My bedroom is dim, lit only by the weak afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The bay window seat where I'm curled up holds the faint scent of lavender from last summer's dried flowers.

I write about the mundane—the barista who got my order wrong, the stranger who smiled at me on the bus, the way the rain makes everything feel like a movie scene.

But my eyelids grow heavy. The words blur. The pen slips from my fingers.

And then—

A loud BANG jolts me awake.

I'm not in my room anymore.

I'm on my floor, back pressed against cold hardwood, surrounded by the familiar clutter of my apartment—but something's different. The air is thick. Charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

I blink, and that's when I see them.

All of them.