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In my second life, when I first transmigrated into this world, my body had been… damaged, to say the least. My left shoulder was dislocated, my right ankle was broken, and my left knee was the size of a football. And those were only the injuries I knew I had for sure.

Every breath that I took hurt. Every time I so much as twitched, it sent wave after wave of excruciating pain through my system, causing me to black out. And yet, I had no idea what had been done to me. There were no memories to draw on, no idea of who I was and how I got there. 

But one thing was for sure: whoever had this body before me died as a result of those wounds. 

I found myself along the side of a road, the bottom half of my body sloping down toward the ditch while the upper half was clinging to the road with bloody fingernails. It was almost like I had been tossed out of a car and left to die. 

I didn't know how long I lay there, hoping for some gold finger. I would have killed for the ability to heal or to be some kick-ass assassin who knew how to patch myself up. Instead, I was a social worker, and the extent of my medical training was a few videos on how to do CPR and how to call 911. 

Yeah, I was really not ready for this world.

But then I heard the sound of a car driving down the street. I didn't know if I should stand up and wave or try to slide back into the ditch more so that I could just disappear. And since it hurt to breathe, that first option was not going to happen.

I used my hands to push my body back, trying not to scream as the excruciating pain flooded my system. But when I heard the car stop, I knew that it was too late. 

Looking up, I saw one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen in my life. His black hair was perfectly done, his hands were soft and pale, and his nails were perfectly cut and filed. Even his three-piece business suit didn't have a speck of dirt on it. 

How naive I was, thinking that this man was there to save me. After all, in all transmigration novels, it was always the first man you meet who was going to end up your male lead. And that was what I thought, too. I thought that he was some CEO who was going to pick me up off the street, take me to the hospital, feed me, buy me clothes, the whole fairy tale.

Then again, I guess that is why they call it a fairy tale. Something like that would never exist in real life. 

"You poor girl," he cooed, crouching down. "It looks like you have taken a nasty beating. And yet, you are still alive." He reached out and gently brushed a piece of tangled hair from my face and tucked it as best he could behind my ear.

"It really is hard to survive in this world, isn't it? Especially with everything that has happened in the last three years. But don't you worry about a thing, okay? I have you now. Everything is going to be okay. I will take care of you." He gently picked up my battered body, trying his best not to cause me even more pain, and brought me to his car. It was a shock to see that it was one of those much older models.

I had thought for sure that, given his style, he would have one of those electric cars, but then again, who was I to judge? He was kind and was looking after me. It really didn't matter what car he drove at the end of the day. That was just me thinking materialistically. 

The timer on the microwave started to beep, startling me out of my thoughts. 

Getting up from the table, I walked over to the oven, put on some oven mitts, and took the two pans out. Placing them on top of the stove, I went to sit back down and waited for them to cool down. If I left my space now, time would be suspended, and I would never get them cool enough to frost. 

To this day, I could still smell the cologne coming from that man. There was no way I knew how to describe it other than to say it smelled like sandalwood and seduction. But it was one of those things that I could never forget. No matter how many lifetimes have passed.

I would later learn that he made his money as a recruiter. That was why he could afford to take showers, wear expensive suits, and drive around in a car when no one else had one. The Reavers paid him to find bodies… man, woman, human, zombie… it didn't matter. As long as they could take a beating or deliver one, they wanted it for their pit. 

I am sure that if I wasn't involved, I could actually appreciate what the Reavers managed to do. They recreated the Roman Colosseum and combined it with a circus. They always moved around, never spending more than two nights in the same location. And everyone who had money or something to give was more than welcome to bet on the fighter they liked best…

Or bet on how long a 5'2" woman would last against a zombie.

At first, I thought we moved so much because the Reavers were scared that they would get caught. That the government would come and shut them down. But that wasn't the case at all. They moved so much so that none of us fighters would ever actually plan their escape. 

What was the point of leaving if you didn't know where safety was?

I still remember the first time I had ever seen a zombie was in the pits. Hell, it didn't even register that we were in the middle of an apocalypse until that very moment.