Rey didn't have dreams anymore. At 30, that part of his life was long gone, replaced by the dull, predictable rhythm of his days. Wake up, go to work, hit the gym, and then go to bed. It was a cycle—one he followed without thinking, without any desire for change.
He worked a regular office job, something that paid well enough to cover the bills, but nothing that made him feel alive. His job was a means to an end. He'd show up on time, do what was expected, and leave. There was no passion, no drive—just the dull hum of work for the sake of working. He didn't care about climbing the corporate ladder or making an impact. It was just what you did. You worked. That was it.
The gym was the only other thing that gave him a sense of purpose, or at least something resembling it. He went three or four times a week, pushing his body through sets and reps. It wasn't about getting stronger, not really. It was just something to do—an activity that filled the empty hours and kept him physically healthy enough to continue his routine. The gym was his escape from his mind, where he didn't have to think about anything. He just moved, lifted, and let the exhaustion consume him.
When he wasn't working or exercising, Rey didn't do much. There were no hobbies, no social interactions. His phone stayed silent, his messages unread, and he didn't bother to check in on anyone. His social media accounts were as barren as his life. He'd scroll through them occasionally, but it felt like he was watching someone else's life, not his own. He had no interest in reconnecting with old friends. He didn't need anyone. People were just noise, distractions from the quiet he had learned to cherish.
Rey didn't hate his life. He didn't love it either. It just was. He was existing, not living. It was easier this way—no expectations, no complications. No friends to disappoint, no family to answer to. No dreams to chase. Just him, the work, and the gym. That was his reality, and he'd stopped questioning it long ago.
At night, he'd eat whatever he had in the fridge, usually something quick, and then sit in front of his TV or computer, flicking through random shows or videos. Nothing held his attention for long. His mind drifted as soon as he stopped moving. He didn't have the energy to think about his future, or what came next. He was already too tired from the monotony of the day.
When he eventually went to bed, the silence of his room was both comforting and suffocating. The same silence he had learned to live with during the day now stretched on into the night. He didn't dream. He didn't care to. Dreams were for people who wanted something more, and Rey didn't. He had everything he needed to survive. And that was enough.
Tomorrow would be like today. Routine. Predictable. And that was fine.
Rey's day started like any other. The alarm blared at 7:00 a.m., dragging him out of sleep. He reached over to silence it, groaning as the remnants of sleep still clung to him. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if today would be any different. Spoiler: it wouldn't be.
With a sigh, Rey swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He shuffled to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and stared at himself in the mirror. A thirty-year-old man, who had seen the world, but never really lived in it. He was fine—nothing more, nothing less.
After a quick breakfast, which consisted of a granola bar and coffee, Rey slipped into his work clothes and grabbed his bag. He left the apartment with the same indifferent expression he wore every day. It was a short walk to the office, a little less than fifteen minutes, but today, it felt different. It felt like something was off. But Rey didn't pay it much mind—his mind was already on the reports he had to finish by the end of the day.
He walked down the street, headphones in, music playing softly to drown out the noise of the world. The hustle and bustle of the city was just background noise now, a sound he had long since learned to ignore. People passed by without a second glance, and Rey didn't mind. The world had no reason to care about him, and he had no reason to care about it.
As he crossed the street near the intersection, he heard a car screeching. A sudden, sharp sound that broke through his music and made his head snap up. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down. The car was coming straight toward him. The driver's face was a blur through the windshield, eyes wide in panic. But Rey didn't move. His body seemed to freeze in place, as if his mind couldn't process what was happening.
The next thing he knew, there was an impact.
A sharp, bone-crushing force hit him from the side, throwing him into the air like a ragdoll. Everything spun as he felt the world fall away beneath him, the sound of screeching tires and distant shouts fading into a dull hum. His body slammed against the pavement with a sickening thud. His breath was knocked out of him, and pain exploded in his chest, but his mind couldn't focus on it. The only thing he could think was that... this wasn't supposed to happen.
He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. His vision blurred, the world becoming a smudged painting of lights and shadows. He could hear people shouting, but they felt distant, muffled, as if they were a part of another life—another world.
The last thing he saw was the sky above him, streaked with the light of the morning sun. His body was numb, the pain fading as his consciousness slipped away. For the first time in years, he felt... nothing. No thoughts, no worries, no awareness of time.
And then, darkness.
Rey's eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he thought he was still trapped in the aftermath of the crash. The pain from the impact was sharp in his chest, but he could feel no broken bones, no blood soaking his clothes. Everything was... different.
He sat up with a gasp, heart racing, and looked around. His vision was blurry at first, but as it cleared, he realized he wasn't lying on the hard pavement of the city street anymore. He was in a dimly lit room, the walls made of stone, rough-hewn and cold to the touch. The flicker of a weak fire cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the air smelled musty, like old books and the faint scent of something burning.
This wasn't the office. This wasn't his apartment.
His pulse quickened as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up on shaky feet. The room was sparsely furnished—an old wooden wardrobe, a worn rug on the floor, and a massive mirror hanging on the wall.
A mirror.
Rey's throat tightened. He approached it slowly, each step heavier than the last, as if his legs were made of lead. He stared into it, expecting—no, dreading—to see his own reflection. The last thing he remembered was being hit by the car. That had to be a dream, right? This place, this room, it felt like a nightmare.
But as he looked at the mirror, his breath caught in his throat. The reflection staring back at him wasn't his own.
Instead, there was a stranger.
A young man stood there, his features unfamiliar. He had the look of someone barely out of their teens, maybe 18, but with a regal air about him. His skin was pale, his hair—blue. Not a dull shade, but a vibrant, deep blue that shone almost ethereally under the faint light. His face was smooth, almost childlike, with soft, unmarked skin and wide, curious eyes.
But it wasn't just his face that was different. The clothes he wore were clearly not from Rey's world. A rich, noble outfit, ornate in design. A deep blue tunic trimmed with gold, fine cloth that looked centuries old. The kind of clothes someone of high status would wear—something no ordinary man would possess.
The most striking thing, however, was the look in the young man's eyes. There was a certain depth in them, a sadness and uncertainty, but also a quiet strength that Rey couldn't explain.
This wasn't a dream.
Rey reached out to touch the mirror, his fingers trembling. The cool glass beneath his fingertips only confirmed what he feared—this was real. He pulled his hand back, looking down at the hands of the stranger in the reflection. The fingers were slender, delicate, and smooth—nothing like his own rough, calloused hands.
A thousand questions flooded his mind. Who was this person?Where am I?
As if on cue, memories that weren't his own began to surge in his mind. Images of places, people, and a life that wasn't his. The name—Adrian—echoed through his thoughts like a forgotten whisper. His name. This was who he had become. Adrian. A nobleman in some strange, medieval-like world.
Rey stumbled backward, his hand gripping the edge of the vanity to steady himself. He couldn't breathe, his chest tight. His head spun as the weight of it all crashed down on him. Was this a second chance? Or was this just some twisted fate?
He looked back at the mirror again, this time more closely. Adrian's face—his face—stared back at him, blank and confused, a reflection of someone trapped in a new life, a new body, in a place that felt like nothing he had ever known.
But one thing was certain: the crash, the pain, the emptiness of his past life—it was all gone now. In its place was something new, something terrifying and unknown. And Rey, or Adrian, was about to face a world he never thought he'd find himself in.