I stood frozen in the middle of a house so large it felt like a museum. The kind of place with ceilings too high to be practical and furniture that probably cost more than my entire apartment.
Marble floors. Walls lined with abstract paintings I didn't understand. A staircase so wide it felt like it was built for kings. The chandelier hanging above me looked like it belonged in some royal palace.
My first thought was simple.
"This has to be a dream."
It made no sense otherwise.
I mean, yesterday—no, not even 24 hours ago—I was walking to a boring office job, living the same exact day on loop, fighting off depression with gym sessions and web novels. Then I got into a random street fight, saved some guy, and bled out on the sidewalk.
I died.
I felt it. That cold emptiness. The world fading out.
And now?
Now I was standing here, in a place I'd never been, with a face that didn't belong to me, in clothes that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Everything screamed dream.
Except one thing:
I didn't wake up.
Usually, once I realized I was dreaming, the illusion cracked. I'd wake up in bed, sweaty, heart pounding. But not this time.
I stood there, quietly panicking, and did the only thing that made sense: I touched the wall beside me.
Cold. Smooth. Real.
M
I looked down at my hands again. They were still thinner than I remembered—more elegant, the kind of hands you see on actors and models. Not rough. Not mine.
I clenched them into fists. Still didn't feel like mine.
And then I remembered something else.
When I was walking out of the hospital earlier, my legs had hurt. Not just a little. Sharp pain, especially behind my thighs—like the soreness after leg day, except deeper.
Do people feel pain in dreams?
That question kept looping in my head.
I didn't know. I never had dreams this vivid, this grounded. Something was off. Not fake—off. Like I was dropped into a world that wasn't mine, but everything in it was real.
Before I could sort through the mess in my head, I heard footsteps behind me.
A woman in a black suit approached, carrying a sleek tablet. She was tall, poised, and looked like she hadn't smiled in years.
"Mr. Stem," she said, stopping a few feet in front of me, "you have your private club meeting tomorrow at 2 PM. The President will be attending."
I blinked.
"…The president of what?"
She gave me a calm, polished smile. "The country, sir."
The country?
She didn't seem like she was joking. No hint of sarcasm. No punchline. Just facts.
"You're expected to arrive on time," she continued, tapping something on her tablet. "Your father was very specific about that. Also—no drinking too much. And no drugs. At least, not this week."
My brain short-circuited.
"…My father said that?"
"Yes, sir. He called this morning."
I had no idea who my "father" even was in this world.
I had no idea where I was, who I was, or why I was here. Every time someone called me Mr. Stem, it felt like a small glitch in my brain. That name meant nothing to me.
Still, I nodded slowly, playing along, because what else was I supposed to do?
"Right. Of course."
The woman gave a small bow, handed me the tablet, and walked away without another word.
I stood there, holding the device, feeling completely lost.
This wasn't a coma. It wasn't a lucid dream.
Something was seriously, deeply wrong.
It felt like reality had rewired itself—and someone forgot to tell me about the update.
I sat down on one of the giant couches, sinking into cushions so soft they felt like clouds. The tablet screen blinked to life, showing appointments, messages, schedules in my name: Alexander Stem.
Was this someone else's life? Someone rich? Powerful? Connected? And if so… why was I in it?
I looked at my reflection again in the black tablet screen.
Still not my face.
Sharp jawline. Narrow nose. Eyes that looked too intense for someone who used to spend most of his day behind a cubicle screen.
I looked like a younger, sharper version of Johnny Depp. It was unsettling.
Somehow, deep down, I still felt like me.
Like the guy who once laughed at people who believed in reincarnation or body-swapping or… whatever the hell this was.
That guy who died on the sidewalk—me—who had no money, no fame, no power.
He had only body built from five years in the gym and a few unread notifications on his phone. That's it.
And now, I was being told to attend a private meeting with the President.
I didn't know what this was.
A dream? A glitch in reality? A second chance?
Or something far stranger.
My heart was racing now, but my face stayed calm. I'd always been good at hiding panic.
"Alright," I whispered to myself. "Until I figure out what's going on… I'll play the part."
I stood up and walked toward the giant window.
Outside was a view of the city—high up, wide open. We were definitely in some kind of penthouse. I saw the tops of buildings I'd only seen from the sidewalk before.
I wasn't just living someone else's life. I was living at the top of it.
But none of it felt earned.
And deep down, I had one overwhelming thought:
"This dream feels too real to be fake… and too perfect to be safe."
Something was coming.
And I had no idea if I was ready.