feeling uncomfortably full, Tyla wandered back into the living room and sank onto the plush sofa, the fabric cradling her weary body. She rubbed her overstuffed belly, trying to soothe not just her physical discomfort but also the spiraling thoughts in her mind. Was this really happening? The question echoed in her soul, consuming her as she tried to process the reality that had unfolded around her.

But just when she thought she could find solace in the quiet, the mechanical voice returned, disruptive and cold. "Hello, I am system 111. Would you like to bind the system?"

Fear struck her once more, and she shot upright, heart racing in her chest. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice trembling with confusion and apprehension as she searched the room, desperate for any sign of life or explanation.

"Hello, I am System 111. Would you like to bind the system?"

The chilling familiarity of that voice sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't just a memory—it was the last thing she had heard as she was being torn apart.

The scene slammed into her with brutal clarity. She had been on the ground, blood pooling beneath her, her body wracked with unbearable pain as decayed hands clawed at her flesh. The grotesque stench of death filled her lungs, her own screams drowned out by the guttural snarls of the undead. And amidst it all, cutting through the agony and horror, that voice had echoed in her mind—calm, emotionless, offering her something incomprehensible as she was ripped to shreds.

Her breath came in ragged bursts as the walls of the room seemed to press in around her. Was she still there, trapped in that nightmare? Had she truly escaped, or was this some cruel illusion before death took her once more?

Tyla's heart pounded violently in her chest, torn between the overwhelming terror of her past and the desperate, trembling hope that—somehow— she had a chance to fight back.