What… is this?
Is this… a dream? No—no, it feels too real. I can't understand what's going on.
My head… it hurts. Not just a small ache—this is a sharp, pounding pain, as if something inside is trying to tear its way out. My thoughts feel scattered, slipping away the moment I try to hold onto them.
What am I even supposed to do in a situation like this?
My body feels wrong. Lighter—almost weightless. It's like I'm floating, detached from myself. My skin feels numb, my fingertips tingle. Am I sick? Am I burning up with a fever?
The spinning in my head gets worse. My vision sways in the dark.
The pain deepens—every pulse of my heartbeat makes it worse, hammering against my skull. This is unbearable… maybe I should just call in sick tomorrow.
Wait… why am I thinking about work right now?
No. This is not normal. My head feels like it's going to explode. My chest tightens, my breathing grows shallow.
What the hell is happening to me?
The darkness surrounding me wavers. It's like a heavy curtain being pulled back, thread by thread. The black void thins… until faint shapes begin to form.
A single thought flashes in my mind.
Wait a second… how am I still alive?
Before I can answer myself, a searing white light bursts into my vision. It swallows everything. I can't move. I can't even breathe.
And then—nothing.
---
I open my eyes.
A blinding light forces them shut again. The brightness is sharp, almost painful, but somehow… warm.
I blink rapidly, trying to adjust. My surroundings slowly sharpen into focus, like a fog lifting.
I'm standing.
"…Wait… where am I?" I whisper, barely loud enough for my own ears.
The room around me is old—ancient, almost. A single orange lamp dangles from the ceiling, swaying gently as if moved by a breeze I can't feel. The dim glow casts long shadows along cracked, yellowed walls.
Directly in front of me stands a wooden desk, worn at the edges, its surface crowded with neatly stacked books. Behind me, an equally aged chair rests crookedly on the uneven floorboards.
I glance to my left. A brown door with a loose handle leans in its frame, the paint peeling away in long strips. The air here smells faintly of dust and something else—iron? Rust?
By the bed in the corner hangs a brown coat and a matching wide-brimmed hat. Both look like they belong to a man from another century. Beside them stands a small wooden cabinet, its twin doors closed tight.
Where the hell… am I?
My thoughts halt when I feel something in my right hand. A strange, sticky weight.
I slowly raise it into view.
A knife.
The blade glints faintly in the lamplight, its surface streaked with something dark and red.
Blood.
My chest tightens. My breath quickens.
Before I can think, my hand flings the knife away. It clatters against the floorboards, skidding until it rests against the wall. I stumble back, my heel catching on the bedframe. I fall hard, my head smacking the wooden edge with a dull thud.
Pain shoots through my skull. I groan, clutching the sore spot.
That's when I notice a small hand mirror half-hidden under the bed. My fingers wrap around it instinctively, and I pull it into the lamplight.
One glance—and my blood runs cold.
The face staring back at me… is not my own.
A stranger looks at me from inside the glass—a white man with sharp features, a narrow nose, black hair, and deep brown eyes. He's wearing a white shirt, the top button undone, revealing a faint collarbone.
"What…? Who is this?"
I touch my face. The texture of my skin feels wrong—foreign. My jawline is sharper, my frame taller. I stand up quickly, looking down at my body.
I… feel taller than before.
Then, without warning, a spike of pain pierces my mind. It's not like the earlier headache—this is sharper, more precise, like someone driving a needle directly into my thoughts.
Images pour in.
> Cliffdon Williams, son of Ackerman Williams. Twenty-five years old. Unemployed.What… is this?
Is this… a dream? No—no, it feels too real. I can't understand what's going on.
My head… it hurts. Not just a small ache—this is a sharp, pounding pain, as if something inside is trying to tear its way out. My thoughts feel scattered, slipping away the moment I try to hold onto them.
What am I even supposed to do in a situation like this?
My body feels wrong. Lighter—almost weightless. It's like I'm floating, detached from myself. My skin feels numb, my fingertips tingle. Am I sick? Am I burning up with a fever?
The spinning in my head gets worse. My vision sways in the dark.
The pain deepens—every pulse of my heartbeat makes it worse, hammering against my skull. This is unbearable… maybe I should just call in sick tomorrow.
Wait… why am I thinking about work right now?
No. This is not normal. My head feels like it's going to explode. My chest tightens, my breathing grows shallow.
What the hell is happening to me?
The darkness surrounding me wavers. It's like a heavy curtain being pulled back, thread by thread. The black void thins… until faint shapes begin to form.
A single thought flashes in my mind.
Wait a second… how am I still alive?
Before I can answer myself, a searing white light bursts into my vision. It swallows everything. I can't move. I can't even breathe.
And then—nothing.
---
I open my eyes.
A blinding light forces them shut again. The brightness is sharp, almost painful, but somehow… warm.
I blink rapidly, trying to adjust. My surroundings slowly sharpen into focus, like a fog lifting.
I'm standing.
"…Wait… where am I?" I whisper, barely loud enough for my own ears.
The room around me is old—ancient, almost. A single orange lamp dangles from the ceiling, swaying gently as if moved by a breeze I can't feel. The dim glow casts long shadows along cracked, yellowed walls.
Directly in front of me stands a wooden desk, worn at the edges, its surface crowded with neatly stacked books. Behind me, an equally aged chair rests crookedly on the uneven floorboards.
I glance to my left. A brown door with a loose handle leans in its frame, the paint peeling away in long strips. The air here smells faintly of dust and something else—iron? Rust?
By the bed in the corner hangs a brown coat and a matching wide-brimmed hat. Both look like they belong to a man from another century. Beside them stands a small wooden cabinet, its twin doors closed tight.
Where the hell… am I?
My thoughts halt when I feel something in my right hand. A strange, sticky weight.
I slowly raise it into view.
A knife.
The blade glints faintly in the lamplight, its surface streaked with something dark and red.
Blood.
My chest tightens. My breath quickens.
Before I can think, my hand flings the knife away. It clatters against the floorboards, skidding until it rests against the wall. I stumble back, my heel catching on the bedframe. I fall hard, my head smacking the wooden edge with a dull thud.
Pain shoots through my skull. I groan, clutching the sore spot.
That's when I notice a small hand mirror half-hidden under the bed. My fingers wrap around it instinctively, and I pull it into the lamplight.
One glance—and my blood runs cold.
The face staring back at me… is not my own.
A stranger looks at me from inside the glass—a white man with sharp features, a narrow nose, black hair, and deep brown eyes. He's wearing a white shirt, the top button undone, revealing a faint collarbone.
"What…? Who is this?"
I touch my face. The texture of my skin feels wrong—foreign. My jawline is sharper, my frame taller. I stand up quickly, looking down at my body.
I… feel taller than before.
Then, without warning, a spike of pain pierces my mind. It's not like the earlier headache—this is sharper, more precise, like someone driving a needle directly into my thoughts.
Images pour in.
> Cliffdon Williams, son of Ackerman
Graduated from the National University of Baskar. Parents—both murdered.
Lives with a younger sister, sixteen years old.
Residence: an old apartment owned by his aunt.
Survival: his father's government lawyer pension.
Names, faces, places—somehow familiar and yet entirely alien—pour into my consciousness. People I've never met. Streets I've never walked. Experiences I've never lived.
The pain fades, leaving only the echo of those memories.
A faint breeze brushes my face. I turn toward the source—a wide-open window.
I step forward and look outside.
And freeze.
Below me stretches a bright, bustling old city bathed in the silver glow of moonlight. Narrow cobblestone streets wind between rows of tall, stone buildings. Gas lamps flicker at every corner, their flames dancing in the night breeze.
Few people walk the streets at this hour. A pair of horse-drawn carriages pass slowly, the sound of hooves echoing off the stone walls. Somewhere in the distance, a faint bell chimes the hour.
This… is not Japan.
As I'm lost in the scene, a sound—soft but distinct—slips into my ears.
A voice.
Calm. Low. Unmistakable.
"Cliffdon Williams."
I reach up and touch my ear as if I could catch the sound. "…Cliffdon Williams… Is that who I am?" I murmur to myself.
My mind spins with possibilities, but exhaustion weighs me down. My body feels heavy for the first time since waking here. Maybe… maybe it's just a strange dream.
It's already night. I should rest.
With a weary sigh, I lie down on the rusty bed. The springs creak beneath my weight. I close my eyes, telling myself that when I wake up, I'll be back in my own body, in my own world.
But the truth is… that day never came.