Rain fell in heavy sheets, drumming on the asphalt with a steady rhythm. Zhing Mirance squinted through the windshield, wipers barely keeping up as water pooled along the streets of downtown. Neon signs reflected in the wet roads, splashing red and blue across the puddles. He was tired—bone-deep tired—but the part-time job shift had finally ended, and all he wanted was to get home.
The city felt alive in its chaos: horns blaring, people hurrying under umbrellas, the occasional shout from a street vendor. Zhing gripped the steering wheel, eyes flicking to the car ahead, to the yellow lights reflecting off slick crosswalks, to a man with a black umbrella darting across the street.
Then, something moved too fast.
A car—dark, gleaming, tires squealing—came barreling around the corner. Its headlights cut through the rain like knives, glinting off puddles on the asphalt. Zhing's stomach dropped. His hands slammed the brakes, tires screeching against the wet pavement.
"Shit!" he shouted, gripping the wheel as adrenaline surged.
The car didn't stop. It skidded. Time seemed to stretch—he saw the driver's panic-stricken eyes, the way the rain slid in rivulets across the windshield, the reflection of his own terrified face. He tried to swerve, but the road was slick, and the other car clipped the front of his vehicle with a deafening crunch. Metal twisted, glass shattered, and the world erupted into chaos.
The smell hit him next: burnt rubber, wet asphalt, something metallic sharp and coppery. His chest slammed into the steering wheel as the car spun, and he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. For a heartbeat, everything slowed—he could see droplets of rain suspended midair, hear the frantic screaming of pedestrians, the honk of a horn echoing through the storm.
Then darkness swallowed him.
He woke to silence.
Not the soft hum of traffic or the drizzle on windows, but a profound, almost sacred quiet. Slowly, his eyes opened—and light poured in. Not fluorescent, not harsh, but golden, warm, filtered through tall windows draped in heavy crimson curtains. He blinked, trying to reconcile the softness of the room with the chaos he'd just survived.
The bed he lay on was enormous, far larger than any bed he'd ever known. The sheets were silky and smooth, sliding like water across his skin. The headboard towered behind him, dark wood carved with curling vines and roses. A crystal chandelier hung from a ceiling painted with gold-trimmed filigree, catching the sunlight in a soft glow that made the room shimmer.
Zhing tried to sit up. His body… felt different. Lighter in some ways, heavier in others. His arms—slender, soft, delicate—slid under the sheets as he struggled to comprehend the changes.
"What the…?" His voice was alien. Higher, softer, almost musical. He tried again. "What the hell…"
Panic rose like fire. He scrambled from the bed, legs unsteady. His balance was off, his hips shifting in ways his brain refused to process. The carpet beneath his feet was impossibly plush, soft enough to sink into with every step. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old wood polish.
Zhing's eyes roamed the room. Portraits of stern men in armor and women in extravagant gowns stared down at him from the walls, golden eyes catching the light. Every detail shouted wealth, power, nobility. He reached for his chest—and froze.
His hands brushed against a softness where there had been none before. Heart racing, mind screaming, he stumbled toward the far side of the room.
There it was.
A mirror. Tall, ornate, gilded with delicate vines and roses. Zhing's trembling hands gripped the frame as he leaned closer, every instinct telling him not to look, every ounce of curiosity forcing him to.
The reflection loomed just ahead… and he swallowed hard.
End of Chapter 1