Surviving in the Pokemon World

The headlights. That was the last thing I saw before everything went dark—two blazing orbs rushing toward me, and me frozen like a deer caught in its path. I remembered the screech of tires, the heart-stopping crunch of metal, and then nothingness. Complete and utter darkness, an emptiness that felt like it went on forever. I remember wondering if this was death, if the stories were all wrong and there really was just... nothing.

But then, out of nowhere, sensation hit me like a punch in the gut. I gasped. Air rushed into my lungs, cold and unfamiliar. I could feel something solid beneath me, rough and uncomfortable, and above me, a flickering light that hurt my eyes. I blinked, squinting, trying to take it all in.

Well, this certainly doesn't feel like Heaven.

I groaned as I tried to sit up. My head spun, and my arms felt weak—way weaker than they were supposed to be. I managed to prop myself up, my elbows digging into the hard surface beneath me. Everything felt wrong. My limbs were light, awkward, like they didn't belong to me. I looked down at my hands—small, pale, with fingers that looked like they belonged to a kid. A really small kid.

Okay, Jack. Either you've been de-aged, or you're having the weirdest dream of your life.

The room around me was blurry at first, but it slowly came into focus as I blinked a few more times. It was small, with gray walls that had seen better days and a ceiling that looked like it might fall apart any second. There was a single bulb hanging from a wire, swinging slightly and casting an eerie light over everything. The air was cold, and it smelled faintly of mildew and... well, despair, if despair had a smell.

I tried to stand up, swinging my legs over the side of what I now realized was a cot, and nearly fell over. My feet barely reached the floor. I caught myself, my heart pounding, and looked down at my legs.

Yup, definitely a kid.

I tried to remember what happened—who I was. My name was Jack, that much I knew. I remembered my life clearly: I had a job, a tiny apartment, and a tendency to stay up way too late watching Netflix. I remembered friends, bills, the thrill of payday, and the panic of nearly missed deadlines. I remembered that night—the sudden flash of headlights, the terrible weightless feeling of being thrown through the air, and then... the darkness.

And now here I was, in some strange, cold room, in a body that definitely wasn't mine.

Great. Just great. Either I'm dreaming, or I got isekai'd into the world's least exciting fantasy.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to force my brain to catch up with everything that was happening. The memories of my past life were so vivid, and yet the body I was in felt undeniably real. It wasn't a dream—I could feel the ache in my bones, the cold seeping through the too-thin clothes I was wearing. I could hear voices in the distance, muffled but growing louder, echoing through the hallway outside the room.

The door to the room swung open with a loud creak, and I jumped, nearly losing my balance again. A man stood in the doorway—a tall guy with a lined face and an expression that told me he had no time for nonsense. He looked at me with a mix of impatience and something like exasperation.

"Hey, kid. Get up," he said, his voice rough. He didn't wait for me to respond. He just grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. I stumbled, my legs still not quite working right, and he sighed, shaking his head.

Kid? Oh no, please tell me he's not talking about me.

"Come on," he said, not letting go of my arm as he pulled me out of the room and into a narrow hallway. The lights here were dim, flickering, the walls cracked and discolored. I tried to keep up, but my feet were bare, and the floor was freezing. I could hear voices—other children's voices, distant but growing closer.

The man dragged me down the hallway, turning corners faster than my small legs could handle. I nearly tripped twice, and each time he just kept pulling me along without missing a beat.

All right, Jack. Either you're in some post-apocalyptic nightmare, or this guy seriously needs a lesson in handling kids gently.

We finally reached a larger room, and the man stopped, pushing me forward. It was full of cots, each one occupied by a kid who looked about my size. Some were sitting up, others lying down, and they all turned to stare at me as I entered. The air was thick with the scent of unwashed clothes and something musty, almost like an old basement. The man pointed to an empty cot at the far end of the room.

"That one's yours," he said, and without waiting for any kind of response, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, feeling completely out of place.

Great. My very own cot in the land of misery and mildew. Living the dream.

I walked over to the cot, my feet making soft, almost silent slaps against the cold floor. The kids watched me as I passed, their eyes curious but guarded. No one said anything. No one smiled. I sat down on the cot, which creaked under even my tiny weight, and I looked around. The walls were bare, the windows small and barred, and the only source of light was a weak bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep myself from panicking. I needed to think. I needed to figure out what was happening.

Okay, Jack. Let's break this down. You got hit by a car, died—probably—and now you're here, in a body that is clearly not yours, surrounded by a bunch of kids who look like they haven't seen a good day in years. Reincarnation? I mean, it sure isn't the afterlife I was hoping for.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus. I remembered the stories, the shows. Reincarnation was supposed to be some kind of second chance—a way to start over, maybe even become some kind of hero. But this didn't feel like a second chance. This felt like someone had hit the reset button on my life and dropped me into the least interesting setting possible.

If this is supposed to be my great do-over, I'd like to speak to the manager, please.

I opened my eyes again and looked around the room. There were maybe twenty kids, all sitting or lying on their cots, some of them staring at nothing, others whispering to each other. They all looked tired. Not just physically tired, but... worn out. Like they were carrying something heavy that they couldn't put down.

An orphanage. I'm in an orphanage. The realization settled over me slowly, a strange mix of sadness and acceptance. It made sense, in a way. The bare walls, the cold air, the weary adults who didn't seem to care about anything but keeping us in line. I swallowed, the taste bitter in my mouth. I had been reborn as an orphan.

I lay back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling, which was cracked and stained with what I hoped was just water damage. The mattress beneath me was thin, barely more than fabric stretched over a metal frame.

So, let's see. Step one in my brand-new life: don't die of tetanus. Check.

I closed my eyes, trying to push down the rising sense of panic that was building inside me. This wasn't what I wanted. I had always imagined that if I got a second chance at life, it would be something amazing. Something filled with opportunity. But instead, I was here, in a place that felt forgotten, abandoned, surrounded by kids who looked just as lost as I felt.

The next few days were a blur. The routine was simple, almost mind-numbingly so. Wake up early to the sound of a loud bell ringing somewhere in the building, get dressed in the same plain clothes as everyone else, line up for a bowl of something that could generously be called porridge, and then chores. Endless chores—cleaning, scrubbing, carrying buckets of water from one end of the building to the other.

The other kids mostly ignored me, which I was okay with. I didn't know how to talk to them, and they seemed to have their own unspoken rules. The older ones kept to themselves, and the younger ones moved in small groups, always glancing around like they were waiting for something bad to happen.

One of the older boys, maybe nine or ten, tried to take my porridge on my second morning there. He walked up to me, grabbed my bowl without a word, and started to walk away.

Really? Day two, and I'm already getting mugged for oatmeal?

"Hey," I said, my voice coming out more high-pitched than I intended. The boy stopped, turning back to look at me, one eyebrow raised. I could feel my heart pounding, my hands shaking slightly. I didn't want to start a fight—not when I was still trying to figure out where I even was—but I also didn't want to be the kid who got his breakfast stolen every day.

I stood up, my knees feeling wobbly. "That's mine," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

The boy looked at me for a long moment, then shrugged and handed the bowl back. He didn't say anything, just turned and walked away, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Victory. Small, oatmeal-flavored victory.

I sat back down, my legs feeling like jelly. The other kids were watching, some of them whispering to each other. I could feel their eyes on me, but I didn't look up. I just focused on my porridge, forcing myself to take slow, steady breaths.

It was strange, being here, being this small. Everything felt different—not just my body, but the world around me. Everything was bigger, colder, harsher. I was used to being able to take care of myself, to handle whatever came my way. But now, I was just a kid—a small, weak kid in a place where no one cared whether I was okay or not.

All right, Jack. You've been through worse. Well, maybe not worse, but definitely... different kinds of terrible. You just have to figure this out. One day at a time.

I tried to keep my head down after that, to stay out of trouble, to watch and learn. I listened to the way the older kids spoke to each other, the way they interacted with the adults. There were rules here, unspoken ones, and I needed to understand them if I was going to survive. I wasn't going to let myself be pushed around, but I also knew that standing out too much was dangerous.

Each night, after the lights went out and the room fell into a tense, uneasy quiet, I would lie on my cot, staring up at the ceiling,

trying to make sense of everything. I had been given a second chance—maybe not the one I wanted, but it was still a chance. I was alive, and as long as I was alive, I could do something. I didn't know what yet, but I wasn't going to give up.

Besides, I thought, a small, humorless smile tugging at my lips, if I can handle being mugged for porridge, I can handle anything.

The days turned into a routine. I learned when to speak and when to stay silent. I learned which adults were strict, which ones didn't care at all, and which ones you could maybe get away with asking for an extra slice of bread if you were polite. I learned the faces of the other kids, the way they moved, the ones who seemed to stick together and the ones who stayed alone.

And slowly, I began to understand this new life of mine. It wasn't glamorous, it wasn't easy, and it certainly wasn't the kind of reincarnation I'd imagined—but it was mine. For better or worse, this was where I was, and if I wanted to make something of it, I had to start somewhere.

Step one: survive. Step two: find out why fate decided I should be a kid again. Step three: figure out how to turn this into the adventure it's supposed to be.

I didn't have any answers yet, but I was determined to find them. And maybe, just maybe, I'd get a chance to turn this unexpected second life into something worth living.