The world ended.
That was Bruce's first clear thought.
One moment there was warmth and water and pressure that made sense because it had always been there—and the next moment everything ripped open and the universe became cold knives.
But Bruce was not a quitter. He was a fighter—well, not literally, not in the "boxing champion" sense, but a fighter at heart. A man who had always believed you faced what came, even when you were terrified, even when you didn't understand the rules.
So he did the only thing that felt right.
With outstretched hands—tiny hands, stupid hands—he dived toward the light.
Air hit him like fire poured straight into his lungs. His body convulsed on instinct and a sound tore out of him, thin and broken and humiliating as he popped out of the narrow tunnel.
"Waa—ahh—"
The noise startled him as much as anything else.
That wasn't his voice.
That wasn't even a voice.
That was a malfunction.
He hit something rough—mattress, cloth, grass, whatever this medieval nonsense counted as—and for a split second he just lay there, shocked by gravity, shocked by air, shocked by the fact that his whole body felt like it had been shrunk and thrown into the world without any instructions.
His eyes—half-working—caught the room in frantic slices.
At first his mind tried to label it the way it always did when it panicked: native hut. Some far-off place, some documentary he'd half-watched while eating cereal.
But no.
There was a fireplace.
Crackling fire. Warmth. An iron pot on the hearth with water boiling in it like survival itself. Clay jars in one corner—seeds, maybe, something stored. Up near the ceiling, balanced on two crude sticks, hung a long stick of round black bread like some kind of medieval trophy.
And near the front door—planks and gaps and a hinge that sounded tired—chickens waddled around, all of them staring at him with blunt curiosity as if they'd just watched a miracle and were deciding whether it was edible.
The roof was straw. The walls were shabby planks stuffed with mud. The wind still found its way in anyway. It was exactly what he'd expected from this world: a true medieval cottage in the middle of the woods. No cable TV. No Xbox. Not even a football to kick or weights to lift. No coat hangers, no dresser drawers full of extra clothes. Just the bare minimum of what someone needed to not die.
And somehow—stupidly—Bruce felt a flicker of excitement.
It looked like a museum exhibit.
And as it so happened… he loved history.
Then suddenly hands grabbed him.
Not strong hands. Not trained hands. Not the hands of someone who looked like they knew what they were doing.
But hands still powerful enough to lift him.
And that's when it truly hit Bruce:
He was a baby.
A real baby.
He could be lifted easily like a sack of potatoes.
His mother's hands pulled him onto her lap.
Gentle hands—shaking hands—slick with blood and water and sweat. She dragged him up against her chest, and her chest—honestly—seemed bigger than his entire body. She held him there like she couldn't believe she'd made it to the finish line. Like she'd run a marathon uphill with a knife in her ribs and somehow won a prize.
Bruce didn't know what winning felt like.
He'd never won anything in his life.
He flailed uselessly anyway, trying to use his "baby trained limbs" to be a proper citizen, but it was no use. His arms didn't obey. His legs kicked air that felt too big and too loud and too real. His whole body was nothing but reflex and panic and helpless noise.
Then he felt it—the cord.
Still connecting them. Still pulsing.
His mother looked down at it—eyes glassy, jaw tight—and Bruce felt something decisive move through her like a blade sliding into place. She reached for the knife lying by the bed.
Her hand slipped once.
She cursed.
Then she steadied herself and cut.
It resisted—wet, living resistance.
Then it gave.
Something snapped inside Bruce.
Not pain, not exactly.
A sense of finality.
Like a door slamming shut behind him forever.
He screamed again.
"Waa—"
Lili pulled him closer instantly, wrapping him in cloth, then her cloak, then her arms. She rocked him hard, as if movement alone could keep him alive. Her heart was going so fast it felt like it might burst.
Then she looked.
Really looked.
And for a moment, her face did something Bruce recognized immediately from his past life—when people saw something truly disappointing.
Her expression fell.
But it wasn't disappointment in him, not really.
It was pity.
And fear.
And as Bruce stared up at her, blinking through the blur, he realized something else that punched him strangely in the chest:
She looked… like Frank's wife Sarah.
Not exactly. Not "copy-paste." But close enough that it hit like a ghost—same kind of softness in the face, same delicate shape, the same look of strength built from kindness and exhaustion.
And in the reflection of her eyes—those violet mirrors catching firelight—he saw himself.
Small.
Much smaller than he remembered seeing himself as a baby in old photos. Light. Soft. Not solid, not heavy, not the kind of infant you looked at and thought this one will grow into a man who can survive.
Not the ugly, egg-headed Bruce.
No.
He looked… kind of cute.
Perfect, really, if he forced himself to be honest.
And—this was the weird part—
he looked like a baby girl.
Bruce's mind stalled.
Wait.
No.
That can't—
But he could see it. Even through the blur and shock, he could see it clearly enough to know the truth.
And he understood something else, quickly, the way you understand danger even when you can't explain it:
If this was a medieval world—if this was a hard world—then it was usually best to be a boy.
For safety.
He didn't fully know why women were usually so weak despite sometimes having larger chests than men. Women tended to be soft and smaller and—also loud, which was a strength, but not the kind that stopped a sword or a cruel hand. He knew bad things happened to women in bad places.
And if you were living in a bad place—
being born a girl was not the best idea.
---
Then his mother swallowed.
Her gaze stayed on him—on the tiny, wet thing she had dragged out of her own body with nobody to help and no one to praise her for it—and for a moment Bruce saw something flicker through her expression that made his stomach twist.
Fear.
Not of him.
Of the world.
A girl in this world… a girl alone… a girl with no clan and no roof except a leaking hut and a woman who could be killed by fever or hunger or one unlucky slip on ice—
She blinked hard, as if to push the thought away.
And then she remembered.
The warmth.
The strange, quiet hand that had steadied her in the tower. The invisible comfort that had slid through her bones when her arms had been burning and her fingers had wanted to let go. The little sun she had felt inside her when she should have collapsed and didn't.
She exhaled shakily, relief loosening her shoulders. Whatever this child was, she was not ordinary. Not helpless in the way most babes were.
"Not normal," Lili murmured in Norse, voice rough with exhaustion. "Not weak. Just… different."
Bruce tried to talk.
I'm Bruce.
I'm not—
What came out was noise.
"Gah—mm—waa—"
Lili winced at the sound, then laughed weakly through tears like she'd just realized the universe still had jokes left in it.
She lifted him higher, bringing him close to her face. Firelight trembled in her violet eyes, and Bruce saw himself for the first time—not in a mirror, but in her.
A baby.
A tiny baby.
Small hands. Soft skin. Pale hair plastered to his head. Nothing like the body he remembered. No bulk. No weight. No solid heft that promised this one will grow into a man who can break the world if he has to.
And definitely not male.
"No," Bruce thought desperately. No. This is wrong.
He thrashed. He tried to shake his head. He tried to protest with everything he had left.
"Mm—ngh—!"
Hopeless.
His body was a betrayal factory.
Lili misunderstood, of course. She stroked his cheek with her thumb, gentle and clumsy, like she was afraid she'd break him if she did it wrong.
"Hush," she whispered. "The world is loud."
She hesitated—young, exhausted, alone—then a tired smile tugged at her mouth, half-laughing at the absurdity of naming a person in a hut while snow tried to claw through the roof.
"My little lily," she said softly. "My little lily pad, born in water and cold."
Bruce froze.
Lily pad?
She looked at him again, like the name was ridiculous and perfect at the same time, like she'd pulled it out of the only thing she had left: stubborn humor.
"Yes," she decided, voice firmer now as if she could make it true by insisting. "Lily."
Bruce's brain detonated.
That is not my name.
His mouth betrayed him again.
"Waa—gah—"
Lili took it as hunger.
Of course she did. Because to her, this was a baby crying, not a grown man losing an identity war inside a body that couldn't even hold its own head up.
She adjusted her grip with shaky practicality. Survival instincts snapped into place. She loosened the front of her dress.
Bruce's eyes widened.
What are those.
He had always assumed women's chests were just… bigger versions of men's. More muscle. More power. Like armor plating. Bigger chest equals stronger person. That was how his brain had always simplified the mystery of women: soft-looking, somehow terrifying, probably stronger than they seem.
His mother must be very strong, then.
She guided him closer without ceremony.
Something warm pressed against his face—soft in a way muscle wasn't, heavy in a way armor wasn't.
Instinct obliterated thought.
He latched.
Warm liquid flooded his mouth. Sweet. Rich. Shockingly good.
Bruce's brain crashed so hard it went quiet.
Oh.
So that's what those do.
Not muscle.
Food.
He drank.
The fire popped. The chickens settled. The rooster made one annoyed sound like this was all happening too loudly near his corner. The wind clawed at the hut, but the hut held—for now.
Lili sagged in relief, one hand cradling his head, the other resting protectively over his back. She began to hum—low, old Norse—some song that tasted like mountains and winter and stubborn survival. Bruce couldn't understand the words, but he could feel the meaning settle into him like a blanket pulled tight.
The room came into focus around the edges of his feeding.
Rough plank walls, patched with mud. A stone hearth glowing dim orange. Clay jars half-buried in earth. The bed she had built herself from wood and grass and refusal to die. Chickens watching solemnly like witnesses who approved of the outcome.
This place was poor.
Cold.
Primitive.
Definitely not modern.
But it was warm.
And for the first time since he had died, Bruce—now Lily, now lily pad, whether he liked it or not—felt his body finally stop fighting the world.
The fire cracked softly.
Snow whispered outside.
His mother hummed.
And despite everything—despite confusion, rage, and the horrifying realization that he was no longer who he had been—
he fell asleep.
In his mother's arms.