Kael's alarm didn't go off the next morning. He woke up late, the sunlight already streaming through the cracks in his curtains. He groaned, rubbing his eyes as he fumbled for his phone. 7:45 a.m. He was going to be late for work.
He scrambled out of bed, his mind still foggy from sleep. He threw on his QuickStop uniform, grabbed his book from the nightstand, and rushed out the door without breakfast. The cold morning air hit him like a slap, and he shivered as he jogged to the bus stop. His breath came out in white puffs, and he cursed under his breath. Why did mornings have to be so cruel?
The bus was just pulling up as he arrived, and he climbed on, nodding to the driver. He found a seat near the back and opened The Weaver of Fate, trying to distract himself from the gnawing hunger in his stomach. But his mind kept wandering. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, like the world was holding its breath.
The bus lurched forward, and Kael glanced out the window. The city passed by in a blur of gray and brown, the buildings towering over the streets like silent sentinels. He turned back to his book, but before he could read more than a few sentences, there was a loud crash.
The bus swerved, tires screeching against the pavement. Kael's head snapped up, his heart pounding. He barely had time to register what was happening before the bus tipped, the world spinning around him. There was a deafening roar, the sound of metal crunching, and then—nothing.
When Kael opened his eyes, he wasn't on the bus. He wasn't in the city. He wasn't even in his world.
He was floating in a vast, endless void. There was no up, no down, no sense of direction. The air—if it could even be called air—was cold and still, and the silence was so complete it pressed against his ears like a physical weight.
Kael tried to move, but he had no body. He was just… awareness. A soul adrift in the emptiness. Panic surged through him, but there was no heartbeat to quicken, no lungs to gasp for air. Just the void, stretching endlessly in every direction.
"What… what is this?" he thought, his voice—or the idea of his voice—echoing in the stillness. "Am I dead?"
There was no answer. Just the void.
As Kael drifted, he began to notice something. Faint, shimmering threads, like strands of gossamer, weaving through the darkness. They glowed faintly, pulsing with a soft, golden light. They were beautiful, but there was something unsettling about them. They seemed to hum with a strange energy, as if they were alive.
Kael reached out—or at least, he tried to. He had no hands, no body, but somehow, he could feel the threads. They were warm, almost comforting, but there was a tension in them, like a bowstring pulled taut.
And then, he felt it. A pull, gentle at first, but growing stronger. The threads were drawing him in, pulling him toward something.
"No," Kael thought, panic surging through him. "No, I don't want this. Let me go!"
But the pull was irresistible. The threads wrapped around him, warm and soft, but unyielding. He tried to struggle, but there was nothing to struggle against. Just the threads, and the void.
And then, the void was gone.
Kael opened his eyes—or at least, he thought he did. He was lying on a hard, cold surface, his body aching as if he'd been thrown to the ground. The air smelled different—stale, with a faint hint of mildew. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the room was dim, the only light coming from a small, cracked window high above.
He sat up slowly, his head spinning, and looked around. The room was small and sparsely furnished. A wooden table stood in one corner, its surface covered in dust. A single chair lay overturned nearby, its legs splintered. The walls were made of rough stone, and the floor was cold and uneven beneath him.
"Where… where am I?" Kael muttered, his voice trembling. He tried to stand, but his legs were shaky, and he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table. His hands felt strange—larger, rougher than he remembered. He looked down at them, his breath catching in his throat.
They weren't his hands.
The fingers were longer, the skin darker, with calluses on the palms. He turned them over, staring in disbelief. These weren't the hands of a cashier who spent his days scanning groceries and reading books. These were the hands of someone who worked with them—someone who had lived a harder life.
Kael's heart raced as he stumbled toward the cracked window. The glass was dirty, but he could just make out his reflection. The face that stared back at him wasn't his. The features were sharper, the jawline more defined, the eyes a different color. He reached up to touch his face, and the reflection mimicked the movement.
"What the hell?" Kael whispered, his voice trembling. "This… this isn't me."
He stepped back, his mind racing. He looked down at his body, taking in the unfamiliar clothes—rough-spun garments, patched and worn. He wasn't wearing his QuickStop uniform. He wasn't even wearing his own clothes. He was in someone else's body.
"No," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the empty room. "No, this can't be real. This can't be happening."
But it was. He was here, in this unfamiliar room, in a body that wasn't his own. And he had no idea how or why.