There’s no floor beneath me.

  No ceiling above.

  Only motion—endless, sickening, magnificent motion.

  The moment I plunge through the door, the vortex consumes me like a starving god. Light twists around me in molten spirals, colors I don’t recognize sliding over my skin like liquid glass. The air—if it is air—tastes electric, sharp with ozone and iron, birth and rot braided together in a single breath.

  Gravity ceases to make sense. It tilts, vanishes, folds back in on itself. I lurch in every direction at once, falling, floating, unraveling. My body is a thread on an invisible spindle, spinning out into the void.

  I scream—or think I do—but my voice vanishes into a silence louder than thunder. A silence with rhythm. It beats like a pulse, too massive to belong to anything human.

  Shapes twist across the horizon, but there is no horizon. Just geometry devouring itself. A staircase folds into a M?bius strip. An ocean exhales. A child’s face flickers into a dying star and winks out like it never existed. Logic can’t keep up. My brain still tries, clawing for anything solid to hold on to.

  I pass through a sky of shattered mirrors, each fragment showing a different version of myself—older, broken, grinning, crying, gone. They blur past, kaleidoscopic ghosts of who I might’ve been. Then glass gives way to bone. A tunnel of vertebrae spirals around me, endless and close. Something moves alongside me—quick, unseen—but I feel its eyes. I feel it know me.

  Time unspools. There are no seconds, no sequence. Only the now. Only sensation. Only madness.

  A low hum begins to rise beneath the chaos, vibrating in my chest like a tuning fork pressed to bone. It’s music. Or maybe it’s a warning. It echoes the pulse of the key in my pocket—if I still have a pocket. If I still have a body. I’m thought, I’m static, I’m debris caught in some god’s fever dream.

  And then—

  It stops.

  The light, the noise, the impossible spiraling of everything—

  Gone.

  Silence crashes in.

  And then—

  Impact.

  I slam into the ground with bone-jarring force. No warning. No chance to brace. Just a violent return to reality—something soft and damp and too solid to ignore.

  Then—

  Darkness.

  When I come to, I’m face down in grass—real grass, not the patchy, overwatered stuff from some city park. This is thick, wild, dewy. It smells like rain-soaked soil and something sweetly sharp, like crushed herbs. I lie there for a while, breathing it in, trying to gather the pieces of myself after... whatever the hell that was. The spinning. The light. The absence of time. It’s all foggy, fractured. Like trying to remember a dream while it’s still dissolving.

  My body aches—not from impact, exactly, but from something deeper, like my cells were pulled through a pasta maker. I flex my fingers against the earth just to confirm I still have them.

  Then something snorts—loud, wet, and alarmingly close to my ear.

  I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.

  Warm breath grazes my cheek. Something sniffs me with exaggerated curiosity, the air pulsing around my face in short bursts.

  I open my eyes slowly.

  And find myself staring directly into the giant, judgmental eyes of a unicorn.

  It should be majestic. And technically, it is—pearl-white coat, spiraling horn, a mane that ripples like silk in the breeze. But the illusion is shattered by the way it’s chewing a mouthful of whatever plant it just yanked out of the ground, staring at me like I just farted during a funeral.

  “What the hell is it?” a second voice asks—deeper, bored, nasal.

  “Looks like a shaved goblin,” a higher one answers with a sneer. “Or one of those meat apes the trolls whine about. Ugh, it’s breathing. Disgusting.”

  It takes a second to realize the voices are coming from the unicorns.

  I bolt upright with a yell, scrambling backward and nearly tripping over my own limbs. My head spins. My vision wobbles. My stomach threatens rebellion.

  The unicorns back up a few steps, not out of fear—more like they don’t want to catch whatever I have.

  One of them has a gold hoop through its nose and a mane tangled into dreadlocks. The other, lankier, flicks its tail in annoyance and resumes chewing, entirely unbothered by the fact that I just clawed my way out of interdimensional chaos and landed in their breakfast spot.

  “You’re—” I start, still breathless.

  “Majestic? Enchanting? The stuff of legend?” the one with the nose ring interrupts, voice heavy with mockery. “Save it, Two-Legs. And keep your hands to yourself!”

  “I must’ve hit my head,” I mumble, still reeling. “Really, really hard.”

  The lanky one sighs. “He’s one of those. Listen up, meat ape—this is Middle Earth. Get used to it. Or don’t. Honestly, not our problem.”

  “Middle Earth?” I echo, stunned, but I’m already staggering away.

  And that’s when the world hits me.

  Hills roll out like velvet waves, blanketed in grass that shimmers with impossible color—deep emeralds, glowing blues, streaks of soft violet. Trees tower like cathedrals, their trunks silver-veined and twisted into helixes, their leaves catching the sunlight like stained glass. Above, a lavender sky stretches wide with two suns—one gold, one red—casting twin shadows that blur and shift like oil on water. A massive, crater-pocked moon floats impossibly close, hanging like a watchful eye.

  Strange birds wheel overhead with translucent wings, flying in slow, perfect spirals. In the far distance, a waterfall runs in reverse, pouring upward into a halo of cloud. Stones drift lazily around a mountaintop like satellites around a forgotten god. The air hums with a pulse I can feel behind my teeth.

  I walk forward, dazed, every nerve in my body buzzing. This isn’t just another world. This is a dream someone buried in a nightmare. And I’m not supposed to be here.

  I don’t even belong in my own life. And now I’ve somehow graduated to being the unwanted houseguest in a realm where unicorns gossip and physics is a polite suggestion.

  Behind me, one of the unicorns calls out, “Good luck out there, jackass! Try not to get eaten by anything with more brains than you—which, to be clear, is most things.”

  “Yeah,” the second one adds with a derisive snort, “and watch out for pixies. They love their meat fresh and confused.”

  I glance back, half expecting to see them sprout wings, break into song, maybe toss glitter at my retreating back.

  They’re already trotting off across the shimmering field, laughing like con artists who just sold a map to nowhere.

  Of course.

  Of course the first creatures I meet in this godforsaken dimension aren’t noble guardians or wise guides—just a couple of smug, magical jackasses.

  I drag a hand down my face, letting out a long sigh. For a second, I think of Evan and mutter to myself, “Emotional support animals, my ass.”

  I keep walking, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and the unicorn assholes. Their laughter fades behind me, but the weirdness clings like static, refusing to shake off. Every step feels like sinking deeper into a dream that can’t decide whether it wants to be beautiful or a nightmare.

  The landscape slopes gently downward, and I follow it without thinking, my feet moving on pure instinct. There’s something that might be a path—not worn exactly, but the grass grows a little thinner here, the ground a little less wild. The air shifts as I move. It thickens, sweetens, carrying the scent of crushed flowers and something stranger still, something metallic and soft, like stone soaked in moonlight. I don’t even realize I’ve crossed into the forest until the canopy folds over me.

  And it’s like stepping into another world entirely.

  The trees tower above, impossibly tall, their trunks twisted into slow, deliberate spirals. Their bark pulses faintly with veins of silver and pale blue light, and the leaves overhead shimmer like fragments of stained glass—emerald, violet, gold—catching the twin suns’ glow and scattering it into a thousand shifting patterns across the forest floor. There’s no breeze, but the trees move anyway, creaking and sighing like they’re breathing, whispering just beneath the edge of language. It feels sentient. Watching.

  Vines drape from the branches, some ending in flowers the size of my head, their petals rippling through colors as I pass—others heavy with glowing fruit in impossible shades: coral, teal, burnt rose gold. One fruit sways invitingly when I get close, but I veer around it. Somehow, I know better. You don’t eat anything in a place like this unless you already know the rules—and I barely even know the alphabet.

  The moss beneath my boots is thick and springy, a surreal patchwork of deep blues and neon greens. I catch glimpses of translucent roots threading below the surface, glowing softly, like veins under skin. The entire place hums with energy—not loud, not aggressive, but constant. A deep, vibrating background song I can feel under my ribs.

  Birds—or something close to birds—dart through the branches above. One glides past, wings translucent, feathers shimmering like oil on water, leaving a glittering trail in its wake. Another drifts by in the shape of a cube with wings, chirping a broken tune like a music box stuck between notes. Farther off, I glimpse shapes that might be deer—except when I try to focus on them, they blur and bend at the edges, like the forest itself won’t let me look too closely.

  Tiny creatures flit at the corners of my vision—bright fur, spindly limbs, wide eyes peeking from behind bushes and roots. Every time I turn to catch a proper look, they scatter with the sound of rustling leaves and breathless, tinkling laughter.

  The whole forest is alive. Not just alive—aware. Not in any way that feels safe.

  I stop and lay a hand against the nearest tree. The bark is warm, alive, vibrating faintly under my palm like a heartbeat. I close my eyes and breathe, feeling the pulse of the place thrum through me. It’s beautiful. It’s breathtaking.

  And it’s wrong.

  Not wrong like a threat. Not yet.

  Wrong like a dream too vivid. Like a memory stitched together from the wrong pieces. This place hums with its own logic, its own rules—and it couldn’t care less about mine.

  I let my forehead rest against the trunk for a moment, gathering my spinning thoughts.

  No portal. No directions. No helpful unicorn tour guides.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Just me. A walking sack of confusion, alone in a place that feels like it might blink and erase me from existence if I don't figure out how to play by its rules.

  I pull back and keep moving, the pulse of the forest pressing against my back like a tide.

  And somewhere, deep under the humming roots and breathing leaves, I swear I can feel it—

  something waiting. Watching.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been wandering when I hear it—a strange little chattering noise off to my left. It’s not birdsong, not exactly. It’s sharper, twitchier. A high-pitched series of squeaks and clicks, like someone shoved a squirrel into a blender with a walkie-talkie and hit 'pulse.'

  I freeze, scanning the glowing underbrush, muscles tensing without conscious thought. The forest hums around me, alive and watchful, and then I spot it—tucked between the knotted roots of a low-hanging tree that glows faintly in the twilight. A creature no bigger than a housecat, its soft, silver-gray fur shimmering under the ambient light. Its round, twitchy ears flick at every tiny sound, and its giant glassy eyes blink up at me with an expression so innocent it borders on manipulative. Tiny paws are folded neatly under its body, and for a second—an actual, full second—I forget that this place is trying to kill me. I half expect it to have a little tag that says Hi, I'm Snuggles.

  I inch closer, crouching low, lowering my voice to something soft and coaxing. "Hey there, little guy," I murmur. "You lost too?"

  The creature blinks, tilts its head, impossibly adorable.

  “Yeah, you’re kind of cute," I say, grinning despite myself. "Like a cross between a chinchilla and a fever dream."

  It lets out a soft, cooing sound, almost like a purr. My heart melts a little. I hold out a hand.

  And then it opens its mouth.

  The angelic face splits into a nightmare—jaws unhinging like a snake's, revealing rows and rows of needle-thin, translucent teeth that catch the light with an awful glint. Its eyes narrow. Its ears flatten. And it lets out a snarl that sounds like a garbage disposal choking on a belt sander.

  I stumble back with a yell, somewhere between “Shit!” and “Nope!” but it’s already too late.

  From the bushes and trees, more of them pour out—dozens—scrambling and hopping and shrieking. All the size of housecats. All covered in sickeningly cute fluff. All packed with tiny murder teeth. They descend on me in a blur of hissing fur and claws, biting at my clothes, tugging on my arms, scrambling up my legs. I flail wildly, spinning in circles like a man caught in a tickle fight with a sack of angry piranhas.

  “Why are you all so fluffy and so mean?” I shout, swatting one off my shoulder as another gnaws at my boot.

  In my blind panic, I don’t see the thin tripwire of woven vines stretched across the clearing. My foot snags it, and before I can do more than yelp, something above me snaps tight.

  The world flips.

  I'm yanked off my feet, hauled violently upward, and in the next breath, I’m dangling upside down from a net strung between the trees. Blood rushes to my head, the forest tilts sideways, and the creatures swarm below, just out of reach, hissing and gnashing their tiny, wicked teeth. One of them actually waves at me, the smug little bastard. Another licks its claws, eyes gleaming with vicious glee.

  “Cool," I wheeze, hands dangling uselessly above my head. "Real cool. Just lean right into the jungle nightmare cliché, why don't we."

  I twist, trying to get a better look at the trap. It’s a crude net, woven from thick rope and vines, strung expertly between the trees. Whoever—or whatever—set this up wasn’t just hunting dinner. They were hunting something clever enough to fight back. And now I'm bait.

  The pack below me circles for a minute longer, still jittery with energy, still full of hostile giggles... but then they freeze.

  Every single one of them locks up at once—ears swiveling toward the deeper forest like tiny satellite dishes tuning to a disaster broadcast.

  And then they’re gone.

  In a blink, the whole pack vanishes into the underbrush, slipping into the shadows like smoke sucked out of a room. It’s not casual. It's panic. Like they just heard something far worse than me.

  And if something could scare them—tiny, furry chainsaws of death—then I am well and truly screwed.

  I go completely still, swaying in the trap as a knot of cold pressure blooms in my gut. The forest quiets. Too quiet. Even the whispering trees seem to hush. I hear it then—faint, rhythmic.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Heavy footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching from somewhere behind me.

  I twist in the net, slowly rotating like some sad, airborne rotisserie chicken. My stomach churns, my vision sways with the motion, but eventually I manage to swing far enough around to see it.

  Something massive moves between the trees, pushing aside glowing ferns with casual authority. It’s big—really big—its bulky frame lurching through the undergrowth like a walking boulder with legs. Its hide is thick and mottled, somewhere between leathery cow and overgrown yak, with patches of moss clinging to its back like it’s part of the landscape. Large, curved horns rise from its head, and its nostrils flare as it draws closer, snorting steam into the air.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself. This is it. I’ve been attacked by a corpse, chased by demon chinchillas, and now I’m about to be trampled to death by a magical space cow.

  But instead of a charge or a stomp or some final, crushing blow… I feel a heavy snort warm against my face. Then a pause.

  And then something wet slaps across the side of my head.

  I blink, confused. My left ear feels like it’s been dipped in glue.

  The creature leans in again—closer this time—and gives my entire face a slow, lumbering lick. Its tongue is massive, sticky, and absolutely soaked. The kind of wet that clings. It smells faintly like wild mushrooms and fermented milk.

  “Oh, come on,” I groan, sputtering as the creature gives me another affectionate swipe, this time leaving my hair matted and my neck dripping. “Seriously? You’re gonna French kiss me before you kill me?”

  But the beast just stares at me, blinking slow, cowlike eyes full of docile stupidity and what might be love. Or hunger. Honestly, I can’t tell.

  I hang there, dripping with goo, the net creaking overhead. The beast—whatever it is—nudges me affectionately with its massive, moss-covered snout. Its breath is hot and smells like fermented salad. Then, just as I’m starting to think this might be the dumbest death imaginable, it throws back its massive head and lets out a loud, echoing MOOOO that rattles my teeth and probably announces my position to every living thing within a ten-mile radius.

  The forest stirs. Branches rustle. Leaves tremble.

  From the shadows, figures emerge.

  At first, I can’t tell how many are closing in—five, maybe six, but more shadows shift behind the trees, moving with uncanny grace. They’re not small. That’s the first surprise. These aren’t the tiny, winged sprites from storybooks. They’re full-sized, human-height, and built like people who know how to win a fight and survive a hundred more. Their wings, when they catch the light, shimmer with colors that don’t belong in this world—jagged, iridescent things like glass blades half-folded behind their backs.

  They move like ghosts and predators all at once—silent, precise, deliberate. Each one is armed: bows drawn, arrows notched, blades strapped to hips and backs, faces painted with streaks of mud, ash, and pigments that catch in the glow of the forest. Their clothes are a chaotic mix of forest-grown materials and stolen flair—leather stitched with leaf embroidery, tunics dyed in deep mossy greens and bruised purples, belts bristling with pouches, bone charms, and the occasional rusted coin or broken compass. Some wear cloaks sewn from patchwork hides, others have feathers braided into their hair or dangling from piercings along their ears and brows. One has a shoulder pad made entirely from what looks like carved driftwood shaped into a snarling wolf's face. They look like pirates who got lost in a magical forest and decided to conquer it instead. And every set of eyes, wild and unblinking, is locked squarely on me.

  Then, a woman walks forward, flanked by her crew like a queen returning to her court. She moves with the kind of quiet dominance that doesn’t announce itself but still bends the room around it. She’s tall—not quite my height, but close enough that it doesn’t matter—and every inch of her posture dares the world to underestimate her. Her copper hair spills in wild waves over her shoulders, catching glints of forest light that turn it into flickering bronze. Beads, feathers, and the occasional tiny bone are woven into her braids—trophies, maybe, or just fashion, though nothing about her looks accidental.

  Her face is sharp and striking, the kind of beauty carved from grit rather than polished into perfection. Amber eyes glint like molten topaz, sharp with amusement but too keen to be kind. They flick across me, sizing me up—not with concern, but with calculation and maybe the faintest spark of curiosity. They're the eyes of someone who’s seen too much, survived it all, and come out the other side with a smirk and a knife.

  She’s lean, built like a dancer trained for war—every movement fluid, but controlled. Her wings are folded behind her like a cloak made of glass and fury—massive, translucent, edged in subtle color and scarred at the tips, pulsing faintly with some inner magic. They shimmer when she shifts, catching hints of starlight and danger in equal measure.

  Her clothing blends into the forest but still manages to command attention—tight leather dyed in shades of bark and shadow, cinched at the waist and accented with bits of scale armor and forest thread. Her shoulder bears a gleaming pauldron; her thigh, a patch of reinforced plating. A belt of sheathed daggers and leather pouches hugs her hips, swaying with her steps in a low chorus of soft clinks and dangerous promises. Her boots are battered, the sword at her side is wickedly curved, and the smirk pulling at her lips says she knows exactly how ridiculous I look right now—and she’s enjoying every second of it.

  “Well, well,” she says, voice smooth as aged whiskey, with a bite of gravel underneath. “Look what the forest spit into one of our traps.”

  I don’t say anything. Partly because I’m still dangling upside down, face crusted in moss cow drool, leg numb, and dignity leaking out of me like blood from a gut wound. She strolls up and stops just in front of me. The blade in her hand lifts—not in threat, but with lazy, practiced ease—and she taps the flat of it against my cheek. Cold steel meets drying slime.

  She studies me, brow furrowed slightly. “You look familiar.”

  “Yeah, I recognize you too,” I mutter, wincing as the blade peels a flaky strand of goo off my jaw. “From the bar. You told me to get lost.”

  Recognition flares in her eyes like dry leaves catching fire. Her grin widens, sharp and merciless.

  “Ohhh, you,” she says, snapping her fingers like a memory finally clicked. “You’re that sad little wreck who tried to hit on me. I told you to go home, and you looked like I’d kicked your puppy.”

  She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Then you tried to flirt with the jukebox. And honestly? It had more chemistry with you.” Laughter erupts behind her—not polite chuckles, but full-on, beer-spitting, knee-slapping chaos from the peanut gallery. Her crew. Pirate fairies, apparently.

  She looks back at me, blade still resting in her hand. “So, what is this? You follow me here through a magical toilet or something?”

  “I didn’t mean to follow you,” I groan, the net swinging slightly as I shift. “I got shoved.”

  She raises a brow. “By who?”

  “Sprites. From my car. Look—it’s a long story.”

  She spins the blade once in her fingers, slow and deliberate. “My favorite kind. Especially the kind that starts with some poor bastard getting pantsed by gravity.”

  She doesn’t even look when she flicks her wrist and points. One of her crew—massive, bearded, and somehow already annoyed—grunts and strides forward. With a practiced tug, he begins untying the net. It doesn’t take long.

  The net gives way, and I crash to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  I lie there, flat on my back, blinking up at the kaleidoscope sky as moss soaks into my shirt. I don’t move right away. The world spins slightly. I’m still trying to remember how standing works.

  “You’ve gotten yourself in quite the predicament, Jack.”

  My head lolls to the side. I squint up at her. “Wait—how do you know my name?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts her head, one brow arched in quiet amusement, and says, “Fiora.” Then she straightens, wings flexing lazily behind her, and adds with a smirk, “Fiora Starling.”

  She sticks out a hand like she’s offering me a deal I probably shouldn’t take.

  I hesitate, then grab it.

  Her grip is stronger than I expect. She pulls me up with one firm tug, and before I know it, I’m standing, swaying slightly, trying not to throw up, pass out, or say something stupid. She holds onto my hand just a second longer than she needs to, eyes locked on mine and then lets go like she’s already sized me up and filed me under messy but interesting.

  And now I’m upright in the middle of a fairy pirate gang, covered in cow spit, with no clue where I am and a woman who knows my name when I sure as hell don’t remember giving it.

  Awesome.

  I barely have time to adjust to being upright again before her crew closes in like vultures circling a dazed animal. They don’t say anything at first, just begin... inspecting me.

  One of them circles around behind and lifts a lock of my hair like she’s checking for lice. Another pokes at my shoulder with the end of a dagger, watching to see if I flinch. A tall guy with feathers in his beard crouches in front of me and starts examining my shoes, mumbling something about “Earth soles” while tapping the rubber with the butt of a short blade.

  “Uh—guys?” I shift awkwardly as someone pokes at my ears. “Personal space? Not really a thing in this world, huh?”

  They ignore me. One of them takes my wrist and studies my hand like it might reveal a prophecy hidden in my knuckles. Another peers into my eyes, squinting like he’s trying to detect some cosmic barcode.

  “You think he’s marked?” someone asks.

  “Doesn’t smell like one,” another answers. “Unless fear sweat counts.”

  “Okay, time out!” I throw my hands up. “Yes, I’m lost. Yes, I’m weird. And yes, I’m wearing last night’s emotional damage like a badge of honor. But maybe you could help me instead of poking me like a lab rat?”

  As if on cue, the moss cow ambles up behind me again and nudges my back with its nose like an overeager retriever. I groan.

  Fiora smirks. “Careful. He’s got emotional support livestock now.”

  I shoot her a tired look. “Listen. I’ve been through a lot. I fell through a portal, I got insulted by unicorns—actual unicorns, who were massive jerks—I nearly got eaten by psychotic furballs, this walking sponge of a cow won’t stop licking me, and I was attacked by a corpse in a morgue.”

  There’s a pause. A few of the fairies blink, some exchange glances. One guy whispers, “Morgue?”

  I wave them off. “Yeah, yeah, I know how it sounds. That’s not even the weirdest part. On top of all that, I started seeing things—on the bus. I thought maybe I’d finally snapped. Then... then I found this.”

  I reach into my pocket.

  The second I pull out the key, everything changes.

  The group freezes.

  The emerald set into the ornate metal glows faintly in my hand, pulsing slow and steady like a heartbeat. The air itself seems to still—like the forest is holding its breath.

  Whispers break out around me. Faces shift from skepticism to something colder. Warier. Even Fiora’s smirk falters. Her eyes fix on the key, the playfulness draining from her expression like a tide pulling back.

  She steps forward, slower this time.

  “Where did you get that?” she asks, her voice low and suddenly serious.

  I look down at the key glowing softly in my hand, then back at her.

  “I told you,” I say, swallowing. “It was in my locker.”

  And now no one’s laughing.