The night hung heavy with rain, the sky obscured by thick clouds that seemed to stretch on forever. The rhythmic patter of rain was almost soothing, broken only by the distant sound of hurried footsteps and the wind whipping through narrow alleyways.
A lone figure crouched behind an old, rusted dumpster, his back pressed against the cold stone of the wall. His heart raced, pounding in sync with the rain, as if each drop were part of a countdown. He couldn't move. They were close—he could hear their boots splashing through the puddles, their heavy footsteps growing louder by the second. They didn't know he was there.
His grip tightened on the gun, his breath steady but shallow. He had trained for moments like this. He was an agent—at least, that's what he thought he was. His eyes scanned the shadows, catching every subtle movement, every shift in the night. The alley was eerily quiet, save for the ominous sound of approaching danger. He was ready.
Then, a shot rang out, loud and sharp, shattering the silence like a bell's toll. He fired back, crouching low, moving like a shadow in the dark. His mind was razor-sharp. He was faster. He was better.
But time passed, and the tension began to take its toll. His muscles burned with fatigue, his vision blurred, and the weight of exhaustion dragged at him. He needed an escape. His breath came in gasps, his hands shaking as he reached for a grenade.
With a grunt, he pulled the pin and tossed it toward the advancing figures. The explosion was deafening, a wave of heat and force that knocked him off his feet. He crashed to the ground, his head spinning.
Then, nothing.
When he opened his eyes, the cold, rain-soaked alley was gone. He wasn't on the ground anymore. Instead, he found himself in a sterile hospital room, marked with the number "744." The air smelled of antiseptic, and the steady beep of machines filled the silence around him. Confused, he instinctively reached for his chest, expecting to feel a badge, a weapon. But there was nothing—only the crisp sheets and an unfamiliar ceiling.
A nurse stood by his bed, her face calm and unflinching as she adjusted his blanket. Her voice was soft but firm.
"It's time to rest," she said, her words gentle, as if guiding him through some forgotten routine.
He frowned, bewildered. "I'm… I'm an FBI agent. Who are you?"
She smiled, but it was distant, like a polite stranger. "Just rest. Everything will be fine," she said before turning to leave.
As she walked away, he lay there, trying to make sense of it all. The rain, the fight, the explosion—they felt real, too real. But here he was, in a quiet hospital room, a world away from the chaos he had just escaped. It was as if he had woken from one dream only to fall into another.
His eyes fluttered shut, and the dream came rushing back.
This time, he wasn't in a hospital bed. He was standing in the middle of a chaotic city street, his FBI badge pressing against his chest, the weight of the gun in his hand. Sirens screamed around him, and bullets zipped by, narrowly missing him. He knew this role, or he thought he did. But something was wrong. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here—or why.
The scene shifted again.
Now, he stood before a towering castle, the mist swirling around its base. A staff crackled with magical energy in his hand, the earth beneath him vibrating with untamed power. He was a sorcerer, but the robes felt out of place, like a costume. The magic surged within him, yet nothing he tried seemed to work. The air thickened, and the world around him trembled as if unsure of its own existence.
Another shift.
He was in a sleek, metallic room, bathed in neon blue and purple lights. His hands moved swiftly over a glowing interface, fingers dancing over a keyboard that hummed with data. He was a hacker, but something wasn't right. The words on the holographic screen flickered, shifting out of sync with his commands. He couldn't fix it, no matter how hard he tried.
Each time he began to understand who he was, the world twisted again. He was a soldier, a scholar, a rebel, a leader—each identity morphing into the next, faster and faster, crashing together like shards of broken glass. Nothing stayed the same. Everything was fluid, slipping away from him.
Agent. Sorcerer. Hacker. Scientist. A thousand versions of himself splintering across countless realities. His mind struggled to hold onto any one of them, each piece slipping through his fingers.
And then, everything went dark.
The world vanished. No sound. No light. Only silence.
His thoughts whirled in the void, desperate, but there was nothing solid to cling to. Every reality, every identity, drifted away like mist in the wind.
Before his consciousness faded completely, one question rang out in the emptiness:
Who am I?