Lucian stared at the blood on his hands.
Arterial spray pattern. Close range. Temporal penetration. Time of injury: minutes ago. Current status: impossible.
His doctor's brain tried to catalog it. Tried to make it clinical. Tried to make it make sense.
It didn't work.
He forced himself to breathe. In through the nose—four counts. Hold. Out through the mouth—four counts. The technique he'd taught to patients in the ER when they came in mid-panic attack, when their bodies were convincing them they were dying.
I might actually be dying. I might be dead already.
No. Dead men don't panic. Dead men don't feel their hearts hammering against their ribs like they're trying to break out.
Lucian looked around the room again, slower this time. Details. He needed details. Something to ground him in... wherever this was.
The writing desk was mahogany, he thought. Or maybe oak. Dark wood, expensive. A brass lamp sat on one corner, unlit. The papers scattered across the surface—he picked one up.
His hands were still shaking.
The handwriting was elegant, practiced. Cursive that looped and swirled in ways his own never had. He scanned the first few lines:
—respectfully decline your invitation to the Blackwood Estate gathering. My health has not permitted social engagements of late, and I fear—
A letter. Half-finished. The ink had dried days ago, maybe weeks.
Lucian set it down and picked up another.
The shipment from the Ironworks District arrived damaged. Three crates of blessed steel, rendered unusable. I expect compensation or replacement within—
Blessed steel. An odd phrase. Religious, maybe? But the tone suggested commerce, not worship.
He dropped the paper.
Focus. One thing at a time.
The blood. He needed to deal with the blood first.
His fingers found his temple again. The skin was smooth. Whole. Not even a scar. He'd spent six years in medical school, another four in residency, and he'd never seen a wound heal like that. Gunshot wounds didn't close themselves. Bones didn't knit back together in minutes.
This isn't real. It can't be real.
But the blood under his fingernails was real. The copper taste in his mouth was real. The ache in his head—duller now, but still present—was real.
Lucian crossed to the wardrobe. The door hung open, revealing rows of clothes that belonged in a costume drama. Coats with tails. Waistcoats in dark colors—burgundy, navy, black. White shirts with too many buttons. He pulled one out and examined the fabric.
Linen. Good quality. The kind of thing that cost more than most people made in a month.
Whoever Lucian Smith was, he had money.
He grabbed a clean shirt and looked around for a washbasin. Found it tucked in the corner—a ceramic bowl on a wooden stand, pitcher beside it. He poured water into the basin. It was cold, shockingly so, but he welcomed it. The sensation was grounding.
Lucian stripped off the bloodied shirt and cravat. His chest was broader than he remembered. More defined. He'd been fit enough on Earth—had to be, working twelve-hour shifts in the ER—but this body was different. Stronger, maybe. Younger, definitely.
He scrubbed at his hands first. The water turned pink, then red. He had to change it twice before his skin was clean.
His face next. He cupped water in his palms and splashed it against his cheeks, his forehead, the side of his head where the wound had been. The coldness shocked the panic back a few steps. Not gone. Just... manageable.
When he looked up, the stranger in the mirror stared back.
Black hair, still damp. Sharp jawline. Eyes that were darker than his had been—almost black in the dim light. Handsome, objectively. The kind of face that would've made his job easier back home. People trusted attractive doctors more. Study after study confirmed it.
But that's not my face.
He touched his cheek again. The stranger mirrored him.
That's not my face.
His breathing quickened. The panic pushed back against the calm, demanding attention.
That's not—
A knock at the door.
"Master Lucian? I've set breakfast in the dining room. Shall I prepare a bath as well?"
The voice pulled him back. Lucian blinked, realized he'd been staring at the mirror for—how long? A minute? Five?
He forced words through his throat. "Yes. Thank you."
Thank you? Was that appropriate? He didn't know. Didn't know anything about this place, these people, this life he'd apparently stolen.
Or been given.
Or trapped in.
"Very good, sir."
Footsteps retreated. Lucian waited until the sound faded completely before he moved.
He pulled on the clean shirt, fumbled with the buttons. Too many. Who needed this many buttons? His fingers remembered the motions anyway—muscle memory from a body that wasn't his. The cravat was harder. He gave up after three attempts and left it hanging loose around his neck.
The coat came last. Black wool, well-tailored. It fit perfectly, which shouldn't have surprised him but did anyway.
Lucian caught his reflection one more time. The stranger looked back. Composed. Wealthy. Nothing like the terrified doctor who'd woken up with a bullet in his brain twenty minutes ago.
Fake it. You've faked confidence before. Every time you told a family their loved one didn't make it. Every time you held a patient's hand while they died. You can fake this.
He opened the door.
The hallway stretched in both directions, longer than any hallway had a right to be. Wallpaper in dark green, patterned with gold. Gas lamps—actual gas lamps, he realized—lined the walls at intervals. The flames flickered as he passed, casting shadows that seemed to move independently of the light source.
He ignored that. Had to ignore that.
Stairs appeared on his left. Wide, carpeted in burgundy. His hand found the bannister—polished wood, smooth under his palm—and he descended.
The house opened up below him. Not a house. A manor. High ceilings. Crown molding. A chandelier that had to weigh two hundred pounds hanging over the entrance hall. Portraits lined the walls—stern faces in old-fashioned clothes staring down at him with expressions that ranged from disapproving to actively hostile.
Who were these people? Lucian Smith's family?
He reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. Three doorways branched off from the hall. No signs. No helpful labels.
"Master Lucian?"
He turned.
The maid stood in the doorway to his right. Middle-aged, maybe forty or fifty. Her dress was black, practical, with a white apron tied at the waist. Her hair was pulled back severely, greying at the temples. She regarded him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Concern? Suspicion?
"Breakfast is ready, sir. In the dining room."
She gestured to the doorway she'd emerged from.
Lucian nodded. Followed. What else could he do?
The dining room was smaller than he'd expected but no less opulent. A table that could seat twelve dominated the space. Only one setting had been prepared—fine china, silver cutlery that gleamed even in the muted light from the window.
The window.
Lucian's attention snapped to it before he could stop himself.
The grey was still there. Still moving. But now, in daylight—if it was daylight—he could see more. The city sprawled below, but sprawled wasn't the right word. Fractured, maybe. Broken.
Buildings rose at angles that shouldn't have supported their own weight. Streets curved up the sides of structures, defying gravity. And in the distance, that tower he'd seen before hung suspended in the air, slowly rotating around an axis only it seemed aware of.
"Are you feeling unwell, sir?"
The maid's voice pulled him back. She was watching him with that same unreadable expression.
Lucian cleared his throat. "I'm fine. Just... tired."
"You didn't sleep well again."
It wasn't a question.
He took the seat at the head of the table. The chair was more comfortable than it looked. "No. I didn't."
The maid moved to the sidebar and began preparing his plate. Eggs. Toast. Something that might have been bacon but looked darker. She worked in silence, efficient movements that spoke of decades of practice.
Lucian studied her while she wasn't looking. The dress, the apron—Victorian era, definitely. Or something close to it. But her hands... were those calluses? And a scar across her knuckles, half-hidden by the sleeve.
She set the plate in front of him. Poured tea from a silver pot that steamed in the cool air.
"Will there be anything else, Master Lucian?"
He should eat. Should at least try. But his stomach was a knot of anxiety and confusion, and the thought of putting anything in it made him want to retch again.
"I..." He hesitated. The question felt dangerous, but he needed to know. "What day is it?"
The maid's eyebrows rose slightly. "It's the fifteenth of October, sir. Year 2082 of the After Dark calendar."
After Dark. Neither of those meant anything to him.
"And... where am I? Which city?"
Now her expression shifted to clear concern. "Ashvale, sir. The Upper Wards. Your family's estate." She paused. "Master Lucian, are you certain you're well? Should I send for a physician?"
"No." The word came out too quickly. "No, I'm... the fever. It's left me confused."
Understanding flickered across her face. "Ah. Yes, the physician did warn us there might be lasting effects." She hesitated, then added gently, "You've been quite ill these past months, sir. It's no wonder you're disoriented."
Play along. Use it.
"Tell me," Lucian said carefully. "What... what do I normally do? During the day?"
The maid—he still didn't know her name—folded her hands. "Well, before the illness, you would attend to your business affairs. The Smith family has investments in the Ironworks District and the Eastern Docks. You would also frequent the gentleman's clubs in the Cathedral Quarter." She paused. "Though you haven't done any of that in quite some time."
"The Cathedral Quarter?"
"Where the temples are, sir. The Seven Shrines." She gestured vaguely upward. "Where people go to make offerings to the Prime Gods."
Gods. Plural. Real gods, if the way she said it was any indication.
Lucian's medical training screamed that this was a delusion, that he'd had a psychotic break and was hallucinating all of this. But the chair beneath him was solid. The tea steamed. The impossible architecture outside the window remained stubbornly impossible.
"The Seven..." He let the sentence trail off, hoping she'd fill in the blanks.
She did. "Lord Shiva, Lord Brahma, Lord Vishnu." She counted them off on her fingers. "Lady Lakshmi, Lord Indra, Lord Vishwakarma." A pause. "And the Empty Seat."
"Empty?"
Her expression darkened. "We don't speak of it, sir. Not proper." She busied herself with straightening the already-straight cutlery. "The seventh shrine stands vacant. Has for three hundred years."
Three hundred years. An empty temple to a missing god.
"Why?"
"That's not a question for people like us to ask." Her tone was firm. Final. "The gods have their reasons. We have ours. Best to keep them separate."
She curtsied—that gesture again—and moved toward the door. "I'll prepare your bath, sir. And I'll lay out fresh clothes. Perhaps a walk in the garden later? The fresh air might help clear your head."
Lucian watched her go. Heard her footsteps fade into the depths of the manor.
He looked down at his plate. Picked up the fork with hands that had stopped shaking. The eggs were cold now, but he took a bite anyway. His stomach protested, then grudgingly accepted.
Outside the window, the city turned itself inside out. A bridge connected two buildings at impossible angles. A flock of birds flew in formation, then suddenly reversed direction mid-air, as if they'd hit an invisible wall.
Seven gods. An empty shrine. A world that had shattered and somehow kept functioning.
And somewhere in this madness, he needed to find a way home.
Lucian set down his fork. Pressed his palms flat against the table. Breathed.
I'm a doctor. I solve problems. This is just... a very strange problem.
First step: understand the situation. Where he was. When he was. What the rules were in this broken world.
Second step: figure out what happened to the original Lucian Smith. Why he'd put a gun to his head. What he'd discovered that drove him to it.
Third step: find a way back to Earth. Back to his parents. Back to reality.
Simple. Logical.
Completely insane.
But it was all he had.
Lucian stood, steadier now. He walked to the window and pressed his hand against the glass. It was cold. Real. On the other side, the grey fog pulsed like something breathing.
And for just a moment—so brief he almost missed it—he thought he saw something in the fog. A shape. Massive. Watching.
Then it was gone.