We walked down the stairs after Mrs. Jhones, the three of us shuffling behind her in a small, uneven line. Lily and Luke stuck close, their steps quiet but practiced — clearly kids who were used to moving as a group. If I'm remembering right, the girl's name is Lily and the boy is Luke.
Lily looks a few years older than me — maybe seven? Her hair is thick and dark, and there's a calm steadiness to her that makes me think she's had to grow up a bit too quickly. Something about her features hints at Mexican descent, though in this place, guessing feels almost pointless. Everyone here has a story; none of us are volunteering to tell it.
Luke, on the other hand, is small like me. A young African boy, probably around four or five, though honestly I'm still getting used to judging ages from this ridiculous tiny-body perspective. When I glance at him again, I notice a large bump on his forehead — swollen, misshapen, hard to ignore. I know I shouldn't stare, especially considering my face currently resembles a knockoff Mileena from Mortal Kombat, but worry twists in my stomach. That bump… it doesn't look harmless. It looks like something that should've been checked by someone with medical degrees, not just good intentions.
When we reach the kitchen, Lily and Luke slip instantly into helper mode. They start pulling out bowls, utensils, ingredients — movements so automatic it's clear they've done this a hundred times. Meanwhile, I'm guided to a chair at the table and told to sit tight while breakfast is prepared.
So what did I do?
Exactly as I was told.
Because Mr. Jhones was downstairs too.
The moment he stepped into the room, everything made sense — why the kids didn't flinch at footsteps, why no one seemed tense or on edge. His voice is unbelievably soft for someone built like a walking brick wall. Gentle, calm, steady. But the sheer size of him… it's the kind of bulk that makes you think he could lift a car with one hand and cradle a crying child with the other.
And somehow, both thoughts feel true.
Every child in this house knows it, instinctively: with him here, nothing bad is getting past the door. I don't understand how a man like that exists — someone that massive, that intimidating, and yet that safe.
But sitting there, feet dangling off a chair far too big for my tiny reincarnated body, I felt something warm and unfamiliar settle in my chest.
Maybe… security?
A strange feeling for someone who died once already.
Once breakfast was finished, Mrs. Jhones knelt beside me and gave me a simple task: go wake the other kids and bring them downstairs. Her tone was gentle, but there was a certain trust in it — like she already believed I could handle it.
It wasn't hard. Most of the kids stirred the moment I called their names, rising out of bed without fuss or complaint. If the roles were reversed… well, the old me would've put up a fight just on principle. But these kids? They just blinked sleep from their eyes, stretched, and followed. Maybe they were better behaved than I ever was. Or maybe they were just… used to this routine. Used to much more than I understood.
Breakfast went smoothly. Lily and Luke moved around the kitchen like quiet little professionals, and the food — simple as it was — tasted genuinely good. The kind of good that hits harder when you're in a place where comfort is a luxury.
This orphanage isn't huge, and you can tell the budget is stretched thin. The furniture mismatches. The wallpaper curls at the corners. The lights hum. Nothing here is fancy.
But the kids…
The kids are something else entirely.
One boy had a strange skin condition — patches of hardened texture along his arms and neck that looked almost like scales. Another child, older than me but smaller, had features that seemed halfway between a human and a dog, complete with rounded ears and a too-sharp smile. And one girl… she had eyes and mouths scattered across her skin like living freckles, blinking and murmuring in ways I couldn't quite process.
Everywhere I looked was another reminder: this wasn't a normal orphanage. It wasn't built for ordinary children.
It was a place for kids who were physically challenged in ways the world wasn't ready to understand. A place where "different" meant something far beyond human categories.
…or maybe it has something to do with that "quirk" thing Mrs. Jhones mentioned earlier.
I didn't get the chance to ask, because later one of the kids grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV. The morning news crackled to life, and immediately I kinda wished it hadn't yet, because the very first thing I saw was… well… a bit strange.
A reporter stood in front of a gym, breathlessly talking about an incident where one professional bodybuilder had apparently eaten another professional bodybuilder. And then , unbelievably , proceeded to win the Mr. Olympia competition right after.
The man filled the screen, who was impossibly massive, glowing with confidence and a smile so bright it was practically smugness distilled into a unatural human shape. He called himself "All Might."
Honestly?
The guy seemed pretty full of himself.
Though to be fair… his arms were thicker than most people's legs. Maybe thicker than both their legs combined. He might even give Mr. Jhones a run for his money — and the man downstairs looks like he was carved out of concrete and then inflated like a parade balloon.
Impressive, sure. Also terrifying.
It didn't take long for the broadcast to shift into a whole segment about heroes and villains were apparently a normal part of life here. Caped saviors, masked criminals, explosive incidents in the streets. It was like flipping channels and landing in a comic book universe no one warned me about.
A surprise? Absolutely.
Comforting? Not even a little.
But… it did explain the kids here. The strange appearances. The unusual bodies. The things that wouldn't make sense anywhere else.
And it explained me.
This orphanage isn't just for "physically challenged" children. It's for kids with mutant quirks — abilities or mutations that make them stand out. Kids the world doesn't quite know what to do with.
Which led to the obvious, painful question:
…Is my quirk just a funny-looking face?
Man, that sucks.
I muttered that last part under my breath, but apparently not quietly enough, because a few kids shot me weird looks — little side-eyes like they weren't sure whether I was joking, unstable, or both. Honestly? Couldn't blame them.
But I didn't really care, either. I've lived a whole life already. Died once. Woke up in a four-year-old body with a Mortal-Kombat-tier mug. Let them stare.
Besides… playtime was starting.
And if I was going to be a kid again, I might as well enjoy the perks while they last.