Chapter 1, Part I: "Unfamiliar Ceiling".
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Part I: "Unfamiliar Ceiling"
Summary: Elias wakes in a rusted, abandoned warehouse, in a different body. He has fragments of memories—none of which match this world. Through exploration, he learns he's near Washington D.C. and discovers a backpack with cash, old clothes, and a cracked burner phone.
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Part I: "Unfamiliar Ceiling"
The ceiling above him was corrugated steel, rusted and perforated, leaking slivers of daylight that made the dust shimmer like it was trying to mean something. Elias didn't know where he was, but the smell—oil, urine, mold—spoke of vacancy and long disuse.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
His limbs felt different. Lighter. Less dense.
He sat up.
There was a pile of broken pallets in the corner, a shredded sleeping bag balled under him, and a milk crate serving as a table nearby. On it: a cracked burner phone, a folded stack of worn clothes, and a backpack that looked like it had been used to smuggle bricks. His fingers—thin, knuckly, too clean—brushed across his own jaw. No stubble. Younger. Way younger.
He stood, steadying himself against the wall.
The height of the doorknob felt wrong. It came up higher than it should have. His body had changed—shorter, leaner, softer. A flicker of panic rolled through him, but something cooler clamped it down. Not logic. Not denial. A practiced stillness that hadn't existed before. He accepted it.
He moved to the crate. Opened the backpack. Inside: two bottles of water, a roll of twenty-dollar bills held by a rubber band, a city map worn down the fold lines, and a faded black hoodie with a stitched logo that had long since bled its colors out.
The phone powered on. It took a moment. 10% battery. No SIM card. One picture in the gallery—a street sign: Benning Road NE. No caption. No contact list. No texts.
Elias looked again at his hands. They weren't his.
They moved without hesitation.
He dressed quickly, folding the old clothes precisely, then stopped. The label on the jeans said size 28. His old self wore a 34. He didn't feel panic. Not really. Just a faint, rubbery stretch of disconnection that he chose not to chase.
The door creaked open with resistance. Outside: chain-link fences strangled by kudzu, cracked concrete lots, a rusted soda machine, and the rhythmic sound of traffic far in the distance. Sunlight pressed against him like a stranger trying to shake hands.
He stepped out and didn't look back.
There were answers somewhere. Maybe not about how. Maybe not about why.
But about where?
That, he could find.
He started walking toward the noise.
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Final image/moment: Elias walks through the overgrown backlot into a forgotten corner of D.C., no panic, no purpose, just the quiet realization that the world has changed—and so has he.
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