There’s a window to your left. Beyond the glass, the skyline isn't one you know. Towers of chrome and obsidian stab at a hazy sky, their surfaces crawling with neon advertisements in languages that shift and morph before your eyes. A sleek, silent vehicle—all sharp angles and no visible wheels—glides past the twenty-third floor. It’s not a car. It’s not anything from your world.

Then you look down, and the floor falls away from beneath you.

You are not wearing your own clothes. A loose grey t-shirt hangs off a frame that feels familiar yet alien. On the bedside table, a single sheet of paper rests beneath a small orange bottle of pills.

A low, crystalline chime rings directly inside your skull—sharp and unfamiliar, yet somehow louder than the blood thrumming in your ears.

He doesn't move when you stir. He is just... watching. Still as stone. Shadow pooling in the hollows of his face. Dressed in black, his face half turned away, but you catch a flash of dark hair, a glint of pale cheekbone in the dim city light leaking through the blinds.