Chapter 1 – A Stranger's Skin
He woke to the sound of rain.
Not the harsh kind that batters rooftops, but soft and steady—like it had been falling for hours and had no intention of stopping. It soaked the edges of the world in gray.
His eyes opened slowly.
The ceiling above him was wooden—dark planks warped with age and moisture, held up by a crooked beam. The smell was damp. Stone and ash. It clung to his nose, unfamiliar and sharp.
He didn't move.
Not yet.
He stared at the ceiling and listened to the faint rattle of a loose window pane, the creak of wood, the muffled clatter of hooves on cobblestone far below.
None of it sounded like home.
He blinked.
The bed beneath him was rough. Straw-stuffed. The blanket itched his skin. A faint draft crawled along the floor. He turned his head slowly and found a small, cracked window to his right. Rain streaked across the outside glass, bending the view into watery shadows. Just beyond it, faint silhouettes of buildings leaned against each other like crooked teeth.
He sat up.
The motion was slow, unfamiliar.
His body felt… wrong.
His limbs were too long. His joints were stiff. He moved like a marionette getting used to its own strings. A cold breeze brushed against his bare chest, and he looked down at himself.
Pale skin. Slender frame. Thin, bony hands.
That wasn't him.
That wasn't the body he remembered.
He staggered toward the corner of the room, where a tarnished mirror stood propped against the wall.
What he saw stopped him cold.
The reflection staring back had a face too sharp, too angular. A jawline like carved marble. Black hair, uncombed and damp. But it was the eyes that caught him—pure crimson, like glowing coals in a fire. No human eyes looked like that. Not even with contact lenses.
He reached up and touched his own cheek. So did the man in the mirror.
He opened his mouth to speak—but no sound came.
He took a step back and almost tripped over a chair.
"This isn't me," he muttered, voice raspy and low. "This… isn't me."
But it was. Somehow, it was.
There was no familiar hum of a refrigerator. No streetlights outside. No phone buzzing. No laptop screen. No world of glass and silicon. Just wood, candle wax, cold air, and silence.
He turned back to the window and stared out.
A narrow street ran below, cobbled with uneven stones. A man pushed a wooden cart through the rain, covered in cloth and carrying some kind of vegetables. A girl darted past, barefoot, hugging her cloak tight.
No cars. No electric lamps. Just lanterns. Coats. Hats. Shadows.
The buildings leaned in on themselves like they had been standing here for centuries—dark brick, peeling paint, wooden shutters.
He wasn't in London. He wasn't even in the twenty-first century.
He looked down at his hands again, just to be sure.
Slender. Unfamiliar.
He opened the desk drawer nearby.
A small book sat inside, along with a few papers and a pouch that clinked when he picked it up. He opened it.
Coins.
Not the kind he knew. Thin, dull metal. Some large and gold-tinged. Others small, pitted silver. The smallest ones were coppery—flat and stamped with a triangle symbol.
He counted them.
Eight small copper coins, two silvers, and one gold.
A note had been folded beneath them.
Rent due in five days. Don't vanish again, Vale. —M.
Vale.
That name again.
He mouthed it.
"Vale…"
It didn't sound natural coming from his lips. But something about it stuck. Heavy. Cold. Like an old coat that didn't quite fit, but had already been worn too long to be thrown away.
So that was his name now.
Vale.
Whoever he'd been before—on Earth, in that other world—it was gone. Swallowed.
There was a knock at the door.
He tensed. His fingers curled around the pouch.
"Vale?" came a voice—a girl, young, with a soft country lilt. "You in there? It's still raining. Thought you might need food."
He cleared his throat. "Yeah."
A pause.
"You sound worse than yesterday," she said. "Still sick?"
He hesitated. "Maybe."
"Well… I'll leave something out here."
He heard footsteps retreating. A small clink as something was set down just outside.
Vale didn't move to open the door. Not yet.
He needed time.
He wasn't just somewhere else. He was someone else. That truth was sinking in slower than he liked.
And worse—he didn't remember how he'd gotten here. No explosion. No death. No blinding light. Just—Waking
That made it harder. He couldn't even be sure he was dead.
Was this a dream? A coma? A punishment?
He didn't know.
But the way the wooden floor felt under his bare feet, the sharp taste of iron in the water from the basin, the dry ache in his bones—none of it felt fake.
Everything felt real.
Too real.
He opened the door cautiously.
The hallway outside was narrow and dark, the floor slanted like the building was tired of standing. A tray had been left near the stairs—a bowl of grayish stew, a small loaf of bread, and a folded cloth.
He carried it back inside and locked the door again.
The food was bland. Thin broth and potatoes. But it filled the gnawing in his stomach.
He stared at the wall as he ate.
There were no photos.
No electricity.
No technology at all.
Just paper. Candle. Coin.
And that face in the mirror that still didn't feel like his.
---
That night, the rain continued.
He didn't sleep much.
He lit one of the stubby candles from the desk and sat by the window, watching the quiet city breathe.
The people below seemed to carry themselves with caution—like they were used to cold air and long nights. Boots. Long coats. Dull eyes. No smiles. Even the children moved quickly.
He saw two men in dark cloaks pass under the archway near the bakery across the road. One of them carried a strange long-case bag on his back—too thin for tools. A gun, maybe? He wasn't sure. The shape reminded him of old flintlocks.
The other man was smoking something in a pipe that glowed green instead of orange.
Vale watched them disappear into the shadows without speaking.
What kind of place is this?
He didn't know yet.
But it was not a kind world. That much he could feel already. It was soaked in gray. Slow-moving. Wary. Like it was hiding something deeper under every stone.
A place where someone like him could vanish without a trace.
Or rise—if he was careful.
If he could understand it.
He turned to the mirror one last time before blowing out the candle.
Those red eyes stared back.
Too bright.
Too sharp.
He didn't understand what he was yet. But he wasn't normal. Not in this world.