Queens High School for the Sciences at York College – 2025
It was just another perfect day for Jenken Dory, the ultimate student—no, the apex specimen of success. He strutted down the corridor of Queens High like he owned every tile beneath his crisp white sneakers. His reddish-brown dreadlocks bounced with every step, his white hoodie tucked under a light yellow jacket, and his backward white cap barely containing the confidence radiating off him like a solar flare.
His intense red eyes scanned the hallway, and sure enough—there they were. A row of girls leaned against lockers, giggling, blushing, whispering his name like it was forbidden fruit.
Jenken smirked and raised two fingers like pistols.
"Bang."
Like clockwork, they fainted on cue, collapsing into each other as if struck by divine heat. The hallway ERUPTED in gasps and chaotic swooning.
From behind, a group of guys—his basketball teammates—rushed toward him.
"Brooo! Jenken, you clutched that final quarter like a god!"
"That three-pointer? I swear the ball curved for you, man!"
Jenken ran a hand through his dreads and grinned.
"What can I say? I'm built different. And guess what—food's on me tonight. We earned it."
"Yooo, let's gooo!" they cheered, slapping his back, laughing. He was unstoppable. Undefeated. Unmatched.
---
🚗 The Ride
Later that evening, Jenken sank into the back seat of his family's sleek black car, where his loyal butler, Mr. Kwan, adjusted the mirror and drove off.
"Master Jenken," Kwan said calmly, "it seems your allowance will be... paused."
"Huh? What?" Jenken blinked. "Why?!"
"You're failing all your classes, sir."
"F-Failing? Nah, I got C's!" Jenken snapped defensively, arms crossed. "That's, like... average. Effortless swag-level knowledge. That ain't failing."
Kwan adjusted his tie.
"That is, unfortunately, not how your parents see it."
Jenken stared out the window, scowling at the glittering New York skyline.
"This is outrageous, man. Just 'cause I don't kiss up to calculus doesn't mean I'm dumb."
---
🏠 Home Arrival… or Not
When they arrived at the mansion, Jenken slammed the car door and straightened his jacket.
"I'm talkin' to them. This gotta be some kinda academic oppression. And I ain't lettin' it slide."
"Do keep your voice down," Kwan warned. "The neighbors—"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."
Jenken threw the front door open—and instantly, the world shattered.
His foot didn't land on the marble floor.
Instead—it collapsed.
A sudden wormhole tore through space beneath him. His body flailed wildly as he was sucked in like a spaghetti noodle.
"WHAAAAAAAAAAAT THE—?!"
Colors spiraled. Time fractured. His dreadlocks stretched like taffy. His voice echoed in multiple languages. His eyes went rainbow. His hoodie turned into armor, then glitchy static, then back to a hoodie.
His limbs twisted, stretched, bounced, as gravity lost all meaning.
"IS THIS A FILTER?! AM I IN A TIKTOK GLITCH?! SOMEBODY PRESS UNDO!"
Then—SMACK.
He slammed into hard concrete. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, groggy and stunned.
"Ughhh... My perfect face..." he moaned, rubbing his cheek.
When he opened his eyes, the world around him looked... off.
The signs weren't in English. The buildings were unfamiliar. And the people walking past had very small eyes—and were all giving him extremely confused stares.
He slowly stood up, brushing dirt off his hoodie. A man passed by and muttered something in Korean.
Jenken froze.
"...wait a minute."
He glanced around. All the signs—Korean. The phones—Korean. The food cart—definitely Korean.
His jaw dropped in horror.
"No... no no no... I'm... I'M IN—"
He dramatically pointed to the sky.
"—NORTH KOREA?! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
Pedestrians jumped, startled by his sudden yelling.
He dropped to his knees in pure disbelief.
"I was at the top! I was THE guy! I had money, girls, fame... and now I'm stuck in the land of censorship and sadness?! What did I DO?!"
He groaned again and looked at his hand—only to notice a strange red symbol glowing on his palm.
He stared at it.
"...The hell is this? A tattoo? Wait—no... it's burning..."
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his head—feminine, cold, and sharp.
> "Summoner identified. Contract confirmed. Sync level: 3%. Initiating materialization."
"HUH?!"
The sky was unfamiliar.
The buildings were wrong.
And Jenken Dory—who had just earlier walked through school like a king in a custom crown—was now standing on foreign concrete, blinking hard and spinning slowly in place.
"Okay... okay... calm down," he whispered to himself, forcing one shaky breath after another.
"You're still alive. That's a star. Start with the small wins. Yeah."
He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He clenched them into fists.
"But what is happening? What the hell is happening? Seriously—what is this?!"
The air smelled like cooked meat and fuel. People walked past him, glancing sideways, then minding their own business.
Jenken spotted a man exiting a small convenience store across the street. He looked normal. Human. Grounded.
Perfect. Civilian. Information source.
Jenken crossed quickly and called out:
"Excuse me! Uh—Mr... guy, sir!"
The man stopped mid-step and looked him over.
"Yes?"
"Where am I?" Jenken asked.
The words felt stupid leaving his mouth, but he had no other choice.
The man smiled.
"You are in Korea."
Jenken's breath caught.
"Which Korea?"
A pause.
"The good one."
Jenken let out a heavy, grateful sigh.
"Thank God. South Korea. Good. Excellent."
The man gave a polite nod.
"No problem, dark skin." Then he continued on.
Jenken stood there, shoulders twitching, mouth slightly open.
"...Dark skin?" he muttered under his breath.
"Couldn't say 'sir'? Or maybe, I don't know, 'glorious foreigner of excellence'? No, had to go with the epidermis."
He turned away from the street, grumbling.
"Man oh man... I sure enough am not going to like this place."
---
He wandered aimlessly, streets buzzing around him with a life he didn't understand. Every sound felt just a little too fast. Every word, just a little too garbled. Signs in bright colors lit up the night with letters he couldn't read.
But somehow… the people. He could understand them.
"How did I understand that guy?" he asked himself. "That wasn't English. That wasn't even close to English."
He looked down at his right hand—where a faint red mark glowed just beneath the skin.
"And what is this? What's this glowing thing on my hand? What even brought me here?"
His thoughts unraveled faster than he could piece them together.
"What was that tunnel thing? What happened to my house? My school? My life?"
He reached into his pockets, hoping—praying—for something. Anything.
His hands came up empty.
His shoulders dropped. His jaw clenched.
"...And I have no money?"
His voice echoed off a building, and a few people turned.
He didn't care.
"Great. That's just great. Toss the king off his throne and take his wallet while you're at it."
He stormed forward a few steps, then stopped. A glowing sign buzzed overhead. He squinted up at it, trying to make sense of the foreign letters.
"S... h... i... b... u... y..."
He frowned. The letters blurred together.
"Shi... shi... b—Shiba... Shu... buh... ya?"
He scratched his head, defeated.
"Huh?"
His hand instinctively reached for his phone.
His fingers brushed empty cloth.
"...Oh, right. Of course."
He held up his hands like he was addressing the heavens.
"No phone. No map. No money. No help. I'm on the street like a stray dog in designer sneakers."
He laughed—short, dry, and humorless.
"So great. So freaking great. Thanks, God. Really playing favorites today, huh?"
---
🕰️ Hours Later
Darkness had settled like a second coat of clothing.
Jenken sat curled in the back of a narrow alleyway, knees up, arms crossed tight. His hoodie did little against the chill, and his yellow jacket had lost its shine under layers of dirt and streetlight grime.
A trash bag sat torn beside him. A rat darted past. The distant sound of traffic hummed like white noise.
His stomach groaned again.
He hadn't eaten. Hadn't drunk. Hadn't even fully processed how far he'd fallen.
He stared blankly at a nearby billboard in the same unreadable script.
"I can't even understand these signs," he murmured, voice dry and low.
"Only the 'S'... that stupid 'S.' And the... ah, forget it. I'm not spelling it again. It's not worth it."
He leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the stars—barely visible through the city glow.
"This can't be real..."
But it was.
This wasn't a prank. This wasn't a dream.
He was in a country he didn't recognize, with no money, no contacts, no plan—and a glowing red mark on his hand that he couldn't explain.
Jenken Dory, the perfect student, the school's pride, the golden boy of Queens...
...was now just another shadow in a forgotten alley.
And still—still—his pride refused to break.
"Tomorrow... I figure this out," he said quietly.
His voice didn't tremble.
It was tired.
But it was steady.