No Escape from the hell

Raphael's eyes fluttered open, his mind still adjusting to the world around him. His body felt strange, smaller, softer. But something else was wrong—off in a way he hadn't expected. Slowly, a terrifying realization crept over him.

He had been reincarnated as a woman.

The god's words echoed in his mind. "The world will be harsher to you." Raphael hadn't understood at first, but now it made sense. His identity, his very essence, had been altered, and the shock of it broke him. His tiny body trembled as tears welled in his eyes. Before he knew it, he was crying—a loud, uncontrollable sob that seemed to fill the quiet room.

His cries drew the attention of the woman standing nearby—his new mother. She moved quickly, scooping him up into her arms, gently rocking him until his sobs softened. Her warmth was undeniable, but the storm of emotions raging inside him wouldn't cease. His mother cooed softly, soothing him, and for a moment, he let himself fall into the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat.

Still, his mind raced, grappling with what had happened. He tried to focus on something else, anything else—and then he remembered the god's gift. It wasn't as powerful as he'd hoped; there were far more limitations than he anticipated. But he could sense a system embedded within him, a faint but familiar structure guiding his thoughts. It was thanks to his chosen ability. Yet even this comfort came with its own restrictions, far weaker than what he had originally envisioned.

Exhaustion washed over him, and as a newborn, his body was too fragile to fight it. Sleep overtook him quickly, giving his mind a brief reprieve from the harshness of his reality.

When Raphael woke again, the room was still dark, cold, and unfamiliar. The dawn had yet to break, but this time, the world around him felt clearer. He blinked, taking in more details. The home was in poor condition—old and crumbling. An ancient rug lay on the floor, threadbare and barely holding together. The walls were discolored, cracked in places, and everything seemed to carry the weight of poverty.

The only thing that stood out in this dilapidated space was his cradle. It was new, or at least newer than everything else. The contrast felt jarring.

Raphael tried to think clearly, but his developing brain fought against him. The body of an infant came with its own challenges—his thoughts felt muddled, and his emotions were more powerful, more overwhelming than he remembered them being. He felt weak, his limbs barely responding to his will. Frustration built within him. He wanted to cry out, to rage against the god who had thrown him into this pitiful existence.

And so, he did cry.

His small, shrill wail filled the house once more, and within moments, another woman entered the room. This time, she was different—not the mother who had comforted him before. Her movements were hurried, and her face showed signs of strain and exhaustion. She gathered him into her arms, wrapping him in warm clothes, and carried him out of the house.

Raphael looked around, trying to take in his surroundings, but his new body betrayed him again. His senses were dull, his vision blurred. Yet he could make out the scene that awaited him. The woman carried him to a large hall, where many people had gathered. Some were sitting in silence, others weeping openly. The air was thick with grief.

It didn't take long for Raphael to realize what was happening. He was at a funeral.

He squirmed, forcing his eyes to open wider, desperate to know whose funeral he was attending. It wasn't until the woman holding him stepped closer to the front of the room that Raphael saw the photograph at the altar.

It was the face of his mother—the woman who had comforted him the night before.

His mind shattered under the weight of it. His new mother, gone. The only familiar face in this cruel, broken world had been taken from him before he even had the chance to know her. Emotions unlike anything he had ever felt before surged through him. Sadness, despair, anger, and fear, all crashing together in a violent torrent.

Tears flowed from his eyes, but this time, there was no comfort to be found. His small body shook with the force of emotions he had no way to control. He had been reincarnated, given a second chance, and yet here he was, cursed from the very beginning.

In that moment, the god's words echoed once more in his mind, mocking him: "Good luck, Fallen Angel."

Through the storm of emotions, Raphael's mind did what it had always done—it predicted. His vision of the future, once sharp and clear, now appeared blurred, but even in this haze, he could see it: his life was going to be hell.

And there was no escape.