The Siberian landscape stretched endlessly before him, the wind biting through layers of clothing, yet it no longer seemed as threatening. The cold was there, but it barely registered. A dull comfort radiated from within him—an assurance of warmth he didn't fully understand.
Standing still, he tried to take in the situation.
The snow around him was a cruel reminder of his current predicament. Alone, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the faintest clue about who or what he was now. The cold, the fear, the panic—it was all overwhelming.
But the power... the power that had awakened inside him in his moments of despair—it didn't make the cold go away. But it made it irrelevant.
He knew what he needed. Not warmth or protection, but a space, something familiar, something controllable.
"Yeah, let's see if I can make that happen," he muttered under his breath, tone flat, as always.
He closed his eyes for a moment, centering his thoughts. The desire to create something simple, something to give him control. His mind swirled with the idea of a room, a small, confined space. A place where he could focus, reflect, and figure things out.
The snow around him seemed to ripple, distorting for a moment. Then, with a faint hum, the world began to bend to his will.
He opened his eyes.
Before him, an oddly-shaped structure began to materialize, rising out of the frozen earth. Walls formed from layers of thick, crystalline ice, solid but smooth. The ceiling followed, slanted and almost too perfect, a patchwork of snow and stone. The edges of the room were bordered with dark wooden beams, something unexplainable yet familiar. A small window on one side framed the distant horizon, offering a faint glimpse of the outside world, while warmth began to emanate from the room itself, chasing away the biting cold.
He walked inside, observing his handiwork.
It wasn't large. Simple, even. Just big enough to be functional, with a soft fur rug lying on the floor, a modest bed, and a small fireplace crackling near the corner. The temperature was comfortable, not too warm, but just right. There was a simplicity to it, a sense of calm in the chaos of his new reality.
He couldn't help but stare at the space for a moment. The weight of what had just happened hung heavy. He had just created this. This room, this little safe haven, was his doing. His power had shaped it, his thoughts had guided it.
"Personal Reality," he said quietly, as if testing the words on his tongue. The term felt right, but the reality of it felt strange. The walls, the fire, the warmth—none of it felt unnatural, yet all of it was new. "Guess I can do this too."
His voice was casual, as though this kind of power was nothing out of the ordinary, even though it clearly was. But that was the strange thing about it—he didn't feel the weight of it. At least not yet.
He sat on the edge of the bed, mind racing. The room was quiet, the only sound the crackling fire and the occasional gust of wind outside. It was peaceful, isolating, a perfect environment to think. But as comfortable as the room was, it didn't hide the questions swirling in his mind.
What am I supposed to do now?
How far does this power go?
The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. The Personal Reality he had manifested was a direct extension of his thoughts, his desires. But was that all there was to it? Could he create entire cities, or was his power limited to something as simple as a room?
He didn't have the answers. But this—this space—felt like a start.
At least now, he could think. He could figure things out. He'd spent too much time in the cold, too much time trying to survive. Now it was time to understand. The world outside was vast and unfeeling, but here, within this room, he could at least focus on something manageable. Something within his control.
The fire flickered as if agreeing with him, casting dancing shadows across the walls. He leaned back against the fur rug, hands behind his head.
His power, Personal Reality, was both a gift and a curse. It could create and destroy, control and obliterate. But that didn't mean he understood it.
Not yet. But he would.
The outside world could wait for a while. For now, he would stay hidden, in his room, where he could think, reflect, and plan. The answers wouldn't come easily, but at least he had a place to figure it all out.
In the silence, he allowed himself a moment of peace. The room was his, for now, and that was enough.
The room felt colder now. The walls, once warm with the glow of the fire, seemed to close in on him. The house he had created—based on fleeting memories
The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth blanketing the small wooden cabin. He stretched out on the couch, sinking into the cushions as he took in the cozy atmosphere.
This place felt... nice. Comfortable. Like a house from his childhood.
Except—he didn't remember having a childhood.
Or rather, he should remember, but the details were frustratingly vague. The bookshelves, the fireplace, the wooden floorboards—they were familiar, yet lacked any real attachment. Like a half-remembered dream.
Weird.
He sat up, rubbing his temples. His thoughts had been slipping through his fingers ever since he woke up in that frozen wasteland. First, he somehow summoned fire to keep himself alive. Then, without thinking, he built this house—because why not? If he could make warmth, why not shelter too?
Yet, now that he had time to breathe, the cracks in his memories were more obvious.
What was this place supposed to be? Why did he build it like this?
And more importantly—what was his own name?
He blinked.
Wait.
What?
He tried to recall it, but nothing came. His mind drew a complete blank.
Huh. That was... inconvenient.
Well, he probably had a name at some point. If he forgot, that just meant he'd have to figure it out later. No use stressing over it now.
With a sigh, he got up and wandered the house, running his fingers along the wooden walls. It was a nice place, even if it was built from memories that didn't quite feel like his. The more he thought about it, the more something felt off—but he wasn't in the mood to untangle whatever existential nonsense was going on just yet.
One step at a time.
Eventually, he reached a door at the end of the hall. He didn't remember putting it there, but his gut told him there was something important inside.
He opened it.
The room beyond was simple, dimly lit, empty—except for an old, full-length mirror in the center.
His brows furrowed.
He hadn't seen his own face since waking up. Not once.
A normal person might've freaked out about that earlier, but he'd been a little busy not dying in the Siberian snow. Now that he thought about it, yeah—maybe he should check. Make sure he didn't have an extra head or something.
He stepped forward, hands in his pockets, and finally looked at his reflection.
And stopped.
A kid stared back at him.
Blond hair. Golden eyes. Pale skin.
...Who?
He tilted his head. The boy in the mirror did the same. He reached up, touching his face, and the reflection copied him perfectly.
Huh.
So that's what he looked like.
He blinked once. Twice. Then frowned.
Something about this was weird.
He knew this face. He was sure of it. But no matter how hard he tried to recall where he had seen it before, his mind refused to cooperate.
It wasn't just that he didn't recognize himself. It was the fact that he should.
Yet, the more he stared, the more an unshakable feeling of unease settled in his gut.
A quiet crack echoed through the room.
He looked down.
A thin fracture had formed across the mirror's surface.
…Well. That was ominous.
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. This situation was getting weirder by the second, but honestly? He wasn't sure how to feel about it. He was supposed to be freaked out, right?
Yet, all he could really think was—
Man, I hope this doesn't mean I have some tragic backstory or something.