I sighed, pressing the backspace until every painstakingly typed word vanished. The screen was empty again—a perfect metaphor for my life.

  "Ugh, I just want to be rich," I groaned, flopping onto the bed like a rejected side character in a low-budget romance film.

  The cracked ceiling stared back at me, unimpressed. No divine revelation. No sudden stroke of genius. Just me and my looming deadline.

  I glanced at the digital clock I’d fixed a few weeks ago—one of my rare victories —a few hours left. I could manage. Probably.

  With another sigh, I sat up and faced the blinking cursor. It pulsed like a mocking heartbeat. Come on, loser. Create something. I dare you.

  The laptop screen flickered for a split second, and the words I’d typed warped into strange symbols I didn’t recognize.

  I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. The screen was normal.

  Weird. Maybe I was just tired.

  As I stretched, my arms brushed against the peeling wallpaper. Bits of it flaked off onto the bed like my crumbling motivation. Maybe if I had money, I could afford a place that didn’t resemble a crime scene. And even a proper desk instead of this wobbly Jenga tower of sadness.

  I rubbed my face, forcing my fingers onto the keyboard.

  Nothing.

  I drummed my fingers on the edge of the laptop, the weight of disinterest settling in.

  Was being a novelist always this soul-sucking?

  I’d imagined something more… dramatic—late nights of furious typing, inspiration striking like lightning. I’d even watched YouTube tutorials on how to write bestsellers. One suggested coffee. I tried. It burned me. Very inspiring.

  Now, I was making frustrated whale noises at a blank screen, wondering if I could submit gibberish. My eyes flicked to my open bank account tab. The numbers weren’t motivating either.

  With a resigned breath, I cracked my knuckles and began typing. Every word felt like a battle, but I had no choice. I had to make this work. Rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

  The screen glitched again, the strange symbols flashing before disappearing.

  I stared, frustrated.

  Do I need to buy a new laptop? When I’m struggling just to survive?

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  In a fit of anger, I slapped the laptop. It returned to normal.

  I sighed. It must be the fatigue.

  As if on cue, my stomach growled—a reminder of my suffering. Probably from all the energy I’d drained from my anger. I got up and checked the fridge.

  Bleak. Like my writing career.

  A half-empty water bottle sat there, mocking me. No snacks. No leftovers. Not even a sad slice of bread.

  I slammed the fridge shut. Even my appliances were disappointing.

  Maybe I should just stop—stop trying, stop pretending this was going anywhere. Just give up.

  The thought had always lingered in the background, like an unskippable ad. But tonight, it was louder.

  I turned toward the window. The city buzzed with life—bright lights, laughter, and people thriving. Meanwhile, I was here, wondering if I could survive on water and sheer spite.

  I scoffed. Who was I kidding? I barely had the energy to finish a paragraph.

  Then, something shifted.

  The lights outside flickered—not the usual gentle waver, but a sharp, jagged stutter, like reality had glitched.

  A low hum vibrated through the air, sending a shiver down my spine. The temperature dropped, goosebumps prickling my skin. The air thickened, pressing against me like static. My ears buzzed, the sound growing into a sharp, grating whine.

  My breath hitched. My body tensed.

  The world tilted—no, it shrank—collapsing inward like it was folding into itself.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I covered my ears. The pressure built, compressing my chest and twisting my insides as if I were being squished into something too small to fit in.

  I felt nauseous as the world spun.

  For a brief moment before I collapsed, I saw the strange symbols on my laptop pulsing like something alive. Then they faded into darkness as I closed my eyes.

  Then—nothing.

  Silence. A deep, ringing silence.

  The first thing I registered was the cool grass against my skin—the scent of it—fresh, crisp, faint metallic tang. The air was cleaner than anything I’d ever breathed.

  I blinked. Had my landlord thrown me out in my sleep? No—that couldn’t be right. I’d paid this month’s rent.

  If this was a dream, I wanted to wake up.

  Panic surged like ice water through my veins. My chest rose and fell in sharp, unfamiliar bursts—something was wrong. Everything was wrong.

  Had I been drugged? Kidnapped?

  No. I had nothing valuable to be kidnapped for.

  I sighed, my voice lower, smoother—not mine.

  Wait.

  I tried speaking again, testing simple words. The sound that came out wasn’t mine. Deep. Confident. Too unfamiliar.

  Longer fingers, rough with calluses. Tendons shifted beneath unfamiliar skin as I flexed them. My usual, thin writer’s wrists? Gone. These arms were lean, built, carrying strength I’d never had.

  Panic curled around my throat. I needed a mirror. A reflection. Anything…

  My gaze landed on a puddle nearby. With hesitant steps, I crouched and looked.

  The face staring back wasn’t mine.

  Golden eyes. Dark bags under my eyes, evidence of fatigue.

  My heartbeat thumped—not fast and erratic like usual, but steady. Unnaturally steady.

  This is weird.

  I attempted the usual wake-up tricks—closing my eyes, willing myself back, even pinching my arm.

  Nothing.

  I lay on the grass, staring up at the sky.

  And that’s when I saw it.

  A cityscape so breathtaking it stole the air from my lungs. Towering skyscrapers pulsed with veins of neon light, weaving patterns across their sleek surfaces like living circuitry.

  Hovering platforms carried figures draped in shimmering cloaks. The air hummed—not just with the familiar buzz of a city but with something deeper, something alive, magic woven into its very core.

  This wasn’t just a city. It was a living symphony of magic and technology.

  And I was right in the middle of it.