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Erik de la Cruz woke up to the sound of his alarm, the blue light from the clock screen reflecting faintly on the ceiling of his small studio apartment in the heart of Berlin.
A small copper dish sat beside his half-empty coffee cup, holding keys and a few scattered coins. A plastic lunch box, still stained with traces of sauce from earlier, lay next to it.
He was half German, half Filipino — raised in a household where two languages constantly mixed: his father's sharp German consonants and his mother's soft, lilting tone.
Erik dressed plainly — a light blue shirt, gray slacks — clothes so well-worn that the collars had softened over time. He glanced at the mirror, seeing the reflection of a man who worked hard enough to pay rent and send money to his parents, but not one whose life offered much to talk about.
On the corner table sat a small framed photograph — him as a child, standing between his parents. He kept it there so the room wouldn't feel as lonely when he was far from home.
His workdays followed a loop: emails to answer, slides to review, meetings repeating the same tones of urgency — "It's important," "It's urgent," though it rarely ever was.
He only enjoyed the moments before noon, when he could eat lunch slowly and think about the books he wanted to read.
Sometimes his colleague, Martin — an ordinary man leading an equally ordinary life — would try to start conversations about that expensive board game called Warhammer 40k.
Erik usually replied briefly before returning to his desk.
(Writer's note: yes, it's the same Martin from my other story — he and Erik are connected, one way or another.)
Erik's job wasn't his dream, but it was enough — enough to keep things running.
One evening, before everything changed, he worked late to finish a project due the next morning.
The office was nearly empty, dimly lit by tired neon lights. He packed up, shut down his computer, and carried his lunch container to the trash can beside the elevator.
Fatigue pressed into his bones, but routine kept him steady: commute, work, return home, sleep — repeat.
Outside, light rain had begun to fall. He pulled his hood over his head and kept it low, not wanting his hair to get wet. One hand held his messenger bag, the other his keys.
Occasionally, he'd glance at the glowing advertisements above the streets — too bright, too fake, as artificial as his own life.
Reflections shimmered on the wet pavement, colorful but cold.
He crossed the street. The pedestrian light was still green, but cars sped unusually fast that night. A truck roared past, exhaust spilling thick smoke. The reflection of headlights stretched and blurred on the slick ground, a haze of neon and white.
Erik never saw the world through heroic eyes — only with the cautiousness of a working man.
He knew the shortcuts to the train station, the closing time of his favorite restaurant, and the uncertain comfort of sleeping under the same roof as his financial worries.
In his mind, a small voice reminded him not to do anything stupid — don't walk too slowly, don't overthink, just keep moving.
That voice had been part of him for years.
He stepped off the curb, adjusting the strap of his bag. Then —
the traffic lights flickered violently across the road.
A flash of blinding white cut through the curtain of rain.
Tires screamed.
And then — darkness.
---
The first thing Erik heard was the sound of dripping water.
...plink... plink...
Cold droplets hit his cheek, startling him awake. Dust fell from the corroded ceiling, shaken by distant vibrations — machinery, maybe, deep beneath the city.
The air was heavy and foul.
The stench of rust and decay filled his nose, a metallic bitterness clinging to his tongue.
Everything was dim, lit only by faint light from a vent above, barely enough to make out the outline of pipes and oil-stained walls.
He opened his eyes slowly, pushing himself off the ground.
"Ugh…"
The sound that came out was faint — soft — wrong.
His shirt, which had fit perfectly when he left work, now hung loosely on his frame.
The sleeves draped past his wrists.
His slacks barely stayed on without holding them up.
The fabric felt softer, almost delicate.
"What the… hell?" he muttered, glancing around.
A massive iron pipe ran along the wall, dented as if struck by something heavy.
Near his feet lay a rusted metal crate, marked with a faded emblem — a half-metal skull, half-human, surrounded by a cog.
It looked oddly familiar, like something he'd seen before — maybe on one of Martin's miniature figures — but he couldn't recall exactly where.
There was no electric hum, no cars, no voices.
Only the dripping water and the low tremor of distant machines.
The silence was suffocating.
Erik took a slow breath, forcing himself not to panic.
"Okay, Erik… you're dreaming. You must be. You got hit by a car, you're in a coma, and your brain's just... making things up."
He laughed nervously — until he stopped mid-sentence.
His voice — wasn't his voice.
It was higher.
Clearer.
Not the voice he used to curse at coworkers when the printer jammed.
Erik froze. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. He tried speaking again.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
But the words came out in the tone of a young woman — mid-twenties, maybe — soft, slightly raspy.
"What the—"
He touched his throat, fingers brushing against hair — long hair — tangled and damp.
He stumbled back, hitting the metal wall behind him, eyes wide.
His hands were smaller, slender, smooth. Not his.
He looked down —
and saw shapes on his chest that shouldn't have been there.
For a moment, his mind simply stopped.
"No, no, no... this has to be a dream."
He slapped his face hard. The sharp crack echoed through the tunnel — followed by the sting of real pain.
A drop of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"Oh God…"
The words slipped out again — in her voice.
He sank against the wall, trembling.
The air was thick and stale, the darkness endless.
Only the faint hum of unseen machinery filled the void.
Then he steadied himself. He couldn't die here.
Not in some unknown place. Not like this.
"I'm not dying here," he whispered, forcing himself to stand.
He adjusted his pants and began searching through his bag.
His hoodie — the one he'd worn before leaving the office — was inside for some reason.
He didn't question it. Just put it on.
Most of the items inside were useless — pens, papers — except his phone, battery at 50%.
He found a small flashlight, and even a spare face mask.
Useful enough, considering the situation.
He needed somewhere safer — food, shelter — anything.
He zipped his bag, turned on the flashlight, and looked down the dark corridor.
That was the real problem now.
He had no idea where he was.
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Would you like me to make this English version sound more like a novel manuscript (with stylistic flow and tone matching modern literary fiction or light novel format)? I can polish it for publication-level fluency if you want.