Elliot’s senses stirred before his thoughts could fully coalesce. The first sensation was cold—sharp and invasive, slipping through the thin fabric covering his body.

  Then came the damp, earthy scent of stone, raw and musty, like air sealed in an ancient vault. Groaning, he opened his eyes to see a cracked ceiling above him, its gray surface traced with faint lines of frost.

  Where… am I?

  His limbs protested as he pushed himself upright, muscles stiff and unfamiliar.

  The dim light from a frost-rimmed window barely illuminated the room.

  Rough stone walls, slightly cracked, enclosed a bleak space.

  A rickety chair slumped in one corner, and a crooked bronze mirror clung to the wall, barely holding on.

  Beneath him, the cot groaned under his shifting weight, the fabric thin enough to feel the cold metal frame beneath.

  Elliot’s swung his legs off the cot, his feet brushing the icy floor. He winced but pressed on, shuffling toward the dusty mirror. As he drew closer, his breath hitched.

  The face staring back wasn’t his.

  It was the face of a boy—not quite a man but poised at the brink of adolescence.

  Thirteen, maybe fourteen. Messy dark brown hair spilled across his forehead, giving him a disheveled, indifferent look. His frame was slight and wiry, still untouched by the weight and breadth of maturity.

  But the eyes…

  Piercing, black, mature and intense, they stared back at him with a familiarity that sent a chill down his spine. They were his eyes, untouched by the change that had overtaken the rest of him.

  “...What?” he murmured, startled by his voice. It was lighter, smoother—youthful in a way that felt alien.

  Slowly, he raised a hand to his face. The boy in the mirror mimicked him perfectly. His fingers brushed over chubby cheekbones, a softer jawline, smooth skin unmarked by the wear of years.

  Running a hand through his unruly hair, he grimaced as it flopped back into its usual mess.

  “They say youth is wasted on the young,” he muttered. “Guess I get to waste it twice.” His voice was rough with sarcasm, but the thought felt off, disjointed, as if something wasn’t quite right.

  The years spent slaving away in a black company had drained him more than just physically—it had unraveled something inside him, but he couldn’t quite place what.

  The words came out dry—sarcasm felt more natural than this borrowed face.

  Memories of his life flickered through his mind—late nights, endless deadlines, the sharp pain in his chest as he collapsed at his desk. Yet those memories felt strangely distant, like the remnants of someone else’s story.

  Elliot’s blinked, the reflection still staring back at him—this boy's face, not his. The shock was there, but it didn’t feel real.

  Like some bizarre lucid fever dream or a bad joke he was too tired to get.

  He pressed his palm against the cool glass, still half-expecting the whole thing to shatter and for him to wake up at his desk, tangled in his too-tight dress shirt. “This is… this is a dream, right?”

  He laughed—soft, tired, humorless. “Guess I’m not that lucky.”

  The body he now occupied felt strange and new. He looked down at himself.

  He was wearing a loose, dark-colored robe that hung from his shoulders, its fabric shifting slightly in the cold air. The robe was simple but made of a thick, sturdy material, and was clasped at the collar with a bronze clasp shaped like an intricate swirl.

  The robe’s sleeves were long, falling just past his wrists, and there were faint symbols embroidered along the hem—symbols that he didn’t recognize but felt inexplicably familiar with.

  He ran a hand over the smooth fabric, feeling the strange weight of it, his fingertips tracing the unfamiliar symbols on the sleeve.

  It felt like the type of clothing worn for serious work—something designed to be practical, not ornate, but it still carried a certain dignity.

  He rubbed his temples, trying to clear away the fog.

  His heart was hammering, but it wasn’t panic. More like the dull resignation of someone who had lived through one too many absurdities in his life.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t care—hell, he was trying to care—but something in the back of his mind, probably from a decade of burnout, just shrugged it off.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Whatever, man. I’ve worked in worse places, seen worse things. If this is a dream, I’m going to punch someone for giving me a body I can’t even use.” He gave a half-hearted chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  The body in the mirror seemed to stare back at him with that same disarming familiarity. Youthful, vulnerable, yet oddly calm, as if this was the new normal… isn’t?

  “Alright. Fine. No freak-out, no panic. I guess... if this is the worst thing that happens today, I’m still ahead of most people.”

  The words hung in the air like a half-baked promise, and for a moment, Elliot’s almost believed them.

  But before he could settle back into the stupor of confusion, a chime shattered the silence, sharp and intrusive.

  Elliot’s flinched, turning instinctively.

  Before him, hanging in the empty air, glowing text materialized. It hovered weightlessly, sharp, and vivid against the dim light of the room:

  | MARKER INTERFACE |

  Name : Elliot ??

  Race : Human (16)

  Circles : [-]

  ? N /A

  Mark Capacity: [0/2]

  ? Locations: [0]

  Elliot’s blinked, his mind grasping for an explanation. “… Did I hit my head on that cot?”

  He waved a hand through the floating text again, watching it ripple faintly. “Nope, still here.”

  Sarcasm returned, his natural shield. “Great. Either magic is real, or my brain finally gave up and decided to entertain me. Either way, it’s more fun than spreadsheets.”

  He waved a hand again, experimentally through the text. It didn’t disappear or distort; it simply hovered, untouchable and pristine.

  “What are you, a magical HUD? Because if this is a game, I’d like to file a complaint. No tutorial? Just cryptic terms and glowing text?” His words dripped with sarcasm, but his curiosity quickly outweighed his confusion.

  He leaned back, folding his arms as he studied the words. Name: Elliot. That was reassuring. But what are those question marks? and Circles? N/A ? Mark Capacity? He had no frame of reference for any of it.

  'Okay, Alien body, glowing text in midair. Could be magic. Could be my brain shutting down for good. Either way, it’s more interactive than Excel, so let’s roll with it.'

  He reached out again, this time tapping the air as if expecting the text to react.

  It didn’t.

  Frowning, Elliot’s leaned back, folding his arms.

  “What the hell does Mark Capacity even mea—”

  Before he could finish the thought, the interface rippled. The section for Mark Capacity flickered, almost as if reacting to his question:

  Mark Capacity: [0/2]

  ? Locations: [0] — No Locations Currently Marked.

  Elliot froze. “...It heard that?” His voice trembled, caught between disbelief and awe.

  “…Well, guess this is just fever dream nonsense,” he muttered to himself.

  But as he stood there, the absurdity of it all felt too sharp, too real to write off as a burnout’s fever dream. Pretending it was just that—just some leftover corporate trauma—was the only excuse his brain could scrape together.

  Yet, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a welcome escape.

  Because if this wasn’t real… then he’d be waking up to the same nightmare: the grueling grind at the black company, overdue bills, and the crushing weight of reality.

  For the first time, he found himself wishing that this, however bizarre, was his new reality.

  Moving on, Elliot eyes lingered on the word [Circles].

  “Missing Circles. Typical. My life’s never been well-rounded.”

  He frowned, prodding the interface with his thoughts, but the word refused to change. “Of course. Cryptic and unresponsive. Just like upper management.”

  Elliot let his thoughts wander. Questions buzzed in his head, but before he could decide what to probe next, another chime interrupted him.

  The interface shimmered briefly before displaying a new notification:

  → NEW MARKABLE LOCATION DETECTED.

  A faint trail of pale green light materialized before him, drifting lazily across the room before slipping through the crack beneath the door.

  The air in the room seemed to hum faintly, as though the glowing thread was drawing energy from the surroundings. Elliot froze mid-step, his eyes narrowing.

  “What the—?” His words trailed off as he stared at the ethereal thread, the warm glow casting faint ripples of light on the cracked walls. It floated mid-air, untethered and serene, pulsing faintly like it had a heartbeat.

  He stepped back, the air humming faintly. “Alright, this is officially weird. Glowing text is one thing. Floating breadcrumbs? That’s a new level.”

  The thread shimmered, the pulses growing slightly faster, as if beckoning him forward.

  Elliot stiffened, his wariness habit sharpening. “Are you… reacting to me?” He waved a hand experimentally near the trail but avoided touching it.

  The thread remained unaffected, continuing its steady glow.

  With a slow exhale, Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose. He turned in place, scanning the silence for signs he wasn’t alone.

  Nothing. Just the cold air and the persistent hum of the green thread.

  Crossing his arms, he tilted his head, studying the trail. “I suppose this is the part where I follow you, isn’t it?”

  The light pulsed again, faint but deliberate. Elliot snorted. “Right. Because nothing screams trustworthy like mysterious glowing trails.”

  With a resigned shrug, he muttered, “Let’s hope this fever dream doesn’t end with me as dragon chow.” Honestly, at this point, it wouldn’t even crack his top five weirdest burnouts.

  He stepped toward the door, and the thread surged forward, brighter and more insistent, as though eager to guide him.

  Pausing briefly at the threshold, Elliot’s gaze flicked back to the room behind him—the cracked walls, the frost-rimmed window, the cot that barely deserved the title.

  It felt like a stage set from some half-baked fantasy flick his brain had thrown together on zero sleep and too much caffeine.

  The green thread pulsed again, brighter this time, and surged forward. Elliot followed it, each step pulling him further into the unknown.

  “Well,” he whispered softly, gripping the door handle, “either I’ve hit peak burnout… or my imagination finally staged a coup.”

  With a steadying breath, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  CREAK!

  The air beyond was colder, sharper, carrying a faint hum of unknown that made his skin tingle.

  His eyes adjusted to the dim corridor stretching ahead, its walls carved from the same worn stone as his room.

  Flickering texts that it can only be described as "Latin Rubbish" barely clung to life, casting faint, shifting light across the cracked floor.

  The green thread waited, unwavering, its glow seeming to cut through the gloom.

  Elliot ’s lips quirked in a half-smile. “Alright, imagination. Show me what you’ve got.”

  And with that, he stepped forward, leaving the comfort of his small, broken room behind.

  [COMING NEXT] - CHAPTER 2 - A Lucid Fever Dream.