The first thing she learned was that the world noticed discomfort.
Not fear. Not confusion.
Discomfort.
It crept in quietly, like the air changing before rain. The lamps in the corridor flickered longer than they should have. The shadows bent at odd angles. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang once—too early.
She felt it in her chest before anything else.
"This didn't happen yet," she whispered.
He heard her.
"What?"
She shook her head quickly. "Nothing."
It was a lie he didn't challenge, which made it worse.
They moved through the hallways with practiced ease, and she realized he'd done this before—slipped through places he wasn't meant to be, learned which floors creaked, which doors complained. He belonged here in ways she never would.
Every step she took felt slightly off, like walking in shoes that weren't hers.
"Keep your head down," he muttered as they turned a corner. "And stop staring."
"I'm not staring."
"You are. At everything."
She forced her eyes forward. Two guards stood near the archway ahead, their uniforms darker than she remembered. That detail made her pulse jump.
They changed, she thought.
That's not how they were described.
The guards looked sharper. More alert. Like the world had adjusted.
As they passed, one of them glanced at her.
Just a glance.
But it lingered half a second too long.
Her chest tightened.
They made it through without being stopped, but the moment they were out of sight, the air shifted again—thick, uneasy.
"That was close," she said.
He stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned to face her.
"You know things," he said. "Things you shouldn't."
Her mouth went dry.
"You flinched before the bell rang," he continued. "You hesitated at turns like you'd seen them before. And back there—" His eyes hardened. "You looked at those guards like you expected them to be different."
She said nothing.
Silence pressed in.
"You're not from here," he said again, but this time it wasn't suspicion. It was certainty.
Her shoulders sagged.
"No."
The word came out small.
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face like he was already tired of her existence.
"That's a problem."
"I know."
"No," he said. "You don't. Because this place doesn't like contradictions."
"What does that mean?"
"It means stories survive by making sense," he replied. "And you don't."
Her heart sank.
Before she could respond, the pressure returned—stronger this time. The lamps dimmed. The walls seemed to stretch, the stone rippling like it was breathing.
She stumbled.
He grabbed her arm.
"What did you do?" he demanded.
"I didn't do anything!"
The bell rang again—twice now. Wrong. Very wrong.
Somewhere nearby, a door slammed open.
Voices rose. Alarmed.
The world was correcting itself.
He pulled her toward a stairwell. "If you want to stay alive, you need to listen to me. Right now."
"Alive?" she echoed. "People can die here?"
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
As they descended the stairs, she felt it clearly now—the resistance. Like the story itself was tightening around her, trying to squeeze her out or snap her into place.
And she understood, with sudden clarity, the most terrifying truth of all.
This world didn't care why she was here.
It only cared that she wasn't supposed to be.