Marcus finally opened his eyes, but instead of the familiar surroundings of his apartment, he found himself staring up at the dirt-streaked face of a woman. Her skin, caked in grime, was a canvas of exhaustion and cruelty, eyes sunken and devoid of warmth. The air around him was thick and oppressive, assaulting his senses with a nauseating mix of smells that tore at his stomach. Smoke from nearby fires mingled with the overwhelming stench of garbage, human waste, and decay. Every breath felt like an invasion, and the occasional gust of wind only served to bring fresh horrors to his senses—an unbearable cocktail of filth, urine, and excrement that clung to the damp air like a plague.

The woman who cradled him added her own pungent note to the foul atmosphere. She reeked of unwashed flesh, her body oozing the sharp, acrid tang of someone who hadn’t bathed in weeks, if not longer. The smell stung his eyes, making them water involuntarily. The matted hair that fell around her face barely concealed the layers of dirt that had formed over her skin, and her expression—a mix of disinterest and exhaustion—revealed nothing but contempt for the tiny life in her arms.

"You best hurry, woman!" a rough voice barked from somewhere behind her. It was sharp, cutting through the haze of Marcus’s disorientation. "You ain't got time for this! The eve’s almost done, and you ain't made me no money!"

"Hold yer rod!" the woman spat back, her legs trembling beneath her frail body. "Ain't no one gone pay for a bloody hole anyhow!"

Marcus’s mind swirled with confusion and revulsion, struggling to make sense of the scene before him. His newborn body was helpless, but his mind… it was fully awake, fully conscious, just as it had been before he had died. The realization slammed into him like a punch to the gut—this can’t be happening to me. But deep down, a creeping familiarity whispered that it was happening. The woman holding him—this filthy, broken woman—was his mother.

Of course, she is, he thought, his horror growing by the second. He knew it as clearly as he remembered his past life. It was an absurd certainty, but he felt it with every fiber of his being. He could still feel the remnants of the birth—the wetness of her blood, the warmth of urine, and the stink of excrement clinging to his fragile skin. His new body was sticky and trembling, fresh from the womb, but his mind was anything but innocent.

Why could he remember everything so clearly? He was horrified to realize he had been fully aware, fully conscious, for the entirety of his time in the womb. Every word she had spoken, every transaction, every time she had sold her body. He had heard it all. And now, here he was—her child, freshly born into this nightmare of refuse and desperation.

Marcus opened his mouth, and a primal scream ripped from his throat, the only sound he could make in his infant form. The woman barely flinched, her grip on him loose and careless.

"Just drop the kid on the stones," the man barked again, impatient and uncaring. "Leavin’ 'im livin ‘ll do 'im no favors."

Panic shot through Marcus’s tiny body. He gasped for air, his lungs struggling to adjust to the foul atmosphere, and looked up at the woman who had just birthed him. Her eyes were void of any maternal instinct, and they looked at his with cold indifference. No love, no warmth. Just regret and fatigue.

She’s going to kill me. The thought surged through Marcus like ice water. He saw it in her eyes—this wasn’t the first time she had killed one of her children, and it wouldn’t be the last. There was no hesitation in her gaze, only the grim resolve of someone who had convinced herself that this was mercy. In her twisted world, it was kinder to let him die than to allow him to live in the hell she inhabited.

No! Please don’t kill me! Marcus screamed in his mind, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. He searched her face, pleading with his infant's eyes for a shred of sympathy for anything that might save him.

PLEASE!

“Don’t ya be lookin’ at me with them eyes,” she whispered, her grip on him loosening as she shifted on her wobbly legs. “Better you sleep than live in this nightmare.”

Her breath reeked of death and decay, a sickening stench that filled Marcus’s nostrils even as he was on the verge of being thrown away. What the hell happened to her teeth? he thought reflexively, distracted for a moment by the rotting stumps in her mouth.

But that moment of distraction didn’t last. Suddenly, the world dropped away beneath him as her arms dropped from under him. Marcus was weightless, falling through the air, the sharp shock of impending doom rushing back in full force.

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He screamed, his newborn body powerless to stop what was happening. He closed his eyes as the rush of air passed over his face. In these few brief moments, Marcus Temp, who had died once already, realized he'd been discarded like a piece of trash–again. But instead of smashing onto the stone, he fell on something softer, and he found himself rolling over, facing up a small pile of garbage.

I'm not dead?! Marcus rejoiced inwardly, though the pungent stench of rotting food and vegetables filled the air around him. As he attempted to take in his surroundings, a surge of panic set in. Why can’t I lift my head? He strained to move, only to realize that any attempt at motion resulted in awkward jerks and kicks. His alarm deepened.

Wait... this must be normal. I’m a baby, he finally reasoned. Memories of his experiences and what he read in his previous life surfaced. I guess I need 'Tummy Time' to strengthen my neck muscles, he thought with mild amusement. How long will it take to develop my motor skills?

Determined, Marcus tried to focus on his environment. Everything is so blurry! he belatedly realized. He remembered newborns could only see between 8 and 12 inches in front of them. I’m screwed. He concluded.

“What is this?” said a small voice to Marcus’s right. “I thought you were just a babe, but you are much, much more aren’t you?”

Marcus turned his head and saw a small, smartly dressed man sitting on a rotting apple. The man was no taller than four inches, with clothes that were impeccably tailored—a vest and trousers made of fine, iridescent fabric that seemed to change color with every movement. Legs crossed, his gaze bored into Marcus from under the shade of a large, loosely worn blue hat. His eyes, a piercing shade of emerald, sparkled with mischief and ancient wisdom. A faint, otherworldly glow surrounded him, casting an ethereal light on the decaying fruit.

“It looks like you might need some help.” said the little man.

Marcus’s eyes grew wide. What is happening to me? He thought.

“Answering your questions has a price.” answered the Fae. “Do you want answers or help?”

Marcus suppressed the impulse to answer for reasons he could not understand. The words spoken by the little man had the feel of a contract. His soul tingled with each word from the little man's mouth.

“I see I was right.” The Fae said with a smile growing on his lips. “You are not 30 minutes in this world, and you already know not to make a blind contract with a Fae.”

“I so did want your eyes,” He said with regret in his voice. “but if we need to make a formal contract, I can live with that.”

Marcus’s mind raced, the weight of his past life pressing on his newborn consciousness. He knew the Fae’s words were laced with traps, each syllable a potential snare.

The Fae leaned forward, his emerald eyes narrowing. “So, what will it be, young one? Do you seek answers or aid? Choose wisely, for the cost will be steep either way.”

Marcus took a deep breath, his tiny chest rising and falling with the effort. He couldn’t speak, but he could think, and he hoped the Fae could hear his thoughts. I need help to survive, he thought, projecting his plea as clearly as he could.

The Fae’s smile widened, revealing sharp, gleaming teeth. “Help it is, then. But remember, every favor has its price.” He snapped his fingers, and a scroll appeared in his hand, the parchment old and brittle, yet glowing with an eerie light.

“By accepting my aid, you agree to the terms set forth in this contract,” the Fae said, unrolling the scroll. “In exchange for your survival, you will be swapped with the dead fetus of a pregnant noblewoman in a nearby carriage. Until your seventh birthday, you will enjoy the protection of the Fae, and finally, we will grant you Fae sight. But remember, the payment I require is not as simple as it seems. You will owe me a debt that can be paid in many ways—through a whisper in the wind, a shadow in the night, or a tear at dawn. Do you accept?”

Marcus hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to refuse. But he had no choice. He needed to survive, to grow stronger, to find a way to navigate this grim world. Slowly, he nodded.

The Fae’s eyes sparkled with triumph. “Excellent,” he purred. “Then let us seal the deal.” He pricked Marcus's finger with a tiny, silver needle and let a drop of blood fall onto the scroll. The parchment absorbed the blood, glowing brighter for a moment before returning to its original state.

“Now, young Marcus,” the Fae said, his voice dripping with satisfaction, “you are bound to me. Remember, the favor I ask may come at any time, and you must fulfill it without question. Should you fail to meet the terms, the consequences will be dire. Your soul will be forfeit, and you will be cast into the void, a fate worse than death.”

With that, the Fae vanished, leaving Marcus alone with the rotting apple. Suddenly, Marcus felt a powerful force pulling him away from the decaying fruit. His vision blurred, and he was enveloped in darkness. He felt a strange, comforting warmth surrounding him, and the rhythmic sound of a heartbeat filled his ears.

Marcus realized he was back in a womb, his tiny body curled up in the amniotic fluid. The Fae’s magic had worked, and he was now inside the noblewoman, ready to be born again into a world fraught with danger and uncertainty. The weight of the contract hung heavy on his soul, a constant reminder of the price he had paid for his survival.