Slowly opening his eyes, John wakes up from the nap he took after coming home from work.

Still groggy, he stands up and gets off his bed. Dull from the rest, he walks to his desk to retrieve his phone, which he had left charging. His vision is still blurry, his mouth dry, and he notices something is wrong—the desk isn't where it's supposed to be.

As the haze of sleep fades, a creeping realisation dawns on him: this isn't his room. The once-modern apartment, perched stories above the city, has transformed into a dated, worn-out wooden space. The room reminds John of his childhood home—but worse.

He begins to wander through the house, inspecting his surroundings and searching for clues to explain how he got there. He tries to suppress his panic, but his mind spirals with increasingly frightening possibilities. A rusty smell from the direction of the toilet interrupts his thoughts. He knows that smell.

The short walk from the supposed bedroom to the bathroom feels like an eternity, blood rushing to his ears and deafening him. Each creak of the wooden floorboards magnifies the tension. His vision narrows into a tunnel, and though his eyes are fixed on the toilet door, he fails to notice the details around him: the pictures on the walls, the calendar, the bloodstains.

Step by step, he inches closer to the door, his hand trembling as it nears the handle. It feels as though time itself is slowing down. Finally, he grasps the handle and pushes the door open, his movements deliberate and cautious.

Strange beams of color spill unnaturally from the doorway, casting an otherworldly glow. The sight terrifies John, and he instinctively slams the door shut, collapsing onto the floor. Cold sweat trickles down his forehead and nose as he gasps for breath. Refusing to believe what he had just seen, he gathers his resolve to check again.

Slowly rising, John realises that his legs feel numb, but he pushes forward. With a deep breath, he swings the door open once more. The vibrant beams explode out, swirling around him in a dizzying display. He stumbles back, disoriented, as the lights engulf him, closing in from all sides.

Then, the attack begins. One by one, the beams pierce him, eliciting a scream like nothing he's ever experienced. The pain is overwhelming at first, but with each strike, it begins to fade, replaced by a strange warmth. The once-excruciating sensations shift to something almost pleasant.

As more beams enter his body, he feels his fear dissolve, replaced by an overwhelming sense of happiness. His body grows warmer, the colours around him enveloping his vision and his mind. What felt before like eternity is now a roller coaster ride of adrenaline. But it is still too much for John and he faints.

As the world spun and his legs gave way beneath him, everything faded into a heavy silence. The sharp edges of reality softened, then vanished, leaving only darkness.

When he opened his eyes—or thought he did—he found himself in an endless expanse of mist. It hung in the air, thick and pale, swirling lazily around him like a living thing. The ground beneath him felt insubstantial, as though he were floating in a space that had no beginning or end.

Sounds drifted in faintly, muffled and distorted, like distant echoes across a vast canyon. Each breath he took was cool, the air laced with the faint scent of damp earth and something faintly sweet, almost floral.

Shapes seemed to shift within the mist, amorphous and fleeting, disappearing just as his eyes tried to focus on them. It was neither warm nor cold here—just still, as if time itself had paused.

He tried to call out, but his voice felt trapped in his throat, absorbed by the haze before it could carry. The mist clung to him, wrapping around his arms and legs like a second skin, tugging gently as though guiding him somewhere.

A faint glow began to pulse in the distance, diffused and soft, like the first light of dawn struggling to break through the fog. It beckoned him, pulling him forward despite his uncertainty. Each step felt weightless, his movements dreamlike, as if he were gliding through this strange, ethereal world.

Out of the glow, shapes began to shift and coalesce, the mist swirling tighter around a single point. At first, it was nothing more than a faint outline, barely distinguishable from the light itself. But slowly, the form began to take shape—a human-like body emerging from the haze.

The figure was ethereal, almost translucent, as though carved from the very light that surrounded it. Its edges shimmered and wavered, flickering like a flame in a gentle breeze. It stood still, unmoving, yet its presence filled the space with a strange energy—calm but commanding, familiar yet foreign.

As the form solidified, details began to emerge: the curve of shoulders, the tilt of a head, hands that seemed to reach out but never quite touched. The face, however, remained indistinct, a blur of features that defied focus, like trying to remember a dream just out of reach.

The glow pulsed around it, illuminating the mist in rippling waves that radiated outward. The air grew heavier, charged with something unnameable, and a low hum reverberated through the space, neither sound nor silence but something in between.

He stared, rooted to the spot, unable to look away. Was this figure friend or foe, real or illusion? The questions swirled in his mind, but no answers came—only the steady, otherworldly presence of the being before him.

The strange figure began to speak, but its indistinguishable mouth remained still. From nowhere, a voice resonated in John's mind—loud, yet eerily soothing. The sound carried a weight, a sense of omniscience that seemed to press against his very thoughts.

"Why are you here?"

The words echoed, reverberating through his consciousness.

"How dare you set foot in my space again! Do you seek to wage war?"

The figure moved toward him with a strange combination of aggression and grace, each step deliberate yet unnervingly delicate. The closer it came, the more its form seemed to change. It grew taller, towering over John, and its once-blurred features became sharper, more defined.

The glow surrounding it intensified, outlining its now-solid body in radiant light. Its eyes—if they could be called that—burned with an intensity that made John's breath catch. Each step it took made the air grow heavier, the space around him closing in like an invisible vice.

John could only watch, paralysed, as the figure loomed over him, its presence both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Just before John's eyes, the figure halted, now fully emerged from the concealing mist. The haze that had once clung to it like a shroud dissipated, revealing a form that was both human and something far beyond.

It stood there, towering yet impossibly poised, its presence no longer obscured by the mist. The glow surrounding it dimmed slightly, enough for John to make out intricate details—a face etched with strange, angular markings that seemed to pulse faintly, and eyes that burned with an otherworldly light.

The figure's movements stilled, yet its power filled the space, suffocating yet magnetic. For the first time, John felt the weight of its full identity pressing against him, as though it were something vast, incomprehensible, and ancient.

The figure, now fully revealed, looked human—at least at first glance. But there was an unsettling perfection to him, a handsomeness so sharp it felt unnatural, almost cruel. His features were chiseled and flawless, his skin smooth and unblemished, yet there was something in his piercing gaze and cold smirk that exuded malice.

He was handsome like the devil himself, his beauty a weapon as much as his presence. The aura around him radiated a power that felt limitless, oppressive, and dangerous. John didn't know whether this man wielded influence in realms political, financial, or something far darker, but the sheer force of his being was suffocating.

Still, as the weight of fear settled in his chest, John clung to a singular thought: I don't care who or what he is—I have to get out of here.

Seeing the terror etched across John's face, the man paused. His piercing eyes scanned John, as if reading every thought, every fear that raced through his mind. For a moment, there was silence—tense, heavy, unbroken.

Then, slowly, the man's lips curled into a smirk. It wasn't just any smirk—it was a strange blend of confusion and delight, as though he were both amused and intrigued by the fear he had inspired. Yet, even this expression was unnervingly graceful, carrying a majesty that made it feel deliberate, calculated.

The smirk lingered, his head tilting ever so slightly as if considering John, as if deciding what to do next. The air grew thicker, the power radiating from him more palpable. And still, John could do nothing but stand frozen under that inscrutable, devilishly handsome gaze.

"You are not Thien are you?"

Asks the man amusingly

Full of confusion, John shook his head, trying to make sense of the surreal scene before him. His small, desperate gesture seemed to amuse the strange man, who suddenly broke into laughter.

The sound was deep, resonant, and brimming with an unsettling authority. It wasn't just a laugh—it was a proclamation, a force that filled the air around them. The walls seemed to tremble in response, and John's entire body quaked under its weight.

The laugh wasn't mocking, nor was it kind. It was the kind of laugh that declared dominance, a sound so powerful it left no doubt who controlled the moment. John's knees threatened to buckle as the vibrations of that laugh echoed through him, his fear deepening with every reverberation.

"This is interesting. What did Thien do? Did he succeed?" the man murmured to himself, his tone contemplative, almost amused. His glowing eyes narrowed, as though piecing together a puzzle only he could see.

He tilted his head slightly, a faint sneer curling at the corner of his mouth. "Ahh, who cares? If he did, it just means there's one less roach in my way." His words dripped with disdain, but his voice maintained an unsettling calmness that made John shiver.

The man's gaze snapped back to John, pinning him in place. His smirk deepened as he took a deliberate step closer, the weight of his presence pressing harder against John's chest. "Now, what should I do with you?" he mused, his tone shifting to one of mock curiosity.

Leaning forward slightly, his eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "It seems you have Thien's body—therefore, his talent." The way he said "talent" was laced with equal parts scorn and intrigue, as if it were both a gift and a curse.

John's breath hitched as he tried to process the man's cryptic words, his mind racing. Who was Thien? What talent? And why did this terrifying figure care?

"Tell me your name." The man's voice was suddenly smooth, his demand no longer threatening but almost polite, as he extended a hand toward John in an unexpected gesture of greeting. The animosity that had once radiated from him was now completely gone, replaced by a strange warmth, a friendliness that seemed to flow from him effortlessly.

John recoiled instinctively, his mind racing. He had seen people like this before—people who could change the atmosphere with a mere shift in their demeanour. One moment, they could instil fear, and the next, they could charm with an ease that left others feeling disarmed and vulnerable.

Those were the kinds of people who ruled his world—successful, powerful, and with that innate, enviable talent that John could never quite grasp. They were the ones who played the game effortlessly, bending the world to their will. They were the ones who had destroyed everything he'd worked for, taken away the things he'd fought to hold on to.

John's pulse quickened, bitterness flooding his thoughts. He despised them. Despised their luck, their effortless control over everything he could never have. And now, here was another one—standing in front of him, radiating that same dangerous charm.

Yet, despite the disdain clawing at his chest, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the hand the man offered. It was as if it carried some kind of invisible weight, something that would pull him in, whether he liked it or not.

The man, Sando Lancing, noticed John's hesitation. He tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his features.

"Oh! Where are my manners?" he chuckled, the sound smooth and effortless, but there was an edge to it—sharp, calculated. His smile was flawless, the kind that could melt ice or disarm anyone who dared to look at it. But to John, it only fuelled his irritation, the polished charm doing nothing to ease the unease twisting in his gut.

"I am Sando Lancing. It's a pleasure meeting you," he continued, his tone light, as if they were meeting for the first time at a dinner party, not in the midst of some strange, otherworldly encounter. The smile lingered a moment too long, making John feel as though he were being sized up, weighed, measured.

The politeness in Sando's voice began to thin. The glint in his eyes sharpened, and his next words came with less patience, almost tinged with annoyance.

"So again," he said, his voice tightening, "may I ask the person's name that is in the body of my old friend Thien?"

As he spoke, a subtle but dangerous shift occurred in his demeanour. The word "friend" seemed to leave his mouth like it was a bitter taste he couldn't quite swallow. John could almost see the muscle in Sando's jaw tightening, his teeth grinding at the mere mention of the word. The anger was there, controlled but simmering just beneath the surface.

"I-I-I—" John stammered, his mind racing, unable to force the words out.

Sando's eyes narrowed, and he let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. "I. I. I. Please!" His voice dripped with mockery, and the warmth from before evaporated in an instant. "Is it that hard to tell one's own name? Or am I that scary?" He took a step forward, his presence once again looming over John, like a predator closing in.

John's heart thudded in his chest.

"I don't have time for little games with some random nobody." Sando's smile faltered, and the facade he'd carefully crafted began to crack, revealing the true face he had shown John in the beginning—the cold, menacing expression that sent a chill down his spine.

The air around them seemed to darken, charged with a palpable anger that crackled like electricity. The shift in Sando was immediate and jarring, from smooth politeness to a raw, seething intensity. His once-polished demeanor was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous—something John had feared all along.

"Once again! What. Is. Your. N A M E?" Sando's voice was venomous now, each word punctuated with an icy, deliberate emphasis. He looked down on John with such disdain that it felt as if the ground beneath him was collapsing. The weight of Sando's presence pressed down like a crushing force, suffocating any remnants of resistance within John.

For a moment, John was paralyzed—his thoughts spiraling back to the selfish, greedy people who had once dominated his life, the ones who had broken him, manipulated him, and left him feeling small. His chest tightened with the bitter memory, and he bit his lip, a wave of anger washing over him.

I'm not them, John thought, the words barely able to form through his clenched teeth. But it didn't matter.

"I—My name is Thomas Krueger, sir," he finally muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. The sir felt foreign on his tongue, as though a part of him had automatically fallen into old habits—like a mask he had worn in another life. The acknowledgment, the submission—it was all too familiar.

But beneath the surface of those words, something burned. Humiliation. The sharp sting of it made his insides twist, and for the first time since this strange encounter began, John realized just how much he despised feeling small. Despised being reduced to nothing.

And yet, as much as the feeling gnawed at him, there was nothing he could do. Not now. Not with Sando standing over him like this, holding all the power in the room.

"Thomas Krueger?" Sando repeated, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Hmm, strange name, but maybe it's normal in your world."

His words hung in the air, laced with an unsettling curiosity, and John's mind went blank for a moment. Your world?

Confusion gripped him. What does he mean by that?

His head spun, and a cold wave of panic surged through him. Am I not in my world? Was he somehow somewhere else entirely? Was this even real? His thoughts collided in a chaotic storm of questions he couldn't answer.

Before he could make sense of anything, his legs gave way beneath him. His body collapsed to the floor, unable to move. It was as if some invisible force had drained all his strength, leaving him powerless and vulnerable. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow and frantic as he tried, desperately, to move, to stand, to do anything.

But his limbs betrayed him.

John's mind raced with questions he couldn't answer—What is this new world? Who was the original owner of this body? What did they achieve? The disjointed thoughts scrambled together, making everything feel like a blur. It was too much. Too fast.

And then, Sando's voice broke through the chaos, smooth and indifferent. "Oh, looks like this is goodbye. I hope you don't cause as much trouble as your fellow late tenant."

The words, chilling in their finality, hit John like a physical blow.

As Sando turned away, John's vision began to blur, the edges of his world growing darker, his consciousness slipping from his grasp. Fear clawed at him, but there was no escape.

The last thing he heard was Sando's footsteps, growing fainter, as the world around him faded to black.