The cold air bit into my skin as I sat on the porch, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. I took a drag and let the smoke curl into the night. The street was quiet—too quiet—broken only by the hiss of passing cars slicing through puddles, water splashing against the curb.

  “John! John!”

  I winced.

  My wife, Emily. High-strung redhead. Short fuse.

  “Are you out smoking on the porch again?” she yelled from inside. “I need you to go across the street and pick up some things.”

  The door flew open. A list slapped into my chest.

  “Ugh,” I muttered. “Alright, alright. I’m going.”

  “Wait!”

  I turned just in time for her to pluck the cigarette straight out of my mouth like a magician stealing a coin.

  “You need to quit that,” she said, already walking away.

  “Okay. Okay,” I called after her.

  Liar.

  The cold followed me down the street, biting harder with every step. Once I was out of sight of the house, I fished another cigarette from my pocket and lit it up.

  Like I’d actually quit. Sheesh. What is it with that woman—always nagging.

  A couple blocks down sat the convenience store. Small. Nothing special. The kind of place that smelled like gasoline, burnt coffee, and cheap hot dogs that had been rotating on the same grill since last Tuesday.

  The bell chimed as I walked in.

  The clerk looked up and grinned. “Running errands for the wife again, John?”

  I sighed. “What do you think?”

  “Same old, same old,” she said.

  I looked down at the list. The handwriting was lazy. Slanted. Barely trying.

  Ha. Fitting.

  She sits around all day complaining—at least that’s how it feels to me.

  Ice cream

  Candy

  Juice

  I couldn’t help but laugh under my breath.

  Looks more like a list for a kid than a grown woman.

  I grabbed everything and laid it out on the counter.

  “Is that everything?” the clerk asked.

  I nodded, then pointed toward the back wall. “My usual pack.”

  She turned, grabbed it without asking which kind, and rang everything up.

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  That’s when the door swung open.

  A couple of guys stumbled in, laughing too loud, reeking of beer—clearly drunk.

  “Hey!” the clerk snapped. “We don’t allow drunks in here. Go back to the bar across the street—or go home.”

  One of them laughed. “Hey, we don’t mean any harm,” he said—then immediately knocked over a shelf.

  Cans clattered across the floor.

  He staggered sideways and slammed into me, nearly sending me down.

  “Hey! Watch it.”

  His friend’s face lit up. “He just tried to fight you.”

  “He fell into him,” the clerk said sharply. “Now get out.”

  The drunk turned on her, eyes glassy, smile gone.

  “You don’t talk to me like that,” he slurred. “You think you’re gonna be a big hero or something?” He looked at me. “Huh?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  He reached into his jacket.

  A knife flashed under the fluorescent lights.

  The clerk slammed the panic button.

  “I saw that,” the drunk snapped.

  He lunged for her.

  I didn’t think.

  I threw myself between them.

  We hit the floor hard—air exploding out of my lungs, tiles cold against my cheek.

  Footsteps. Shouting.

  Then they were gone.

  Why… are they running?

  I tried to move.

  Nothing happened.

  Panic crept in.

  I lifted my hand from my stomach.

  It came away slick.

  Red.

  Blood?

  All I could remember was the sound of the ambulance.

  The siren wailed—sharp, urgent—then slowly faded, stretching out until it felt far away. Like it was sinking underwater… or I was.

  Everything went dark.

  Then—

  I opened my eyes.

  The ceiling above me wasn’t white.

  It wasn’t anything I recognized.

  My head throbbed as I tried to focus, the world swimming, edges blurring in and out.

  Where am I?

  I touched where the wound should have been.

  Nothing.

  No blood.

  No mark.

  No memory of the knife—just absence.

  Weird.

  I looked around again. This wasn’t a hospital.

  It was a shack.

  Wooden walls. Rough boards. No furniture. Just a single chest sitting in the corner like it had been waiting for me.

  I stepped to the door and pulled it open.

  Trees.

  Endless trees, stretching in every direction. No buildings. No roads. No smoke. Just forest and silence.

  I closed the door and took a deep breath.

  Then I looked down at myself.

  These clothes…

  Plain brown fabric. Rough and simple. Sandals on my feet.

  “What?” I muttered.

  Did someone play dress-up with me while I was recovering? Or was this some kind of sick prank?

  I glanced back at the chest.

  I guess I should check, right? It’s not stealing—I’m in the middle of the woods.

  I opened it.

  The chest creaked as the lid lifted.

  Inside was a small bag filled with strange gold coins, stamped with symbols I didn’t recognize. Beneath it lay a folded map—roads and towns labeled with names that meant nothing to me.

  And a dagger.

  Simple. Clean. Sharp.

  This is weird.

  I grabbed the bag of coins and slipped it into my pocket. Then I picked up the dagger and unfolded the map.

  The moment I touched it—

  An icon appeared.

  Floating in the air.

  With my name.

  Must be dreaming… right?

  I pinched myself.

  “Ow.”

  Yeah. Definitely not a dream.

  “Well,” I muttered, “guess I better figure this out.”

  I studied the map.

  I’m here.

  The nearest town was north.

  Blackstone.

  The symbol was larger than the others. Important.

  I folded the map, opened the door, and headed out.

  Walking through the forest felt wrong. Birds burst overhead without warning. Bugs buzzed somewhere deep in the woods, unseen but constant.

  These sandals suck.

  I already miss my shoes.

  After what felt like forever, the trees thinned.

  A road came into view.

  A dirt road.

  “…What?”

  No pavement. No cars. No signs.

  I must be in the countryside or something… but where are the cars?

  Dust rose farther down the road.

  Before I could react, a man in full armor thundered past on horseback, metal flashing, cloak snapping behind him.

  I just stared.

  “…Is there a Renaissance festival going on or what?”

  He didn’t slow. Didn’t even glance at me.

  I followed the road until my feet burned.

  Then I stopped.

  A stone wall rose ahead of me.

  A gate set into it.

  Blackstone.

  Two guards stood watch, armored head to toe, spears resting casually in their hands.

  I approached, lifting my hands slightly.

  “Hey,” I said. “I don’t really know where I am, but can I come into town?”

  They watched me carefully.

  “I know this is some kind of role-play town or something,” I added, forcing a laugh. “I just need to get home. Do you have any loaner cars? Or a cell phone? I need to call my wife.”

  They looked at each other.

  One tilted his head. “Did you hit your head?”

  The other frowned. “Half of what you said doesn’t make sense.”

  “What’s a car?” he asked. “And a phone?”

  He shook his head. “Never heard of either.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the first guard said.

  My stomach sank.

  “ID,” one of them said, holding out his hand.

  I searched my pockets.

  My wallet was gone.

  Then my fingers brushed something hard. Square. Small.

  I pulled it out.

  A card.

  My face stared back at me.

  John Cobblestone.

  “…Wait,” I muttered. “That isn’t my last—”

  The guard snatched it from my hand.

  “Oh,” he scoffed. “A peasant. Figures, with that attire.”

  He handed it back. “You’re clear. You may enter.”

  The other guard smirked. “Try not to forget your name.”

  They laughed together as the gate opened.

  “This town’s always getting the crazies,” one muttered.

  I stepped through.

  Noise hit me immediately.

  Voices overlapping. Merchants shouting. Children laughing. The smell of smoke, food, and unfamiliar spices filled the air.

  The town spread out before me, divided into four clear sections.

  Stone and wooden houses lined narrow streets. People moved with purpose. And mixed among them were figures that weren’t quite human.

  Green skin.

  Animal-like features.

  Pointed ears.

  No one stared.

  I spotted flowing robes and pointed hats—wizard-looking outfits straight out of fantasy novels.

  The lower left looked rough. Cramped buildings. Tired eyes.

  Slums.

  Above that, sturdier homes. Modest. Normal.

  The bottom right bustled with life—a market packed with stalls and noise.

  The upper right stood clean and guarded. Banners. Large homes.

  Nobles.

  And to the far north, towering above it all, stood a castle—stone and shadow, impossible to ignore.

  The main road cut through the city.

  A guard walked beside me, eyes flicking over my clothes.

  “Hm.”

  He nodded. “Yep. Peasant.”

  “I’ll take you to your district,” he said. “I was informed you were new.”

  “District one is for peasants.”

  “District two is for nobles—no peasants allowed.”

  “District three is the market. Open to everyone.”

  “And district four…” He smirked. “The slums.”

  “Of course,” he added casually, “nobles can go wherever they please.”

  He led me off the main road and stopped.

  People went about their day around us. Shops open. Kids playing in the street.

  “Well,” the guard said, turning away, “you’re on your own now.”

  He shrugged.

  “Good luck.”

  He walked off, armor clinking softly.

  I stood there alone.

  In a city that already knew exactly who I was supposed to be.