Otro Ackerman - Ayanokoji x Snk

Chapter 1 (Rewritten): The family is the first school of emotions

Consciousness is... strange.

For most people, it doesn't arrive all at once.
It doesn't erupt. It doesn't demand.

It seeps in.
Slowly.

Like a light turning on in a room that's far too large... but unable to illuminate it all at once.
First one corner.
Then another.
Shadows retreating lazily.

First come the sounds.
Shapeless. Distant. Without direction.

Then the forms.
Blurs trying to organize themselves.

And finally—
meaning.

That's what's normal.
...I think.

In my case—
there was no transition.
No process.

Only emptiness.

Absolute.
Silent.
Timeless.

And then—light.

Air rushes into my lungs.
It isn't a welcome.

It's an invasion.

Cold.
Dry.
Painful.

It burns going in. Scrapes going out.
As if my own body rejects the idea of breathing.
As if existing—
is being forced upon me.

My fingers move.
There's no intent behind it.
No decision.

It's a reflex.
Automatic. Mechanical.

I'm not doing it because I want to.

...I'm not even sure I want anything yet.

Something is holding me.

Hands.

They're not soft.
The skin is rough. Uneven.
Calloused.

But there's no carelessness in the touch.
There's enough pressure to keep me from falling.
Small adjustments.
Almost instinctive corrections.

Care.

...

That catches my attention.

I try to open my eyes.

The light bothers me.
Not unbearably... but enough to make it clear I'm not ready for it.

Even so, I don't close them.
I observe.

Or try to.

Everything is blurry.
Formless shapes.
Shadows sliding over one another.
Muted colors that refuse to settle.

I recognize nothing.
Not objects.
Not faces.
Not space.

And yet—
I know something with certainty.

This is not a hospital.

There's no smell of disinfectant.
No sterile white surfaces.
No controlled, uncomfortable silence that always clung to enclosed rooms.

There is sound here.
Soft.
Irregular.

Breathing.
Movement.
Life.

This is... different.

Warmer.
More imperfect.
More... real.

I don't cry.

I know I should.
That's what newborns do.
That's what's expected.

A simple signal.
Primitive.
Unmistakable.

I'm alive.

But I don't do it.