The scent is the first thing that feels off.
It's fresh, crisp—nothing like the stale air of my bedroom. My eyes snap open. My vision is blurry at first, but as it sharpens, I take in the sheer size of the room around me. This isn't just a bedroom; it's an apartment. A massive, modern, sleek apartment that could fit my parents' entire house inside it.
My pulse quickens. Something isn't right. My hands fly to my face—strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a neatly trimmed beard. My breath catches in my throat.
This isn't my face.
I lurch forward, sitting at the edge of the bed, my mind racing. My fingers move on instinct, reaching for the phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up with missed calls and unread messages, all carrying the same message:
I'm late.
Late for what?
I swipe to the home screen. A schedule. Classes. Lectures.
I'm a professor.
A cold wave of realization crashes over me. I should be panicking. I should be losing my mind. But instead, my body moves on autopilot. Clothes—I need clothes. I rip open the wardrobe. Crisp white shirts, tailored trousers, polished shoes. Everything screams class and sophistication. Not a single hoodie, no graphic tees. Whoever this man is, he clearly doesn't know the meaning of "casual."
I catch sight of a keyring on the kitchen counter. When I step into the hallway, I see the car. And holy shit.
A vintage black BMW. Sleek, polished—nothing like the kind of car I'd ever expect him to drive. It's the one thing that feels a little out of place here, but damn, I can't help but like it. I slide into the driver's seat, the leather cool against my skin. My fingers automatically navigate to Google Maps.
I glance over the last searched locations and see Aurelia Women's University.
I blink. My stomach starts to twist.
A women's university?
A dozen possibilities flood my mind. A joke? A dream? Some kind of bizarre fantasy? Have I just hit the jackpot?
The engine hums as I pull onto the road. My heart pounds, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. My old life—fast food, a musty room, long nights on Discord—feels like a distant memory, something vague and blurry in the background.
Now, I'm on my way to a university full of women. Hundreds—no, thousands of young, intelligent, beautiful students.
Oh. My. God.
I take a deep breath, force my expression into something neutral. I can't show up grinning like an idiot. I have to look professional.
The drive feels like a blink, and then, suddenly, it's in front of me.
Aurelia Women's University.
It's… breathtaking. The place looks like it was ripped straight out of an Oxford postcard. Towering spires, intricate carvings, golden accents catching the morning light. The wrought-iron gates alone feel like a boundary between the ordinary world and some kind of elite sanctuary.
I park and step out, but my legs hesitate. My eyes scan the campus. Groups of students cross the courtyard, dressed in sophisticated uniforms, books tucked under their arms. Some steal glances at me. Others whisper to each other.
Okay. Play it cool. Be polite. Smile. And if anyone asks—I'm just tired.
I adjust my cuffs, straighten my posture, and prepare to step inside. But then—
I don't know my own name.
Panic slams into me like a truck. How the hell did I not think about this earlier?!
I scramble for my phone, flipping through messages, emails—anything that might tell me who I am.
There. At the bottom of an email from the university's office:
Professor William Clarke, Department of Mathematics.
William Clarke.
I exhale, glancing at my reflection in the car's window. I still barely recognize myself. But there's no time for that now.
Deep breath. Posture straight. Confident step.
Time to go to work.
I glance at my schedule.
Mathematics.
I'm fucked.
Unlocking my phone, I quickly pull up ChatGPT—just in case. No prompt, nothing typed in yet. Just… ready. Prepared, in the background.
Checking the room number, I stride toward the main entrance.
And then I hit my next problem.
This place is a damn maze.
Long marble corridors. Towering ceilings. Identical doors stretching endlessly in both directions. No helpful signs, no maps, just polished nameplates that I'd have to stop and squint at like an idiot.
I can't ask for directions. Professor Clarke should already know where he's going.
So, I do what any rational person would.
I wing it.
Left. Right. Another left. The hallways blend together, and just when I start to think I might have a handle on this—
"Professor Clarke!"
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn around.
A woman stands there, poised, elegant. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Wavy chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders. Sharp eyes framed by thin-rimmed glasses. A crisp white blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
And that smile.
Not just any smile. The kind that makes you feel like the only person in the room.
"Are you alright?" she asks, stepping closer. "You don't seem like yourself today."
Crap. She knows me. Or at least, she thinks she does.
I clear my throat, forcing the most natural smile I can muster. "Oh, yeah, of course. Just… a lot on my mind."
Her brow lifts slightly. "Busy morning?"
"Something like that."
She studies me for a moment, and then her smile widens. "Which room?"
I glance at my phone. "317-W"
"Perfect. I have a lecture on the same corridor." She starts walking. "Come on, I'll walk with you."
I follow, pretending like I know exactly where we're going. I do not.
We climb the stairs. I try to play it cool, but I quickly realize I have no idea which floor to stop on. I discreetly match my pace to hers, watching for any subtle cues.
At one point, I almost turn down the wrong hallway, but she gently grabs my sleeve, laughing softly.
"Not that way," she teases. "You're really out of it today."
Crap.
"Lack of sleep," I shrug, forcing a sheepish grin.
She nods knowingly. "You should relax more, Professor."
Her tone is light, but… was that flirtatious?
No. No way.
I've been on campus for all of ten minutes. She can't be flirting.
Right?
I keep my tone professional. "Always good advice."
She tilts her head slightly, eyes gleaming. She knows I'm dodging her.
We reach her classroom. She stops in the doorway, turning to look at me one last time. "Don't overwork yourself, alright?"
And then—she winks.
I watch her disappear inside. The door clicks shut. Silence.
For the first time since I woke up, I'm alone.
Down the hall, my own classroom waits. My students.
And whatever the hell is coming next.
I inhale sharply.
Time to face the music.