The office coffee tasted like it had been brewed through a gym sock and filtered through disappointment.
John Kennedy took another sip anyway.
He sat hunched over two monitors in a too-quiet engineering firm in Tulsa, Oklahoma, staring at a blueprint that mocked him with every crooked line and mislabeled voltage node.
This was his ninth hour staring at the same damn circuit.
He scratched his beard absently, then glanced around the office. Empty. Dead silent. Everyone else had gone home. Of course they had. Normal people had families, hobbies, and Netflix queues.
John? He had an unresolved power grid diagram and a lukewarm mug of despair.
" Y'know," he muttered to himself, "I could've been a race car driver. Or a magician. Or literally anyone with better lighting."
The overhead fluorescents buzzed like a dying fly. One flickered. Again. And again. It had been doing that since April. It was now November.
He reached for his glasses — smudged, as always — and tried to refocus.
Something moved on the screen.
He paused. Looked again.
Nope. Just sleep deprivation playing peekaboo with his sanity.
Again.
Business as usual.
John wasn't a loser. He just… wasn't winning.
At 35, he was a licensed electrical engineer who had never once electrocuted anyone — a professional miracle, really. He paid his rent on time. He had decent credit. He owned exactly three dress shirts and one lucky pair of socks with tiny blue lightning bolts.
But excitement? Adventure? A social life?
Those were items on someone else's to-do list.
He lived alone. Ate alone. Occasionally talked to himself, but only when he needed intelligent conversation.
And despite it all, he was content. Not happy. But content.
Which, according to a recent study he read online while procrastinating, was the most dangerous emotional state of all.
His smartwatch beeped.
"Reminder: Eat."
John stared at it. "Thanks, robot mom."
He stretched his back, which popped like microwave popcorn, and stood. Time to reheat yesterday's frozen lasagna. Again.
As he walked down the hallway, his stomach growling like an old dog, he felt something weird.
The air shifted. Not like a draft — more like the whole hallway exhaled.
Then his phone buzzed.
No Caller ID.
He answered it, because why not add "haunted call" to the day's to-do list?
"John Kennedy," he said, automatically.
The voice on the other end was static at first, then… a whisper. Soft. Feminine. Chilling.
"You're not supposed to be here."
He froze.
"What?"
"They've found you."
Click.
Silence.
He stared at the phone. No call history. No recent incoming call. The number didn't exist.
He chuckled nervously. "Okay, very funny, ghost prank call. Next time try breathing heavier."
He reached the parking lot ten minutes later. His car, a gray 2012 Mazda 3 with three different air fresheners and a missing hubcap, sat patiently under a dim streetlight.
Except… the driver's window was down.
He always locked his car.
Always.
He approached carefully, phone in one hand like it could fight off a mugger.
Sitting on the dashboard was a sheet of what looked like… parchment. Not paper. Real parchment. Like medieval-fantasy-Dungeons-and-Dragons stuff.
"Oh boy," he muttered. "Either I'm about to discover a hidden world or I've finally cracked."
He opened the door, picked up the parchment, and examined it.
A spiral inside a triangle. And a single red dot.
Blood?
Before he could do anything, the parchment shimmered. Then sizzled. Then burst into ash.
"Okay! Alright! Great! That's normal. Just good, healthy Tuesday behavior!"
He got in, locked the doors, and drove home slightly faster than usual, resisting the urge to check the rearview mirror every two seconds.
At his apartment, everything looked the same — silent, clean, and depressingly beige.
He heated his lasagna. Sat down on his couch. Turned on the TV.
The screen was already on.
Black screen.
White text.
"John Kennedy: Chosen, but misplaced."
He blinked.
"…I didn't even click anything."
The screen glitched.
"You belong elsewhere."
He reached for the remote.
The TV turned itself off.
Then back on.
This time, the message read:
"Time is jealous."
"I think I'd like to file a complaint with reality," he muttered.
The lights flickered.
A knock at the door.
Three knocks.
Slow. Deliberate.
"Who is it?" he asked.
No answer.
He opened the peephole.
Nobody there.
Outside, everything was black. Not night. Just… gone. No cars. No streetlights. No sounds.
He stepped back.
The apartment twisted. The walls curved inward like he was inside a funhouse mirror designed by Satan's interior decorator.
He staggered toward the kitchen. His wrench was still in the drawer. Good ol' wrench. Maybe it would help him beat back a hallucination or ten.
Then—
She appeared.
A figure cloaked in light. Floating in his living room like she paid rent.
Her voice was calm. "John Kennedy. Your time here is over."
He stared, wrench dangling uselessly in his hand.
"Look, lady, I don't know if this is a cult thing or a gas leak hallucination, but can I get a refund?"
She smiled.
"You were never meant for this world."
She raised a hand.
"Nope—nope nope nope wait—"
And light exploded through his chest.
He didn't scream. He couldn't. He just… left.
Everything vanished.
Except the wind.
And the sky.
And his breath.
He opened his eyes.
It wasn't Earth.
Blue sky. Birds. Forests. A pond.
His body felt… wrong. His face was smaller. Arms thinner. He stood shakily and caught sight of his reflection.
A teenage boy.
Silver-gray eyes. Dirty blonde hair. Sixteen years old. Wearing clothes that screamed "lost medieval orphan."
A wooden sword rested against a nearby stump.
He picked it up.
His name—it came to him like a memory.
William.
William Kurtberg.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.
A voice called from the forest.
"OI! HE'S AWAKE!"
Two teenagers burst out of the trees. One had rabbit ears. The other had a lion tail. Both were grinning like idiots.
"Will! You passed out again!" the rabbit-girl chirped. "Maybe stop solo-fighting training golems, genius."
"I think he hit his head," the lion-boy said, squinting. "You look extra stupid today."
William—John—whatever—just sat back on the grass.
He stared up at the sky.
"…I died and reincarnated into a fantasy world, didn't I?"
They both blinked.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just… gonna take five minutes."
As the breeze rustled the trees, and distant drums of war echoed through the valley, one thing was clear:
John Kennedy was gone.
But William Kurtberg?
His story had just begun.
And he already missed lasagna.