Waylen had never been one for grand illusions. Life wasn’t a puzzle waiting to be solved, nor a grand adventure designed for protagonists. It was a system, complex, relentless, but ultimately predictable.

  He had spent years learning how patterns worked, how equations dictated outcomes, how logic could be bent but never broken. Unlike people—messy, inconsistent people—code was honest. It did exactly what it was designed to do. No pretence, no hidden motives, no disappointments.

  And yet, even as he stared at the screen in front of him, watching another late-night project drag past deadlines, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

  The glow from his monitor cast sharp shadows across the cluttered surface of his desk. His workroom was an embodiment of his current state: functional, orderly, but devoid of any real warmth. A wall of bookshelves stood behind him, housing reference manuals, outdated tech guides, and a few novels he once meant to read but never did. His chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back, rubbing his temples.

  He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

  2:47 AM.

  Another night eaten up by work. Another set of deadlines met, code compiled, errors debugged. He should have felt a sense of accomplishment—at least some kind of satisfaction—but all he felt was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep would fix, but the kind that settled deep, a weariness that had been growing for years.

  His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer before he sighed and pushed himself away from the desk.

  He had been restless all day. Not anxious, not stressed—just... something else. Something unnamed that had sat in his chest, quiet but persistent.

  He made his way to the door, stepping carefully between stacks of papers and old coffee cups that hadn’t made their way to the kitchen yet. His apartment wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t cared for either. It existed, much like he did, efficient, functional, without much purpose beyond maintaining itself.

  Gripping the doorknob, he twisted it and stepped forward—

  Only to freeze.

  Cold air hit his face, carrying scents that didn’t belong in his apartment. Earthy, crisp, unfamiliar. His eyes widened as his brain scrambled for an explanation.

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  This wasn’t his bedroom.

  The transition was seamless, as if the laws of space had been rewritten without warning. Where there should have been his bed, his nightstand, his collection of tangled charging cables—there was something else entirely.

  Beyond the door, moonlight spilt over stone walls. An archway stretched above him, carved with intricate patterns that pulsed faintly with a soft glow. The floor beneath his feet was no longer the worn carpet of his apartment but polished marble, cool against his skin.

  His heart pounded.

  Slowly, he turned his head, scanning every inch of what lay beyond the threshold. The architecture was impossible—too grand, too intricate to exist where his bedroom should have been. Torches flickered along the distant walls, illuminating columns that stretched upward into an unseen ceiling. The air smelled of damp stone and something faintly floral.

  His pulse hammered in his ears. For a moment, he considered stepping forward—just to see if it was real—but the rational part of his brain seized control.

  He slammed the door shut.

  Breathing hard, he pressed his back against the wooden surface as if it might suddenly burst open and flood his apartment with impossible reality.

  Had he finally lost it?

  His grip tightened on the doorknob. Maybe this was a dream—some strange, lucid dream pulled from exhaustion and caffeine. He needed to test it.

  Cautiously, he pressed his ear against the door. Silence.

  He inhaled sharply, then exhaled.

  “Alright,” he muttered to himself, forcing logic over panic. “Maybe I’ve been working too much. Maybe I opened the wrong door.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, he opened it again.

  The same stone walls. The same eerie moonlight.

  And now—someone waiting.

  A woman stood at the end of the marble hallway, her gaze steady, unreadable.

  She watched him with careful eyes, regal yet guarded. Her gown shimmered like woven starlight, delicate embroidery looping around her arms and waist. A crown—real, unmistakable—rested upon her brow.

  Waylen stared.

  The woman took a step forward, the sound of her heels clicking against the marble.

  “This is a mistake,” he said under his breath, shaking his head.

  The woman tilted her head. “I assure you, it is not.”

  That voice—calm, measured, foreign yet precise.

  His pulse hammered in his ears. He clenched his jaw, trying to form words, trying to understand the impossible situation unfolding in front of him.

  “Who… what…” He exhaled sharply. “What is this?”

  The woman studied him for a moment, then gave a faint, knowing smile.

  “This,” she said, “is your choice.”