Chapter Seven: The Birthday

I woke up fast, my heart pounding. The warm sunlight streamed through my window, chasing away the memory of a strange dream. My room looked normal—posters on the walls, my old game console blinking on the dresser. It smelled like vanilla candles and home.

Was it just a dream? The weird lab, the pain, the cold air—it had all felt real. But now it was gone. I sat up slowly, my blanket sliding off me. Everything felt calm and familiar. I could hear my mom downstairs, the clatter of pots and pans echoing softly. The whole house hummed with life.

“Zack!” Mom called out. Her voice was cheerful and loud. “Come on, you don’t want to be late for your big day!”

My big day? For a second, I was confused. Then I remembered: my birthday. My 13th birthday! I jumped out of bed, the soft carpet cool under my feet. Today had to be perfect. My friends were coming over, and so was Mia.

Mia. Just thinking about her made my stomach twist. She was in my science class, and we’d worked on a project together once. She was smart and cool and way out of my league. But she said she’d come to my party. What if she thought it was dumb? What if she thought I was dumb? I shook the thoughts away. There wasn’t time to worry.

I threw on my favorite shirt, the one with the band logo I liked. Standing in front of the mirror, I ruffled my hair. It looked messy but in a good way—at least, I hoped it did. I had to look normal, like I wasn’t trying too hard.

Footsteps thumped up the stairs. My dad poked his head into my room, a big grin on his face. “There’s the birthday boy,” he said, tossing me a small box wrapped in shiny paper. “Here, open this before the chaos starts.”

“Thanks, Dad!” I said, ripping the paper open. Inside was a brand-new watch. It was sleek and shiny, with a glowing screen. I slipped it on my wrist, holding it up to the light.

“Cool, right?” Dad asked, ruffling my hair. “Now, come downstairs. Your mom’s making pancakes—lots of pancakes.”

I followed him down, the smell of syrup and butter making my mouth water. The kitchen was decorated with balloons and streamers. Presents sat in a big pile on the counter. My mom turned from the stove when she saw me, her face lighting up.

“Happy birthday, Zack!” she said, pulling me into a hug. “I hope you’re ready for the best day ever.”

“I am,” I said. For the first time, I really believed it. Everything felt so normal, so good. The strange dream from earlier was fading fast.

The day flew by. Friends filled the living room, laughing and shouting over the music. We played games, ate too much cake, and made a total mess. And then Mia arrived. She came late, her bright smile making my heart race. She handed me a small gift wrapped in shiny paper.

“Happy birthday,” she said, her cheeks turning pink. “I hope you like it.”

I opened it carefully. Inside was a book about astronomy. It was perfect.

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound too nervous. “This is really cool.”

“I thought you might like it,” she said, smiling.

The rest of the party was a blur. Mia stayed close, laughing at all the jokes and joining in on the games. I kept glancing at her, amazed that she was really here. It felt like everything was going exactly how it should. Perfect.

But as the evening wore on and people started leaving, a strange feeling crept over me. It was small at first, like a whisper in the back of my mind. Something felt… off. Like I was forgetting something important.

By the time the last guest had left, I felt drained. I climbed the stairs to my room, my legs heavy with exhaustion. I dropped onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. The dream—or whatever it had been—flashed through my mind again. The cold, sterile walls. The pain. The voices. It didn’t feel like a dream anymore.

And then a name popped into my head. A name that didn’t belong.

Prototype 13.

My eyes shot open. My heart raced. The warm, safe feeling of the day started to fade. I sat up, looking around my room. It looked the same, but something about it felt wrong. Like it didn’t belong to me.

I looked at the watch on my wrist. The one my dad had given me. It blinked softly in the dim light. At first, it seemed normal. But then the numbers shifted. They turned into something else entirely:

A countdown.

The numbers ticked down silently. Each second felt louder than the last. My stomach turned. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over. Deep down, I knew:

This wasn’t my life. This wasn’t my name.

And this wasn’t my dream.