The man who had just gotten dressed noticed a glass of water placed next to the empty plate. This time, having learned his lesson, he cautiously picked up the fragile glass and, in one gulp, drank the oddly flavored, richly infused water.
"Kid, I'm John Brown. Who are you?" the old man asked.
Who am I?
He had already noticed during his confinement—thanks to the glaringly bright washbasins—that his appearance no longer matched the black-haired, black-eyed, yellow-skinned face he remembered.
His hair was still black, but his eyes were a striking blue. His skin wasn't the reddish-white typical of East Asians but the pale, nearly bloodless complexion of a Caucasian.
Simply put, he was no longer the person he used to be. After transmigrating, what was the point of using his old Chinese name?
In this life, the Russians had called him "Enniu'nuo Ouding." He didn't know the origin or meaning of that name, but it sounded more like a random codename than something meaningful. It gave him a natural aversion to continuing its use.
Now that he had become a foreigner in body and circumstance, he figured he might as well use a foreign name, too. Digging through his memory, he replied in broken English, "My, name, is, Henry."
He deliberately chose a common name to avoid drawing attention. Why "Henry"? He didn't know—maybe he was in a good mood. Maybe it was just instinct. It felt right. And did he really need to explain his choice to anyone?
"Henry what?" the old man followed up, asking for a surname.
A surname too?
Did he need to make that up as well? What a bother. He really didn't want to think that far ahead. Shaking his head, he replied, "Nothing, just Henry."
Old John didn't push the matter. "Suit yourself," he muttered. Then, switching suddenly to Russian, he asked, "Do you have a place to go?"
Henry's face turned blank. He had no idea what the man was saying.
John switched back to English. "Do you have a place to go?" he repeated, this time slowing down his speech deliberately, understanding that Henry wasn't fluent.
This time, Henry got it. He shook his head, his expression confused but honest.
"I thought so." John got up and casually picked up the shotgun nearby. Oddly, he held it by the middle of the barrel instead of the grip or trigger. He continued, saying:
"If you've got nowhere else to go, you can stay. But that bed's mine. You'll sleep on the sofa in the bar. If you want to stay, you work for me. I'll give you three meals a day, but if you want alcohol, you'll have to pay for it. If you're ready, come out. The bar's in front. If you choose to leave, consider the food and clothes I just gave you a gift. But don't expect anything more from me."
With that, Old John slung the shotgun over his shoulder and walked out.
Where else could he go?
His appearance had changed. Even if he returned to his hometown, he couldn't use his old identity to reclaim his life.
He hadn't even thought about whether his old self still existed. Could his past be overwritten? Or replaced? Or was this place even the same world he once knew?
There were spaceships here. He had endured a brutal second growth spurt. He preferred to believe this wasn't the same safe, relatively peaceful Earth he'd once lived on.
Back then, he had only heard rumors about Area 51, watched news of the wars in the Middle East, and seen reports of America's "zero-dollar shopping sprees." None of it compared to the strange, terrifying realities this new world had thrown at him.
And hadn't it been quite a long time since his transmigration? From infancy to his current age—could it have been just a few years?
As if in answer, a number surfaced in his mind: 7213.
That was the number of days from the moment he had appeared in outer space, ready to descend to Earth, until the day he passed out from hunger.
Seven thousand days.
Each one clearly remembered—tedious yet deeply etched into his brain.
He could recall which day he was captured, what experiments were performed, which items were examined, and what each handler looked like.
He couldn't understand the words spoken, but every syllable still echoed clearly in his mind, as if spoken just yesterday.
During his accelerated growth, he experienced all kinds of torture, limb mutilations, and experimentation. Each memory came with its corresponding phantom pain. When he remembered, his body physically reacted to the trauma.
Henry quickly shook his head. Don't think about it. Forget it. Or at least, shift focus. It was a side effect of having a hyper-efficient brain—perfect recall came with its own costs. You didn't just remember pain. You relived it.
If counted from the day of his transmigration, he had already spent nearly twenty years in this new world.
Given a typical human lifespan of seventy years, he had lost almost thirty percent of his life—wasted in growth chambers and pain.
What a miserable start. He hadn't even been strong enough to complain.
Instead of thinking about how to return, he should think about how to survive.
His life before transmigration was all about going with the flow anyway.
What did he still miss? The D drive in his memory. All the "passionate lessons" from enthusiastic teachers, the anime, the movies, the games…
If he really wanted, he could rebuild all that. It wasn't like he had to recover his old life.
...Ah, wait. He remembered now. He never cleared his browser history. And there were those private folders on the D drive. If anyone ever saw those, his posthumous reputation would be socially annihilated.
My reputation in my past life...
Forget it. He was already dead. It didn't matter anymore.
He was just a lump of rotting mud now, one that could spread out anywhere. Since he had a new name, he'd live a new life.
Having come to this realization, Henry opened the door to the room.
What he saw was a decent-sized bar. Six four-person tables were sparsely arranged in the center. Along the walls, there were long sofa seats in the style of private booths.
In addition to the tables and chairs, there were two old billiard tables and three dartboards so full of holes they barely held together. Even the walls near them bore marks from stray darts.
Then, on a prominent wall, hung several old group photos of soldiers—and a Captain America shield?
The bar's alcohol selection was vast, but there was no sign—or scent—of anything like milk or juice. Clearly, this wasn't a place for family-friendly gatherings.
So why was there anime-style decor?
Henry approached the old man who was serving customers behind the counter and pointed to the star-spangled shield.
"Do you have a grandson who also lives here?" he asked.
Old John's heart gave a slight tug. "Why do you ask?"
"If you don't have a grandson, who put a Captain America shield on the wall?" Henry asked. Strangely, he didn't even notice how much more fluent his English had suddenly become.
"That's a replica I bought."
"You?"
"Back in World War II, I almost got selected for the Howling Commandos. Didn't quite make it, but I worked alongside them on several missions. Fought alongside the Captain himself more than once. You tell me—don't I have the right to hang his shield up in remembrance?"
...Motherf*cker! Where did I transmigrate to?!