Y/n’s music faded into static as sleep pulled her under—slowly, gently, like an old friend.

She dreamed of stars. Of a shield. Of a man with a metal arm and sad eyes.

Then—nothing.

Light. Harsh and white, streaming through unfamiliar blinds.

Y/n’s eyes snapped open.

The ceiling above her was smooth, white, clean. No water stains. No cracks. No peeling paint.

Her bed was bigger. Softer. The sheets smelled like lavender.

She sat up so fast her head spun.

This wasn’t her room.

Her room had band posters taped crookedly over mustard-yellow walls. Her room had a stack of textbooks on a wobbly desk and a closet door that never quite closed all the way.

This room had a minimalist desk. A potted plant by the window. A framed print of the New York skyline.

Her heart hammered as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet met cold hardwood, not the threadbare carpet she was used to.

She crossed to the window, pulled the blinds aside.

Below, yellow cabs honked and weaved through traffic. Sidewalks teemed with people clutching umbrellas. A deli on the corner had a neon sign that flickered: OPEN.

This was New York.