The moment of death isn’t supposed to be something you remember.

  People always say it’s quick—that your brain shuts down, that you simply stop existing. But they’re wrong.

  I remember.

  The sudden flash of headlights in my rearview mirror. The deafening screech of tires. A bone-jarring impact. My body flung forward, seatbelt slicing into my ribs. The world turning, spinning, shattering—glass slicing into skin, bones snapping, the sharp tang of blood in my mouth.

  Then, the heat.

  A horrible, molten warmth that bloomed behind my left eye, spreading through my skull like fire. My body twisted in ways it shouldn’t, the pain so absolute that it didn’t even feel real.

  And then—

  Darkness.

  Not just the absence of light. A deep, suffocating nothingness.

  I thought that was the end.

  But then, the warmth remained.

  It wasn’t like the burning heat from before. It was different. It cradled me, surrounded me, seeped into my skin, deeper than skin, into my very being.

  I was floating.

  Weightless. Suspended in something thick and heavy, yet safe.

  I wasn’t dead.

  I was trapped.

  The realization came slowly, sluggishly, my thoughts struggling against the thick haze in my mind. My body—if I even had one—was curled in on itself, limbs drawn close, something firm pressing in from all sides.

  Something was wrapped around me. Holding me.

  I tried to move. Nothing happened. My arms—my legs—wouldn’t respond. I was stuck, unable to stretch, unable to breathe.

  No.

  A spike of fear cut through the haze.

  I was buried alive.

  I tried to scream, but no sound came. My mouth was full of something—something thick, viscous, clinging to my tongue and throat.

  Panic surged. I struggled, muscles spasming, fighting against the suffocating prison around me. I pushed against the walls, but they wouldn’t give. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, frantic, too fast.

  No, no, no—

  I was alive, but I would suffocate in here.

  The panic sharpened, turning into something instinctual. I kicked, pushed, twisted. A sharp pain shot through my shoulder, but then—

  Crack.

  A tiny sliver of space. A rush of cold air against my skin.

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  I froze.

  The change was so sudden, so shocking that I almost recoiled. The warmth I had known, the cocoon of thick heat, was gone. In its place was something biting and sharp, seeping into me like ice-cold water.

  But I could breathe.

  The air was thin, sharp in my throat, but it was air.

  I had to get out.

  I shoved harder, kicking, pushing against the walls with everything I had. Another crack. The world trembled. Light—dim and bluish—leaked through the fractures.

  One final push—

  Snap.

  The prison shattered.

  I tumbled forward, collapsing onto something hard and uneven. Cold. So, so cold.

  I gasped, chest heaving, dragging in my first real breath of air. It burned. My throat, my lungs—they felt like they were freezing from the inside out. My limbs twitched uselessly, my body struggling to adjust.

  I curled inward, instinctively trying to hold onto the warmth I had left. But my body felt wrong.

  Too small. Too compact. My weight was uneven. Something heavy dragged behind me.

  And my arms—

  I tried to move them, to push myself upright, but they didn’t work right. My hands—no, not hands, something else—splayed against the stone.

  I cracked my eyes open.

  Blurred shapes. Everything was tinted in shades of blue and gray. Light, dim and distant, reflected off the cavern walls, making the ice glitter. The air smelled clean, crisp, but thin.

  I tried to lift my head—too far. My neck stretched further than I expected, the motion unsettlingly alien.

  Something curled around my side twitched—a tail.

  No.

  Slowly, I turned toward the nearest reflective surface—the smooth ice wall beside me.

  What I saw wasn’t me.

  A long, narrow snout. White scales, but not just scales—small, feather-like tufts barely visible against the pale surface. Blue eyes stared back at me, ringed with faint white circles.

  Not human.

  I wasn’t human.

  I sucked in a breath, heart hammering against my ribs. My chest expanded strangely. My shoulders, my limbs—everything felt off. My weight was wrong, shifted differently.

  I tried to stand, but my legs buckled beneath me. My balance was all wrong. I collapsed back onto the cold stone, my body trembling.

  This wasn’t real.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Think.

  I had been in a car. There was an accident. I died.

  And then—

  Then what?

  I forced myself to move again, dragging my limbs forward, struggling against my own lack of coordination. My claws scraped against the stone. My claws.

  A horrible realization settled in my gut.

  I was in a different body.

  No.

  Not just a different body.

  A different species.

  This wasn’t possible.

  But… was it?

  Hadn’t I read stories like this before? The ones where people died and woke up in another world, another life?

  I should be excited.

  But all I felt was terror.

  This wasn’t some game. This wasn’t some story. This was real.

  And I was alone.

  The silence pressed in, thick and heavy. No voices. No distant hum of civilization. Just the faint drip of melting ice and my own ragged breathing.

  I swallowed hard. The motion felt strange. My throat was dry, my stomach twisting uncomfortably.

  I was hungry.

  My gaze drifted downward.

  The eggshell lay in shattered pieces around me.

  Something deep in my mind whispered, instinctual and primal—eat.

  No.

  The idea repulsed me.

  But my body ached. I didn’t know how long I had been inside that egg. Days? Weeks? Longer?

  I hesitated. Then, slowly, reluctantly, I picked up a shard with my jaws.

  The texture was brittle, chalky. The taste was strange, slightly metallic. My stomach churned as I forced myself to chew.

  Disgusting. But necessary.

  As I ate, I became aware of other things—things my body was doing without my input.

  My tail flicked. Not because I willed it to, but because it just… moved. Reacting to the cold, to the way my muscles tensed.

  My wings—small, fragile things—twitched at my sides, adjusting minutely whenever I shifted.

  It was strange. When I wasn’t thinking about them, they moved on their own, fluid and natural. But the moment I tried to control them, they became clumsy, awkward.

  I lifted a foreleg, watching the way the muscles shifted beneath my scales. The motion was smooth, but when I tried to place it back down with precision, it landed too hard, the impact jarring.

  This body had instincts. Reflexes. Things it knew how to do without me telling it.

  But the moment I tried to take over, it fought me.

  I huffed, frustration bubbling up.

  This wasn’t just a new world.

  This was a new body.

  And I had no idea how to use it.