I retraced my steps back to the sparse room, my heart still thumping from the unsettling discovery outside. The door closed behind me with a soft click, sealing me away from the peculiar familiarity of the street. Inside, the room remained as sterile and unwelcoming as before—a quiet testament to the inexplicable transition from the world I once knew. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves as I contemplated my next move.
I needed to change. The clothes I wore felt alien in this environment, a vestige of my former existence that no longer fit the current reality. With a hesitant resolve, I moved toward the small dresser. As I rifled through the drawers for something more suitable—a crisp dark sweater and a pair of clean jeans—I also approached the mirror that hung on the wall. It was in that moment, as I prepared to shed the remnants of my old life, that I caught a glimpse of myself.
Staring back was a face that should have told a story, but instead, it was utterly blank. There were no defining features: no expressive eyes, no contour of a nose, no mouth to form a smile or frown—only an absence, a smooth and featureless expanse. It struck me like a punch; I was akin to those background characters in games, manhwa, and manga—the nameless extras whose presence is acknowledged only by their complete lack of individuality. In the vibrant narratives of those worlds, every hero and villain was defined by bold, unforgettable features, while I resembled nothing more than an anonymous placeholder in a larger story.
The realisation was both disturbing and oddly liberating. I stood there for a long moment, the cool reflection reinforcing the sense of isolation that had accompanied me since I woke. Without a face, I was a blank slate, devoid of the usual markers of identity. It was as if fate had reduced me to an extra character in a vast narrative—a shadow meant to blend in, unnoticed by the protagonists and antagonists alike if there was in a story. This facelessness was no mere accident; it was an enforced anonymity that set me apart, simultaneously hiding me in plain sight and stripping away any sense of a predetermined identity.
Shaking off the unsettling thoughts, I resumed changing. Once adequately transformed, I stepped out of the room into the corridor that led back to the outside. My footsteps echoed lightly as I walked, a constant reminder of my solitary state. I emerged back onto the porch, where the cool air greeted me like a cautious welcome. The suburban street, previously seen through the window, now felt more vivid. The day had brightened slightly since my initial foray outside, and I could see subtle nuances in the landscape that I hadn't noticed before.
As I walked along the sidewalk, I took in every detail with heightened awareness. The architecture of the houses was modern, yet there was an unsettling uniformity to the buildings. Each house stood in perfect alignment with its neighbours, their facades slick with a kind of hyper-clean finish. I noted the names on the neon signs and billboards lining the street. One sign featured the name of a pop star known simply as "Vex," whose image was splashed across a giant digital display. Another neon ad promoted a film starring an actor named "Roman," a name that sent a strange shiver down my spine, as if it echoed from a distant, familiar memory. These names, the style of the ads, even the design of the currency—the digital money used in this world—spoke of a culture that was both futuristic and alien compared to the 2025 I once knew.
Determined to piece together more about my new reality, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small phone I'd found in the room. Its sleek, black exterior seemed unchanged, yet the device itself felt imbued with an otherworldly quality—a relic from one life now thrust into another. The screen, still glowing with the faint blue hue of its interface, beckoned me to explore its secrets. I powered it on and began scrolling through its menus. Every icon and option was meticulously arranged, yet there was a stark absence of any personal data. No name, no contact details—nothing that identified me in this digital realm. Instead, the home screen featured a solitary item: a digital currency bill emblazoned with the number "500."
It was a small sum, yet it was the only tangible resource I had at the moment. I wondered if it was meant to be used as currency, a form of payment in a world where traditional money no longer held sway. The design was minimalist, much like the rest of this reality—a clear message that nothing here was extraneous. With a resigned sigh, I accepted this as my immediate means of survival, a token of value in a place where nothing else seemed to matter.
The hunger gnawed at me after a long, introspective walk along the street. The aromas of an unfamiliar cuisine, mingled with the subtle scent of asphalt and distant rain, coaxed me toward a diner nestled between modern retail shops. Its neon sign flickered softly, promising warmth and sustenance. Inside, the diner was a blend of retro charm and futuristic minimalism—a contradiction that perfectly captured the essence of this new world from what I have observed. The interior was well-lit, the counters and stools polished to a shine, yet there was an air of quiet detachment in the faces of the other patrons.
I approached the counter and exchanged the digital "500" for a meal. The transaction was smooth and almost clinical, executed through a series of taps and swipes on my phone. I settled at a corner booth, its vinyl seat surprisingly comfortable despite its utilitarian design. The meal before me was hearty—a plate of something vaguely reminiscent of breakfast, with scrambled eggs, toast, and a small side of fruit. I ate slowly, each bite a reminder of the mundane yet essential human need for nourishment. As I dined, I stole glances at the other customers. Their conversations, though low in volume, carried hints of references and cultural icons that I couldn't immediately place. It was as if I had been dropped into a society that had moved on without me, a place where my previous life held no sway.
After finishing my meal, I left the diner with a sense of temporary satisfaction mingled with lingering anxiety. The cool air outside felt different now—colder, somehow, as if it too was aware of the precariousness of my situation. I resumed my walk along the sidewalk, each step echoing in the quiet murmur of the suburban street. The neon signs still glowed in the distance, and the chatter of passersby, though distant, seemed to hint at a world thriving with secrets and hidden networks.
As I began walking along the pristine sidewalks, the emptiness of my reflection lingered in my thoughts. Lost in thought, I suddenly heard raised voices and caught sight of a commotion up ahead.
Curiosity and a growing sense of responsibility urged me toward the disturbance. Around a corner, I saw a young girl about eighteen years of age with short black hair and a beautiful face, cornered by a group of rough-looking guys. They were jeering at her, their aggressive gestures and mocking laughter betraying clear intent to mug and harass. Without fully thinking it through, I stepped forward, determined to help.
"Hey!" I shouted, moving quickly into the fray. For a moment, it seemed as if my intervention might break the tension. But then one of the muggers—larger and more belligerent than the others—sneered at me. "What, you're gonna be a hero now?" he jeered before delivering a swift kick that sent me stumbling backward. The impact reverberated through my already fragile form, and the jeers of the assailants only grew louder as they mocked my futile attempt at chivalry.
Before the situation could deteriorate further, a striking figure burst onto the scene. A girl with long, flowing black hair tipped with vibrant pink ends cut through the chaos with a swift, commanding presence. She carried a sleek sword case on her back, from which a finely crafted katanna glinted in the dim light. With precise, fluid movements, she engaged the muggers. Her blade danced in a blur as she disarmed and dispatched the assailants with the effortless grace of someone who had trained for countless battles.
The attackers, caught off guard by her sudden intervention, scattered into the alleyway, leaving behind a heavy silence and the echo of fading curses. The girl lowered her katanna and regarded me with a cool, assessing gaze. "Are you hurt?" she asked softly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline that still pulsed in the air. I could only nod, still reeling not just from the physical blow but also from the shock of my own inadequacy—a faceless extra, trying desperately to step into the role of a hero.
She offered a hand, helping me to my feet. "You shouldn't be doing that on your own," she remarked with a wry smile that belied the seriousness of the moment. "You could've gotten hurt a lot more." As we stood amid the aftermath of the brief skirmish, the neon-lit street resumed its steady rhythm.
Grateful for her intervention yet still shaken by the encounter, I found myself pondering the weight of my anonymity. In a world that celebrated distinct heroes, my lack of features made me both invisible and vulnerable. But perhaps, I thought, it also meant I had the freedom to redefine myself from the ground up, even if my first attempt at heroism had ended in a clumsy failure.
The mysterious girl with the katana—her eyes alight with determination and experience—seemed to understand the unspoken truth of my predicament. "Come on," she said, gesturing for me and the other girl that was being mugged before to follow her as she began to walk away, leaving behind the remnants of the mugging and the lingering threat of danger.
I picked myself from the ground and dusted myself before reaching out my hand to the other girl. she took my hands as a support to get up after which I let go of her and then we both followed the mysterious girl with a katanna.