The crystal champagne flute caught the afternoon sunlight, creating tiny rainbows across Nirei Harringer's silk shirt. He took a deliberate sip, savoring the expensive bubbles while scanning the opulent hotel suite. Eight investors—marks, really—hung on his every word, their eager faces flushed with the promise of impossible returns.
"What makes Harringer Financial unique?" Nirei swirled his champagne, voice velvet-smooth. "We place your money in emerging technology enterprises before they hit the mainstream markets. That's how our platinum tier investors saw 42% returns last quarter."
A middle-aged woman in a conservative pantsuit leaned forward. "But how do you access these companies before they go public?"
Nirei flashed his practiced smile—confident but not cocky, reassuring without overselling. "Mrs. Daniels, relationships are everything in this business. Twenty years cultivating connections with Silicon Valley's elite means I hear about these opportunities months before the general public."
He was thirty-two.
"Our minimum investment threshold exists because these opportunities are limited. I can only bring in a select number of partners." He set down his glass, straightening the cuffs of his tailored jacket. "In fact, I can only accept three more investors from this group today."
The bait was set. Now to let them fight for the privilege of being robbed.
A balding man with expensive glasses thrust his checkbook forward. "Count me in for two hundred thousand."
Nirei hadn't even mentioned the minimum yet. Amateurs were so easy.
While completing the transactions, Nirei's phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it. Nothing interrupted closing time. Seven minutes later, it vibrated again. Then again. Something was wrong.
"Excuse me," he said, flashing another reassuring smile. "Let me step out to handle this. My assistant is preparing your welcome packages."
In the hallway, Nirei checked his phone. Three texts from Joey, his lookout.
*FEDS AT OFFICE*
*GET OUT NOW*
*THEY'RE HEADING TO THE RITZ*
His stomach dropped. This wasn't a routine SEC inquiry. They were raiding his operation. Three years of careful pyramid building, crumbling in an instant.
Nirei calculated rapidly. The hotel connected to a shopping center with multiple exits. The Cartier watch and designer suit would stand out. He needed to blend.
Re-entering the suite, Nirei clapped his hands once. "Excellent news! The CEO of our latest acquisition just confirmed our projections. Drinks are on me—I've arranged a special tasting in the hotel bar. My assistant will escort you down."
As the investors gathered their belongings, Nirei slipped into the bathroom. He emerged wearing a hotel maintenance uniform lifted from a service cart, his suit stuffed into a stolen backpack. The investors were already gone, led away by his assistant who knew nothing about the feds.
Exiting through service corridors, Nirei entered the shopping center, moving briskly without running. His mind raced through contingencies. The offshore accounts were secure. If he could reach the storage unit with his emergency cash and documents before they tracked it, he could disappear. South America, maybe. He had connections in Argentina.
He pulled a baseball cap low over his eyes and stepped outside, immediately merging with the pedestrian flow. Three blocks down, he spotted them—two men in dark suits scanning the crowd, federal badges partially concealed but visible to his trained eye.
Nirei ducked into a coffee shop, exiting through its rear service door into an alley. Cutting across to a parallel street, he increased his pace. The backup cash was twenty minutes away by foot. Too risky to call a rideshare—they'd be monitoring his accounts.
The crosswalk signal flashed red as he approached. Nirei ignored it, stepping into the street against the light. A sharp horn blast froze him mid-stride.
Time slowed.
A delivery truck barreled forward, its driver's panicked face visible through the windshield. Not at Nirei—at someone else.
She stood in the truck's path, headphones on, completely oblivious. Young woman, maybe twenty-five, ordinary in every way. Someone's daughter. Someone's friend. A stranger.
Nirei had never saved anyone in his life.
His body moved before his mind decided. Three rapid strides, arms outstretched, colliding with the woman's shoulder. The impact sent her sprawling toward the curb as the truck's massive grille filled his vision.
The vehicle swerved, missing him by inches, brakes screaming. Nirei stumbled backward, heart hammering against his ribs.
The woman lay on the sidewalk, headphones knocked aside, eyes wide with confusion and fear. For a suspended moment, they stared at each other—her life continuing because of his inexplicable choice.
"Why—" she began.
Nirei didn't wait for her to finish. Over her shoulder, he spotted the federal agents turning the corner.
"Stay out of traffic," he muttered, already pushing past her.
He sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians, the weight of his unexpected altruism strange against his practiced selfishness. Behind him, car horns blared in angry symphony.
Nirei didn't look back at the woman he'd saved. She wasn't part of his calculation. Yet something about her face—the moment of connection—lingered as he ran toward what remained of his collapsing life.
The choice made no logical sense. Nothing in his con artist's existence explained risking himself for a stranger. It was a glitch in his carefully constructed persona. A momentary madness.
He couldn't have known it was the last truly selfish decision he would ever make.
---
Nirei's leather shoes slapped against concrete as he sprinted down the emergency stairwell. The rhythm of pursuit echoed from above—federal agents closing in, shouting commands that bounced off industrial walls. His breath came in harsh gasps, sweat dampening the stolen maintenance uniform.
Three more flights and he'd reach the service exit. From there, just two blocks to the subway station where he could lose himself in the crowd. His mind raced through contingency plans, calculating routes to the storage unit with his emergency passport and cash.
The stairwell door above crashed open. "Federal agents! Stop!"
Nirei took the next flight three steps at a time, his focus narrowing to the exit sign glowing ahead. His foot caught on something—a bucket, a tool, he couldn't tell—and the world tilted. His arms pinwheeled, grasping at empty air. His shoulder slammed against the metal railing, spinning him toward the concrete steps.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. His head struck the edge of a step, a white-hot explosion of pain behind his eyes. His body tumbled, each bone-jarring collision punctuated by shouts growing more distant. The world flashed between blinding brightness and absolute darkness.
Then nothing.
*Something feels wrong.*
The thought drifted through blackness, disconnected from any sense of self. Pain pulsed somewhere unreachable.
*Wake up.*
Consciousness returned in fragmented pieces. Scratchy fabric against skin. A distant dog barking. The smell of boiled cabbage and woodsmoke. None of it made sense.
Memory flickered—federal agents, the stairwell, falling. Had they caught him? Was this a hospital?
Nirei forced his heavy eyelids open, wincing at pale morning light filtering through a small window. Rough-hewn wooden beams stretched across a low ceiling. Not a hospital. Not a prison cell either.
He tried to sit up. His body felt strange—lighter, smaller. His arms wouldn't reach as far as they should. Panic bubbled in his throat.
"Had that dream again, didn't you?"
The voice—a woman's—came from somewhere near. Nirei turned toward it, his neck stiff and uncooperative. A middle-aged woman stood in a doorway, her brown hair streaked with gray, thin hands red and chapped. She wore a simple dress that looked like something from a historical documentary.
"You were thrashing something terrible." The woman approached, setting a wooden tray on a small table. "Your fever's broken at least. Three days is long enough to be scaring us half to death."
Nirei opened his mouth to speak, but the words died as he registered the sound that emerged—higher pitched, lighter, *wrong*.
"What's happening?" he managed, the unfamiliar voice sending fresh waves of panic through him.
The woman's expression softened with concern. "The sickness took a harder toll than we thought. You remember your mama, don't you, Nyelle?"
*Nyelle?*
The woman touched his forehead with a rough palm. "Still warm, but better. The herbalist said confusion might linger."
Nirei pushed himself upright, the movement awkward and uncoordinated. The blanket fell away, revealing a child's arms, a child's cotton nightgown. His heart hammered against too-small ribs.
"I need—" His voice cracked. "Mirror. Please."
The woman—his *mother*?—frowned, then reached for a small polished metal disk on the table. "Here, but don't get yourself worked up again."
His hands trembled as he raised the mirror. The face reflected back wasn't his—not Nirei Harringer, thirty-two, con artist extraordinaire. Instead, a young girl with short black hair and wide dark eyes stared back, her face pale and thin from recent illness. A stranger's face. A *child's* face.
The mirror slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering against the wooden floor.
"Nyelle!" The woman dropped to her knees, gathering the mirror. "That was your father's, from his military days."
"I'm sorry." The apology came automatically, the girl's voice foreign in his throat. "I didn't mean to..."
A door creaked open, and heavy footsteps crossed the room. A broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and calloused hands appeared, his expression caught between concern and relief.
"The little warrior awakens." He came to the bedside, resting a hand on the woman's shoulder. "Elina, you should rest. I'll sit with her."
"She's confused, Torvald." The woman—Elina—stood slowly. "Doesn't seem to remember things proper."
Torvald nodded solemnly. "Fever dreams can muddle the mind. Give her time."
As Elina left the room, Torvald pulled a three-legged stool beside the bed. His massive frame seemed comically large on the tiny seat. Up close, Nirei could see old scars across his knuckles, a faded burn mark on his forearm.
"Had us worried, little one." His voice was deep but gentle. "Your brother's been checking on you every morning before his work. Should be back by midday."
*Brother?* The room spun slightly as Nirei tried to process everything. This couldn't be real. A coma dream, maybe. Or he'd hit his head during the fall and was hallucinating.
"Where am I?" he asked carefully.
"Home." Torvald gestured around the small room. "Our room in Lower Yorkton."
"Yorkton?" The name meant nothing.
Torvald's forehead creased with worry. "The capital city of the Amerigan Empire." When Nirei didn't respond, he leaned closer. "You remember the empire, yes? Emperor Galdreth? The Year of the Falling Star?"
None of it made sense. Empire? Falling stars? This wasn't just a different place—it felt like a different world entirely.
"I remember..." Nirei hesitated, unsure what would sound plausible. "I remember being sick."
Torvald nodded, seemingly relieved. "Three days with fever. Worst on the second night. You talked of strange things—metal carriages without horses, buildings tall as mountains."
*My real life. My actual memories.*
"Just dreams," Nirei whispered.
"Just dreams," Torvald agreed, patting his small hand. "Rest now. Your mother will bring broth soon."
After Torvald left, Nirei carefully pushed aside the blankets and slid his feet to the floor. The room tilted alarmingly, and he gripped the edge of the bed until the dizziness passed. Each movement felt wrong—limbs too short, balance unfamiliar, center of gravity shifted.
On unsteady legs, he crossed to the window. Outside stretched a medieval cityscape—timber-framed buildings with thatched roofs, narrow cobblestone streets, horse-drawn carts. People in simple clothing hurried about their business below. In the distance, stone walls surrounded what looked like a castle, its towers piercing the morning sky.
*This can't be happening.*
He pressed small hands against his face, feeling unfamiliar contours. The last thing he remembered was falling down those stairs, federal agents in pursuit. Now he was here—inhabiting the body of a young girl named Nyelle, in a world that looked ripped from a fantasy novel.
The sound of approaching footsteps sent him scrambling back to bed. He slipped under the covers just as the door opened. A teenage boy entered, his features similar enough to Torvald's to mark him as family, but with Elina's softer eyes.
"You're awake!" The boy grinned, dropping a bundle of kindling by the small fireplace. "Told father you were too stubborn to let a fever take you."
Nirei stared at him, searching for any hint of familiarity. Nothing.
"You remember me, right?" The boy's smile faltered. "It's Aerik. Your brother."
"Of course," Nirei lied, forcing a small smile. "Just tired still."
Aerik's relief was palpable. He crossed the room and ruffled Nirei's hair—an affectionate gesture that felt jarringly intimate. "Get stronger quick. The streets aren't the same without you trailing after me like a lost puppy."
After Aerik left, Nirei lay back against the thin pillow, mind racing. This wasn't a dream—the sensations too vivid, the details too consistent. Somehow, impossibly, he had been transported from his life as Nirei Harringer to exist as a young girl named Nyelle in a world of empires and castles.
He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all. If this was his reality now, he needed information. To observe. To understand. To survive. The skills that had made him a successful con artist would serve him here too—adaptability, quick thinking, reading people.
When Elina returned with a bowl of thin broth, Nirei accepted it with a daughter's smile he didn't feel. He would play this role while figuring out what had happened. While determining if there was any way back to his real life.
That night, alone in the small bed, listening to Torvald's snores from the other room, Nirei curled his too-small body into a tight ball and allowed himself one moment of absolute panic.
"Who am I now?" he whispered into the darkness, the girl's voice a constant reminder of everything he'd lost. "What am I supposed to be?"
No answer came. Only the distant howl of wind through medieval streets, carrying the scent of a world he never knew existed.