My eyes snapped open. I went awake, but I dared not to sit up. Or move. Damned guards would find any excuse to beat me and my other cellmates to a pulp. Then those cellmates would beat me to a pulp.

Che.

I felt the hardness of the wood under me, as my closed eyes instinctually darted all around. I could feel the air-conditioned cold on my face as I sucked it in, trying not to deviate from my usual sleeping patterns. It was quiet, except for the idle chatter from the people outside and the occasional bus honking its head off. Sounds like morning, rush hour maybe.

How I wanted to be outside too, but instead I'm stuck here, for the past... 20 years? Because I didn't graduate college nor high school. Now I'm here as a forced worker for an illegal fighting ring.

Never thought degrees were needed, when you need money for them but now here I am. I feel an urge to spit on the floor like an entitled gramps, which I... technically am. Damned money grubbers and their money, grabbing a retired soldier to participate in their nonsense.

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I waited for the guards to come banging on our cell like the brats did.

An hour. Two hours.

My stomach grumbled, as I hurriedly put my hand on top of it, digging my nails deep, scolding it to keep quiet. Still, it didn't quiet down. Oh no...

I curled up into a ball, arms positioned in front of my head, as I waited for those psychotic vultures to come in.

...

An hour passed. No response. But, I wasn't sure if this was one of their damned mind tricks again. I can't release the tension yet.

So I waited. And waited. I pricked my ears to listen. No sound from outside the door. My stomach grumbled once more. My arm felt soft. Softer than--

Wait. I let my arms down (and fliched as I envisioned a metal bat hurling splattering the side of my head) and gazed at my hands. Pale, slender fingers that showed no signs of hard labor. They weren't mine. They definitely weren't. I lost two fingers and I was as tanned as bronze, not to mention the various bruises and scratches I've earned.

What did they want? Did they decide I had more value and transferred me into those homunculus bodies? Used me for their experiments? I looked around, and scrambled to the mirror.

A shocked, malnourished teen came into view. He was wearing a white shirt much older than him, filled with stains and rips, and cotton black shorts. His hair was a mess, his eyebags messier. He stared in surprise and bewilderment, turning into disbelief.

It was me. Fifteen year old me.