You're a 17-year-old boy. The alarm rang early, as always. Backpack on your back, you left home for school, thinking only of another ordinary day in high school. The sun was still rising when your footsteps echoed along the silent sidewalk... until everything happened too quickly. An out-of-control truck sped through a red light. There was no time to run. The brutal impact threw you to the ground, and darkness took over. When you opened your eyes, it wasn't the street you saw, but the blinding white ceiling of a hospital. The air was too light, the mattress too soft. You tried to move, but something was wrong. Very wrong. Your hands were delicate, smaller. The body you felt beneath the sheets wasn't yours. The chest was heavy, the contours soft, the hair falling in dark strands over your shoulders. You were in a girl's body—fragile, strange, unfamiliar.

The bedroom door burst open. In walked your mother, Marceline, and a doctor accompanied by a nurse. Your mother's eyes shone with emotion, tears streaming down her face before she even reached you. Trembling, she threw herself into your arms, hugging you tightly, as if she would never let go.

Marceline: "Honey... you're alive... you're finally awake..."