Rebirth It All

Chapter 3: Fractured Memories

The exhaustion from my first day in Leo’s shoes lingered long after I left the factory. My arms ached, my legs felt like lead, and my back screamed with every step I took. I trudged down the street toward the apartment building that now passed for my home, clutching a brown paper bag filled with a half-eaten sandwich and a bottle of water—my “lunch” that I barely had the energy to finish.

The streets were quieter now, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. People walked past me, some laughing, others with their heads bowed against the evening breeze. I caught snippets of conversations, but none of them registered. All I could think about was how much my body hurt and how unfamiliar everything felt.

When I finally reached the apartment building, the sight of it filled me with dread. The chipped paint, the broken windows patched with cardboard, the faint smell of trash in the stairwell—none of it felt like home. I climbed the stairs, each step a reminder of how far I’d fallen.

Back in the cramped room, I collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My thoughts raced, trying to make sense of the impossible. Why was this happening? Why me?

I reached for the wallet I’d found earlier, pulling out the photograph of the woman and child. Their faces stared back at me, frozen in a moment of happiness I couldn’t understand. Were they waiting for me? Was I supposed to know them?

I closed my eyes, clutching the photo tightly, and tried to summon any memory of them. But nothing came—only the vague, disconnected feeling that they mattered.

The room grew colder as the night wore on. My mind drifted in and out of consciousness, caught between fragmented thoughts and uneasy dreams.

And then, it happened.

A memory—not mine, but Leo’s—flashed through my mind like a lightning strike.

I was standing in a small kitchen, the walls yellowed with age, the counters cluttered with dishes. The woman from the photograph stood in front of me, her face twisted in frustration.

“Leo, you can’t keep doing this!” she said, her voice sharp but tinged with worry.

“I’m trying, Rosa,” I heard myself say, though the voice wasn’t my own. “You think I like working overtime every night? You think I don’t want to be here with you and Mateo?”

Her eyes softened, but her posture remained tense. “We just miss you. Mateo keeps asking why you’re never home. I don’t know what to tell him.”

“I’m doing this for both of you,” I replied, stepping closer to her. “For our future.”

The memory faded, leaving me gasping for air. I sat up, clutching my chest, my heart racing as if I’d just lived the moment.

“Rosa,” I whispered. “Mateo.”

The names felt foreign on my tongue, but they stirred something deep inside me. A sense of guilt, of longing, of something I couldn’t quite place.

I stood and paced the room, my mind spinning. If these were Leo’s memories, then who was I now? Was I Orion Kane trapped in someone else’s life, or was I becoming this man—this Leo Torres—with every passing moment?

I looked around the room again, my eyes falling on every crack, every imperfection. This was Leo’s world, and yet I was here. Living it. Breathing it. Feeling it.

As the hours dragged on, more memories surfaced, each one hitting me like a blow to the chest.

Mateo, the boy from the photograph, sitting at a small table with a toy car in his hands, grinning as he showed me a trick he’d learned.

Rosa, standing in the doorway, her face streaked with tears as she whispered, “I can’t do this alone anymore, Leo.”

The factory floor, the heat and noise pressing in on me as I worked endlessly, my muscles screaming for rest.

Each memory brought a new wave of emotions—pain, regret, love, despair. They weren’t mine, but they felt real. Too real.

By the time the sun began to rise, I felt like a stranger in my own body. The life I’d built as Orion Kane—my wealth, my power, my arrogance—felt like a distant dream. And the life I’d been thrust into as Leo Torres was beginning to take shape around me, whether I wanted it to or not.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my calloused hands. They didn’t feel like mine, but they were.

“I don’t belong here,” I whispered to the empty room.

But as the first rays of sunlight crept through the cracked blinds, I realized something terrifying.

Whether I belonged here or not didn’t matter.

I was here.

And I had no idea how to get out.