The alarm blares at 6:30 AM.
I groan and turn over, burying my face in the pillow. I should get up. If I don't, I'll have to rush through my morning, barely functioning.
A sharp knock on my door.
"Wake up! You're going to be late."
My mom.
I forced myself up. My room is the usual mess—textbooks half-open on my desk, clothes draped over my chair, an empty instant noodle cup sitting beside my laptop. I glance outside.
The sky is gray.
It feels fitting.
I drag myself over to the wooden wardrobe in the corner, pulling open the door. Inside, my school uniform hangs neatly, a contrast to the rest of my room. I grab the shirt and pants, changing quickly. The fabric is slightly stiff, but it'll do.
I step into the bathroom and flick on the light, squinting for a second before moving to the sink. Turning on the faucet, I splash cold water on my face, the shock forcing me awake.
I look up at the mirror. Dark, messy hair, half-dried water dripping from my chin. My jawline's sharp enough, my eyes a little tired. Not bad-looking above average, but nothing special.
I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back. It falls right back into place. Whatever.
Grabbing a towel, I dry my face and step out.
Downstairs, it's the same as always. My mom moves quickly between the stove and the table, flipping eggs while scrolling through her phone. My dad sits at the table, reading the news, a deep frown on his face. My little sister, Shen Zhao, eats with one earbud in, her attention completely absorbed by whatever's on her screen.
I grab some toast and sit down.
"You didn't sleep early, did you?" my mom asks, not even looking at me.
"I tried."
She sighs. "You need to manage your time better. If you don't put in the effort now, you'll regret it later."
Effort.
It always comes back to that, doesn't it?
Like trying harder will fix everything. Like I haven't already been trying.
My dad finally looks up. "Have you thought about what you're doing after graduation?"
I stiffen. "I don't know."
"You can't keep saying that," he says, setting down his cup. "If you don't plan your future, it's just going to slip away from you."
Slip away.
That's exactly what it feels like. Like life is moving forward, dragging me along, and no matter how much I want to reach for something more, my hands come up empty.
Shen Zhao smirks. "He probably thinks he's destined for something big. Waiting for some 'special opportunity' to come knocking."
"Shut up," I mutter.
She just laughs and goes back to her phone.
My mom sighs. "Just think about it, okay?"
Think about what?
It's not that I don't want to do something meaningful.
It's that every path ahead of me feels like it leads nowhere.
I check the time and grab my bag. "I'm going."
"Be careful on your bike," Mom says, already back to cooking.
I nod and slip on my shoes. Outside, the morning air is cool, the streets already busy.
It's all so loud, and yet I feel like I'm not really part of it. Like I'm watching from behind a pane of glass.
I unlock my bike, throwing one leg over before pushing off. The city moves around me cars honking, vendors setting up, students walking in groups. It's familiar, almost automatic.
By the time I reach the school gates, the bell is just about to ring.
School is the same as always crowded halls, hurried footsteps, students either dragging themselves to class or moving with mechanical determination.
I walk through the noise and then i saw my friend Shen Ran waiting at my locker, flipping through a notebook.
"Did you finish the math homework?"
"Mostly."
"Your a Lifesaver," he says, grabbing my notebook without hesitation.
I roll my eyes. "At least try to change the answers this time."
"No promises," he grins, stuffing it into his bag.
The bell rings, sharp and loud, signaling the start of the class.
Classes pass by in a blur. I try to focus, but the words on the board feel distant, like background noise.
At lunch, I sit at my usual table with my friend Shen Ran and a few others. The cafeteria is buzzing with conversations
Across from me, He Ping leans back in his chair, "Our class is freaking out," he says.
sitting next to him Liu Yiran rolls her eyes. "Yeah, because college decides our whole future." She says it like it's obvious, like it's just another part of life everyone has accepted.
Shen Ran, sitting beside me, turns and says. "Speaking of which, you figured out what you're gonna do?"
I exhale. "Why is everyone asking me that today?"
"Because you're the only one here who hasn't figured out what your gonna do."
It's not like I don't think about it.
Then what's stopping you?
That's the question, isn't it?
What is stopping me?
It's not just about school. It's everything.
I want to do something real, something that matters.
But every time I try to picture the future, all I see is a blur. No direction. No clear goal.
Like a fog.
Just endless days of going through the motions.
Why do they all seem so sure? Or are they just better at pretending?
I don't want to waste my life. I say
Shen Ran raises an eyebrow. "Most people don't get to 'change the world.' You just find something that works and go with it."
That's what I hate the most.
The idea that this is all there is.
That no matter how much I want to make a difference, life will just swallow me up and move on.
After The rest of the classes past by in a haze.
By the time school ended, the sky is already darkening.
The sun is low as I bike home, the streets busy with students, cars, and vendors setting up for the evening. Same as always.
weaving through the usual after-school traffic. The streets are crowded students biking home, cars honking, the scent of street food drifting from vendors on the sidewalks.
I keep my pace steady, the ride home so familiar I barely need to think about it.
I take a shortcut, turning a corner
And then the world seemingly empties.
No people. No cars. No sound.
Just an empty street.
A thick fog clings to the air, dull and heavy.
And then I see it.
Someone stands at the edge of the road.
A black, white, and gold cloak drapes over them, their face a blur. In one hand, they hold a lantern black iron, heavy-looking. But there's no flame inside. Just an empty void where light should be.
A chill creeps up my spine. My breath catches. My hands tighten on the handlebars.
Then, in a blink, the world snaps back. The noise returns, people fill the streets, and the figure is gone.
I sit there for a moment, heart pounding.
Did that just happen?
Shaking my head, I push forward. Maybe I'm just exhausted. By the time I reach home, it already feels like a dream.
I step inside, shutting the door behind me.
The house is quiet. My parents aren't back yet. My sister is in her room, probably watching something.
I go to my own room, drop my bag.
Shrugging off my uniform, I fold it lazily before stuffing it back into the wardrobe. Pulling out fresh clothes and a towel, I toss them onto my bed before heading to the bathroom.
The hot shower washes away my exhaustion. After drying off with the towel, I throw on a T-shirt and shorts, then return to my room.
I sit at my desk.
As my unfinished homework stares at me.
I pick up a pen, stare at the first question, then set the pen back down.
What's the point?
Even if I finish it, even if I do well, what will it change?
no matter how much I want to be more than this.
Life doesn't care about what I want.
It just keeps moving forward, with or without me.
I see injustice. I see people struggling. I see the slow, crushing weight of reality pressing down on those around me.
And yet, I do nothing.
Not because I don't care.
But because i don't believe i can make a difference what difference can i make.
Who am I to change the world? Who am I to fight against something so vast.
I had once dreamed of making a difference, of standing up, of being someone people could rely on.
But reality has a way of grinding dreams into dust.
So, I learned to look away. To keep my head down.
It's easier that way.
And in time, the guilt became something distant.
Something that could be silenced.
But regrets don't fade. They linger.
There are moments I can never forget.
A homeless man I pass every day, but never once stop for.
A friend who needed help, but I offer only excuses.
A stranger calling for aid, but whom I ignored because someone else would handle it.
I never did anything wrong.
But I also never did what was right.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
And I wished.
For something anything to change.
Then, as I opened my eyes, everything stopped.
The wind no longer blew. The leaves outside my window hung still, frozen in place.
Birds hovered in midair, their wings stuck halfway through a flap.
The distant voices of my neighbors had gone silent, yet they stood there,
unmoving.
Even the dust in the air had stopped falling, like the whole world had just... stopped.
I blinked.
My breath hitched. Was I dreaming? Hallucinating?
I sat up, heart pounding, and walked to the window. The street was frozen in time—cars stuck in place, a woman mid-step, a spilled drink hanging in the air.
I knocked on the glass.
No sound.
No movement.
Then, the world started to fade.
Colors drained.
Shadows stretched.
And the sky darkened.
Buildings blurred, melting into the creeping darkness. The ground thinned like mist, vanishing under my feet.
My room faded next. The walls, my bed—gone.
I reached out, but there was nothing left.
Everything disappeared.
And then—
Nothing.
Just darkness.
Until something emerged from it.
a towering, ever-shifting Monolith, its surface engraved with symbols that refuse to stay still twisting, unraveling, reforming in patterns beyond comprehension.
As a grey and white fog coils around the Monolith like a living thing, shifting and writhing, tendrils of pale mist stretching outward devouring the endless void.
The longer I stare, the more it spreads, creeping along the edges of my vision, stretching beyond reality itself.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't breathe.
The Monolith looms before me, its form unraveling and reassembling like reality itself is breaking apart. The symbols shift too fast for my mind to grasp, but somehow, I know they mean something. Something important.
I squeeze my eyes shut again.
And when I open them again.
I'm somewhere else.
I was in an unknown room.
sprawled across a cold, wooden floor.
Something thick and tacky clung to my skin partially dried, but still damp in places.
A simple wooden wardrobe stands against the far wall, its surface worn and carrying a faint scent of wood and old fabric. The brass handles are dull with age, the doors closed but slightly uneven.
The scent of old paper and dust fills the air along with something else a faint, sharp scent that made my stomach turn. Something was wrong.
The wooden walls are rough, aged, and uneven. A single window lets in pale, flickering light, its glass warped and imperfect.
Books are piled haphazardly across the floor, some are also piled onto a desk the desk itself is a heavy, timeworn piece, seemingly from the Victorian era stained in ink stains and scattered notes. A bed sits in the corner, its sheets unmade, the blanket slightly askew.
I blink. My head feels stuffed with cotton. My thoughts scatter when I try to hold them.
Where…? Where am I?
What happened?
Wasn't I just…?
Am I dreaming?
What the hell is happening to me?
Did I… transmigrate? Reincarnate? No, that doesn't make sense
Is this even real?
Then, pain.
Deep, aching pain.
My limbs trembled, frail and unsteady. My skin burns with fresh, stinging cuts.
Some wounds feel deep, barely closed, while others ooze sluggishly, staining my tattered clothes.
But then, my gaze locks onto the floor.
A symbol is carved into the wood.
No—painted written in blood.
The deep crimson is only beginning to dry, its edges darkening while the center remains slick and fresh like it was drawn only minutes ago. Yet, despite the scattered droplets of blood both inside and outside the symbol, the lines remain eerily perfect, uneffected by the droplets of blood. Whoever carved or painted it worked with unsettling precision, their hand steady even as blood splattered around their work.
And I recognized it.
The Symbol its from the Monolith.
A sharp dizziness overtakes me after i observed the room. My stomach churns, and for a second, I feel like I might throw up.
I stood up, my legs weak, my breath coming in short gasps.
The room sways as I stand, legs shaking. The air feels thick, too heavy. My mouth tastes like iron
Where am I?
I ask out loud.
The question falls from my lips like a prayer no god is listening to.
My voice sounds... thin. Hollow.
Not mine.
My eyes flicker to the side, catching the glint of something in the dim light. A mirror, cracked along one edge, leans against the wall. Hesitantly, I step closer, my breath hitching as I take in my reflection.
A boy stares back at me.
His face is thin, eyes sunken from exhaustion. His skin is pale and dirty, covered in dried blood with a few spots of fresh red. His dark hair is a mess, tangled and stuck to his forehead. His clothes no, my clothes are torn, barely hanging onto my bruised frame.
He looks like someone who's lost.
I lift a trembling hand, watching as the reflection does the same.
But the reflection doesn't fit.
Not quite.
It looks like me
But… not exactly.
The face looking back at me is familiar—too familiar. It looks like my old body, but there are differences.
The shape of the jaw is slightly off.
The nose a little narrower.
The hair is just a shade darker than it should be.
This isn't my body.
It's very close, but not the same.
My gaze then drifts toward the wooden desk the desk itself is a heavy, timeworn piece, seemingly from the Victorian era, its dark wood chipped and and scratched with age. Three drawers line each side, six in total, there handles dulled with time. none of them are seemingly locked.
Among the old books stacked haphazardly, and the scattered notes all over the desk, a few thing stands out.
A handwritten letter besides a bottle of pills
The ink is dark, the strokes uneven.
No… not ink.
Blood yet again.
the blood—has dried, its deep crimson color still visible but no longer fresh It must have been written only a few hours ago, long enough to dry but not long enough to fade.
The handwriting is uneven, shaky, as if written by someone on the verge of collapse. The letters trail off in places, the strokes sometimes too faint, sometimes too forceful signs of trembling hands, of desperation while writing it were also evident.
Why can I understand this?
I've never seen this language before… have I?
Then why does it feel like I've read this a thousand times before?
The strokes of the handwriting, the way the blood curves and bleeds into the parchment it feels familiar, like a memory I've forgotten but never truly lost.
A slow, creeping unease coils in my gut. My breath comes unsteady, shallow. My chest tightens, a weight pressing down as if something unseen is wrapping around my lungs, making it harder to breathe.
I don't recognize the language, yet I understand every word. The strokes of the handwriting, the way the ink curves and bleeds into the parchment.
But one word stands apart.
Clear and deliberate, untouched by the strangeness of the rest written in Mandarin.
My name.
Xu Yichen (许逸辰).
My hands clench into fists.
Why is my name here?
How do they know it?
Who wrote this?
Was this… meant for me?
What the hell is this?