The screech of tires on wet pavement is the only warning. You turn your head, and the world becomes a blinding glare of headlights, the shriek of twisting metal, a concussive force that throws you from your feet. For a split second, there is no time for thought, only a primal, desperate wish—a pure, soul-deep instinct—to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Safe.
Then, the world shatters into absolute silence and darkness.
Consciousness returns slowly, like a sluggish tide. The first thing you register is the smooth, cool touch of polished wood against your cheek. Your body feels impossibly heavy, every muscle aching with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion, as if you've just performed a monumental task. The memory of the impact feels distant, like a scene from a half-forgotten movie.
You push yourself into a sitting position on the floor of a living room you've never seen before. A strange awareness washes over you—not a thought, but a deep, certain feeling in your gut: you are completely and utterly alone here. There is no one else within these walls. The air is perfectly still and impossibly clean. Through a large picture window, you see no city street, no wreckage; only a vast, luminous sea of fog under a sky where soft clouds drift on an unseen breeze.
Your own breathing is the only sound in the crushing silence. The plush sofa is only a few feet away, its silent invitation a stark contrast to the chaos that came before.
