The first thing Michael noticed was the weight of his eyelids—heavy, reluctant to open, like they belonged to someone who had slept too deeply. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, painting golden stripes across the ceiling above him. He blinked slowly, once, twice, letting the blurriness fade until the unfamiliar room came into focus.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 'So it's real. It's real.'
He lifted his right hand, watching it rise into the morning light. The fingers were long, slender, with clean nails that had never been bitten down to the quick from nervous habit. He flexed them experimentally, marveling at how they responded to his commands despite feeling like borrowed tools. The palm was soft, unmarked by calluses or scars—hands that had been cared for, protected.
Michael brought his hand to his face, fingers tracing along his jawline. The bone structure was sharper than he remembered, more defined. His skin felt smooth under his touch, younger somehow. He pressed his fingertips to his cheeks, feeling the warmth beneath the surface, the undeniable proof that this wasn't some elaborate dream.
'This is my face now. These are my hands.'
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, the mattress creaking softly beneath him. His movements felt more coordinated than yesterday, though still strange—like learning to walk in shoes that were almost the right size. The room looked different in daylight, less mysterious and more lived-in. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams, and he could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up beyond the walls.
Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing his balance. The wooden floor was cool against his bare feet. He took a few tentative steps, then walked more confidently toward the window. Outside, he could see the same impossible mix of floating and ground-based vehicles navigating the morning traffic. People moved along the sidewalks with casual purpose, some carrying bags that hovered beside them, others walking normally.
'I need to understand this place. Need to understand what I've become.'
He turned toward the wardrobe in the corner, a simple wooden piece with two handles. The left side opened to reveal hanging clothes—mostly casual wear in muted colors. T-shirts, jeans, a few button-down shirts that looked like they'd been worn but well-maintained. Everything was clean, organized, the clothes of someone who took care of their possessions even if they weren't expensive.
Michael reached for the right handle and pulled. Instead of more clothes, he found himself staring at his reflection in a full-length mirror mounted on the inside of the door.
The face looking back at him was definitely not the one he'd worn for twenty-three years.
This Michael was younger—seventeen, maybe eighteen at most. The features were sharper but softer at the same time, aristocratic in a way that spoke of good nutrition and care rather than privilege. His black hair fell messily across his forehead, and his dark eyes held an intelligence that seemed both familiar and foreign. He looked like someone who spent time thinking, studying, questioning.
'Jesus. I really am someone else now.'
He studied his reflection for a long moment, turning his head to see the profile, noting how different everything was. This wasn't just a new body—it was a completely different person's life, complete with their own history, relationships, and secrets.
The books on the desk caught his attention again, pulling him away from the mirror. He closed the wardrobe and crossed the room, settling into the wooden chair that had been pushed back from yesterday's hasty departure. The desk surface was covered with open texts and handwritten notes, evidence of serious study.
Michael picked up the book he'd glimpsed the night before—"A History of Humanity's Last Stand"—and opened it to the front page. The title page was simple, stark: "The Invasion of Symbolics and Hollows: A Comprehensive Account of the Great War."
His fingers traced the words, and he felt a chill run down his spine. He was about to turn to the first chapter when a soft knock interrupted him.
"Michael?" Sophie's voice came through the door, gentle but carrying the energy of someone who'd been awake for a while. "Are you up?"
"Yeah, I'm awake," he called back, closing the book and standing up.
The door opened, and Sophie peered inside with a warm smile. She was already dressed for the day in a crisp white blouse and black slacks that gave her a professional appearance. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and she carried herself with the confidence of someone heading to work.
"Good morning," she said, stepping into the room. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I expected," Michael replied honestly. The bed had been comfortable, and despite everything, he'd slept deeply. "Good morning."
"Breakfast is ready when you are," Sophie said, then noticed the book in his hands. "Doing some reading already? You always were an early starter."
"Just trying to... remember things," Michael said carefully. "Everything still feels a bit fuzzy."
Sophie's expression softened with understanding. "Take your time. There's no rush to force anything back." She gestured toward the hallway. "Why don't you get cleaned up? The bathroom's right across the hall, and I'll keep your food warm."
Michael nodded, grateful for the routine. "Thanks, Sophie."
She smiled and headed back toward the kitchen, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Michael grabbed some clothes from the wardrobe—jeans and a simple gray t-shirt—and made his way to the bathroom.
The space was small but clean, with basic amenities and a mirror that showed him his young face again. He brushed his teeth with a toothbrush that felt familiar in his hand, washed his face with cold water that helped him feel more awake, and ran his fingers through his hair to tame the worst of the mess.
'This is my life now,' he reminded himself, staring at his reflection. 'Whatever happened to the original Michael, I'm him now. I need to make the best of it.'
When he made his way to the kitchen, the smell of eggs and toast filled the air. Sophie was moving efficiently around the small space, plating food and checking the time on her phone. She'd added a black blazer over her white blouse, completing her work outfit.
"Perfect timing," she said, setting a plate down at the small dining table. "I made scrambled eggs and toast—nothing fancy, but it'll do."
Michael sat down, noting how Sophie checked her reflection in the toaster's surface and adjusted her hair slightly. "Are you going somewhere?"
Sophie paused in her morning routine and smiled. "Work, actually. I have a job at the Administrative District—nothing glamorous, just filing and data entry, but it pays the bills."
"I haven't seen Mom around," Michael said, taking a bite of the eggs. The word 'Mom' felt strange on his tongue, almost foreign, yet something warm and comforting stirred in his chest at the sound of it. They were perfectly cooked, seasoned just right.
"She's still at work," Sophie explained, pouring herself a quick cup of coffee. "She works night shifts at the textile factory—same one she's been at for years. She'll be home later this afternoon to sleep."
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, but Michael's mind kept drifting to the questions that had been building since he'd woken up in this strange world. The weight of not understanding this place pressed against him, and finally, his curiosity won out.
"Sophie," he said carefully, setting down his fork. "What are Hollows?"
Sophie looked up from her coffee, eyebrows raised slightly. "And Symbolics," she finished automatically, as if the two words always went together.
Michael nodded. "Yeah, those too. I saw something about them in one of the books upstairs, and it seemed... important."
"Oh," Sophie said, understanding crossing her features. "Your memory's starting to come back a bit?"
"Maybe," Michael replied. "I'm not sure. I just saw those words and felt like I should know what they mean."
Sophie glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at him. Her expression grew more serious, the casual morning energy shifting into something deeper.
"The Hollows and Symbolics are... well, they're the reason we live behind the walls," she began, settling back into her chair despite the time pressure. "A hundred and thirty-five years ago, portals opened up everywhere. These creatures came through—two different types. The Hollows were like parasites that took over people, turned them into monsters that hunt humans. The Symbolics were different—they bonded with people but let them keep their humanity while giving them special abilities."
Michael leaned forward, fascinated despite the dark subject matter. "What happened then?"
"War," Sophie said simply. "The people bonded with Symbolics fought against the Hollows to protect what was left of humanity. Most of the world was destroyed in the fighting. The initial emergence seemed almost benign—curious entities of pure black and white energy drifting through cities. But then the Hollows began their systematic consumption of all warm-blooded life. They invaded their hosts completely, turning loved ones into monsters while preserving enough of their original personalities to make the transformation truly horrific."
Sophie's voice grew quieter as she continued. "Parents were forced to watch their children tear into neighbors with superhuman strength, fully aware but unable to control their actions. The Symbolics chose a different path—they bonded selectively with human hosts, granting extraordinary abilities while preserving the host's humanity. These symbiotic relationships became mankind's only hope."
Michael felt a chill run down his spine at the clinical description that couldn't hide the horror of what had happened—an entire world turned into a nightmare.
"In the end," Sophie continued, "there was this warrior called the Knight who used all his power to create the great wall that protects our city. He saved everyone who was left, but..."
She glanced at the clock again and sighed. "But the wall is getting weaker every year. The cracks are spreading, and everyone knows that eventually, we'll have to face what's out there again."
Sophie stood up quickly, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "I'm sorry, Michael. I wish I could stay and tell you more, but I'm already running late for work." She grabbed her bag and headed toward the front door, then paused and looked back. "There's more food in the fridge for lunch if you get hungry, and all those books in your room will tell you much more than I can. I'll be back by evening, okay?"
"Okay," Michael said, standing up as well. "Have a good day at work."
Sophie smiled, and for a moment, her professional composure softened into something more personal. "It's really good to have you home, Michael. Even with the memory loss, you seem... I don't know. Different. In a good way."
She left before he could ask what she meant, the sound of the front door closing echoing through the quiet house.
Michael stood in the kitchen for a long moment, processing everything Sophie had told him. Hollows, Symbolics, a great war, walls that were failing—this world was far more dangerous and complex than he'd realized.
He looked back toward the hallway that led to his room, thinking about the books waiting on the desk. The original Michael had been studying this history for a reason, trying to understand something important about their world.
'I guess it's time to learn about this world,' he thought, clearing his plate and heading back upstairs.