The last thing Hiroshi Takahashi remembered was the sudden, blinding glare of headlights and the screeching of tires. There was no time to react, no time to even comprehend what was happening before everything went black. When he next opened his eyes, he was met with the unfamiliar sight of a wooden ceiling and the sound of distant voices speaking in a language he barely recognized.
Panic surged through him, but as he tried to sit up, he realized his body felt different—smaller, weaker. His hands, when he looked at them, were tiny and delicate. This wasn't his body. This wasn't his world.
