As the digital clock on the microwave blinked 11:47 PM, it casted a faint green glow across the cluttered bachelor's pad kitchen. It was a Tuesday night in late October in a small yet spacious one-bedroom apartment in downtown Shinjuku, Tokyo. Rain slicked against the windows, blurring the neon lights of the street below into impressionistic streaks of red and blue.
Keisuke, a twenty-five-year-old Japanese American, deeply invested in the art of the solitary late-night snacking, stood before an open refrigerator. He'd just spent a 12-hour shift in data entry and was of hardly sustained anticipation earning him this moment of culinary reward: a homemade sushi roll…. maybe, several.
He reached into the fridge and pulled out a large, two-pound glass jar of pickled ginger- the same one he got from his mom 3 weeks ago.
"Hmph, still looks good." Keisuke said and turned the jar in front of him with both hands almost above his own head as his body leaned back just slightly.
"Okay, deep breaths," he told himself in an effort to keep from thinking about the drowsiness.
With a growl of hunger, he gave in. "Just a little bit of the pink stuff for flavor. It cleanses the palate, right?"
First, he assembled the California roll. Placing a modest, and what most would consider normal amount of ginger on the side of the plate savoring the smell. Then, took a bite It was good, great, even. A sharp, sweet counterpoint to the avocado and imitation crab that tasted just perfect!
"Man, damn that zing it's something else. Maybe just a few more couldn't hurt? a pinch."
The so-called pinch turned into a spoonful. A spoonful turned into eating it directly from the jar. Until a peculiar, addictive burn spread across his tongue.
It was as if the rest of the world had faded away. The outside rain, the sterile kitchen, the concept of moderation—all of it irrelevant. The sheer, vinegary intensity was enough of a distraction. Just what Keisuke was craving after a long day of spreadsheets.
"This is fine. I'm building up tolerance. It's just spicy, slightly acidic vegetable matter. Like a superfood, probably," he tried to rationalize internally, convincing himself to scoop out another large handful, stuffing it into his mouth.
As he chewed, the flavors hit an overwhelming, mildly acidic assault on his senses. Yet, he kept going, absentmindedly emptying the jar until all that was left was sad hits of gari left.
Then, out of nowhere a strange heat began to bloom in his abdomen, The dull ache from the acidic taste of earlier quickly sharpened.
"Ouch! Okay… maybe that was too much…fuck it feels like a small badger is trying to gnaw its way out of my stomach lining."
He placed the almost-empty jar down on the counter. barely, as the dull ache escalated in turned intense, like a white-hot, burning agony.
He gasped, before dropping to his knees. The world flipped. The green glow of the microwave clock blurred fuzzily, until it was a smear of light.
"Well I can't reach the phone…am I going to die!," he thought as everything around him seemed to switch between growing clearer or blurrier.
In his last moments he desperately tried to scream but ultimately the sharp, pungent taste of ginger was his last sensation, "oh well this surely is a remarkably stupid way to die."
Then darkness. There was no bright light, no review of his life, no divine intervention. Just an indifferent, profound silence.
But, Soon the light at the end of the tunnel was visible he was or rather felt something warm soft and strangely watery?
"Okay, this is getting weirder. I'm definitely dreaming," he thought, trying to pinch himself, a futile gesture against the surreal atmosphere.
"Not a dream. Not in a hospital. Wait the hell is going on. Am not I dead yet or something?" panicked internally he tried moving frantically stumbling on nothing, attempting to reaching a door, a exit, anything but now everything was soft and unstable .
Keisuke's consciousness was, immediately drawn further downward. into a violent current of the "metaphysical" stream. Being the Passenger of an uncontrolled transmigration. From pure chance or misfortune, no goddess was charting the course.
He's psyche felt stretched, as if he was forcefully being molded into shape.
Then, just as he abruptly entered the cold shock of a new world—
the void was gone. Replaced instantly by sound, temperature, and acute hypersensitivity. He was struggling for air, unwillingly propelled forward into a world that smelled of musk, stale linen, and expensive perfume.
Now as an infant once more, the reincarnaton was complete. Leaving the raw, intelligent mind of Yamano Keisuke trapped inside the frail body of a newborn infant.
The rough hands gripped his tiny, wet form. The air was frigid against his slick skin. The voices—speaking that language he couldn't understand —filtered through the shocked reality of a traumatized existence:
"A boy, My Lady," the woman announced.
"Let me see him."
The Earth, The Jar , and the apartment in Shinjuku —all were gone. Replaced by the cold,new cruel joke of his new life.