The ceiling was old. Cracks ran across it. Some were thin, others looked deep enough to hide something.
He blinked.
Nothing changed.
Still not his ceiling.
The blanket was rough. Heavy too. Smelled like sweat and dust. The bed creaked when he sat up. His head felt off. Not aching—just... wrong. Like something wasn't sitting right inside.
He looked down at his hands.
Too pale. Too smooth.
He didn't move for a few seconds. Just sat there.
Then slowly, he looked around.
One window. Two doors. A desk, barely holding together. A chair. A small basin with a mirror above it. The wallpaper was peeling in places. The air smelled damp.
There were no lights. No switches. No buzzing sounds from machines. Just the faint tick of pipes behind the walls and the faraway sound of footsteps.
He stood up.
The floor was cold. He took slow steps to the mirror.
The face looking back at him wasn't his.
Younger. Thinner. Neater.
Gray eyes. Hair combed back. A clean shave.
He backed away.
Opened the drawer under the desk.
Inside was a cloth bundle. Tied with string.
He untied it.
A thin brass plate. Cold and smooth.
Etched on the front were simple words.
[Name: Oliver Ardwin
Occupation: Unemployed
Education: Langston University – Lower City Division
Issued by: Office of Citizen Verification, District 9
Date: 3rd Cycle, 847 A.R.]
He didn't know that name.
Didn't know that city.
Didn't know what the hell 847 A.R. meant.
He looked at the mirror again.
The face still stared back.
Not a dream.
He turned to the window. Pushed it open. It stuck for a second, then gave in with a loud creak.
Cold air came in.
Outside, buildings were packed tight. Stone walls, iron pipes, chimneys puffing thin trails of smoke. The sky was gray. Foggy. A tram rolled past below. Metal wheels screeched on the tracks.
Streetlamps hissed with gas. Cables hung between buildings like spiderwebs. No cars. No wires. No neon signs. Just rust and soot.
People walked fast. Coats buttoned up. Hats pulled low. Most didn't talk. A few looked tired. One man in an apron dumped a bucket of something into the gutter.
The posters were lined up with precision. Edges straight. No color—just black ink on yellowed paper.
— All Citizens Must Register Before 5th Cycle
— Westbridge Quarantine Ongoing
— Loose Talk Ends at the Gallows
— Serve the Throne. Obey the Charter.
His mouth felt dry again.
This wasn't Earth.
Wasn't anywhere close.
He checked the inside pocket of the coat hanging by the door. Found nothing. Just the stitched name inside the collar—O. Ardwin.
He stood still.
Heart pounding, but quiet.
He didn't know who he was now.
Didn't know the rules of this place.
Didn't know what happened to the one who used to live in this body.
He stayed there for a while.
Just breathing.
Trying to calm down.
It didn't help.
The sounds outside felt louder now. The tram wheels. The distant whistle. Shouting from somewhere far off. A dog barking once, then nothing.
He walked to the door. The one by the coat.
Turned the knob.
The hallway outside was narrow. Dim. Gas lamps flickered on the walls. Pipes ran along the ceiling. The floorboards creaked with every step.
There was a stairwell to the left. He went down. The building groaned with age.
At the bottom was a lobby. Empty except for a man behind a counter. Middle-aged. Beard unkempt. Sleeves rolled up.
The man looked at him. Didn't smile.
"Rent's paid till the end of the cycle," the man said.
He nodded.
Didn't know what else to say.
Outside, the air was colder. Smelled like coal smoke, wet stone, and something sharp underneath. Maybe metal. Maybe blood.
People moved around him like clockwork. Everyone had somewhere to go. Everyone knew the rhythm.
He didn't.
He walked.
Passed buildings pressed close together. Most had cracked windows, rusted signs, peeling paint. A few had guards near the door. Black uniforms, long coats, metal batons.
He didn't look too long.
A boy was selling newspapers by the corner. His hands were black with ink. Voice hoarse.
"Throne's Eye Expands West! Border Forces Mobilized!"
"Fifth District Fire—Three Dead!"
"No Word From Northport!"
The boy didn't look older than twelve.
Further down the street, a steam carriage passed. Hissed and rumbled, leaving a trail of smoke.
He turned into a side alley.
Stopped.
Leaning against the wall, he exhaled slow.
His fingers were shaking.
This wasn't a dream. Wasn't a game. He could feel the cold. Smell the filth. Taste the ash in the air.
Oliver Ardwin.
That was the name now.
Not his, but no one seemed to notice. Or care.
He took out the brass plate again. Ran a thumb across the etching. It felt too real to be fake.
Behind him, someone shouted.
He turned.
A man stumbled into the alley. Thin, coat torn. Looked drunk, or sick. Maybe both.
The man looked up, made eye contact, then hurried past without a word.
Just like that, he was gone.
He watched the empty end of the alley for a while. Then tucked the plate back in his pocket and walked on.
Where to?
No idea.
But something in his gut told him not to stand still for too long.
The main street opened wider the further he walked. The fog thinned just enough to see the next few blocks. More posters. Same warnings. Same blunt tone.
He stopped at a corner where a wooden board stood against a wall. Bolted in place. It was covered in notices, each one printed clean and straight. No color. No frills.
— WORKERS WANTED – COAL YARD, DISTRICT 11
— REPORT ALL UNSTAMPED INDIVIDUALS
— STAY CLEAR OF NORTHPORT VESSEL RETURNS
— CITIZENSHIP REVIEW: 4TH CYCLE, DISTRICT COURT
— MISSING: GIRL, AGE 9, LAST SEEN NEAR FOGGATE STAIRS
Some notices were newer. Crisp paper, fresh ink. Others were torn at the edges, faded by fog and time. No one paused to read them. Just passed by.
He didn't.
He scanned each one, trying to piece something together—anything that made sense. Any clue about the rules. The dangers. The patterns.
Footsteps behind him.
He turned, slow.
Just another man. Hat low. Collar high. Didn't make eye contact.
Oliver stepped back from the board. Walked on.
At the next intersection, the crowd thickened. Workers. Students. Officials in dark uniforms. The flow split down three streets—each marked by cast-iron signs bolted to the brick.
→ NORTH QUARTER – TRAM DEPOT
→ SOUTH COURT – DISTRICT HALL
→ EAST STACK – FACTORY ROW
He picked East. Fewer people. Less risk.
The street narrowed again. Less maintained. Gutters choked with sludge. No shops. Just old buildings with barred windows and rusted balconies.
He passed a door left ajar. Music spilled out—low, warped, almost drowned by static. A radio?
Did they have radios here?
He slowed. Peeked in.
Dim room. One bulb. Two men hunched over a table. One glanced up. No words. No welcome.
He kept walking.
At the next turn, a steam tram screeched past behind him. Made him flinch. He didn't hear it coming.
That's when he noticed something else.
A board nailed to the wall near the alley mouth. Different from the others. Darker ink. Sharper font. Still formal, but heavier somehow.
— OFFICE OF CITIZEN VERIFICATION — DISTRICT 9
— LOCATION: SOUTH COURT, BLOCK 7B
— NEW CITIZENS MUST REPORT BY 5TH CYCLE
— FAILURE TO REGISTER WILL RESULT IN SUSPENSION OF PRIVILEGES
He stared at it.
That was the place listed on the brass plate. The one in his pocket.
He was already stamped.
Already expected.
A cold pit opened in his chest. He didn't know the rules. Didn't know who counted as a "new citizen." Didn't know what "suspension of privileges" meant in this city.
But something told him not to find out the hard way.
He memorized the address. South Court. Block 7B.
Turned back toward the main road.
Then froze.
A woman stood across the street. Gray coat. Gloves. Hat with a short veil.
She was staring at him.
Not the way strangers stare. Not casual. Not bored.
Watching.
She didn't blink.
Didn't look away when he met her gaze.
He waited.
She didn't move.
A steam carriage rolled between them. When it passed, she was gone.
He stood there a few more seconds.
Then walked faster.
Didn't run.
Not yet.
Just moved with the crowd. Shoulders hunched. Eyes forward.
The fog got thicker again near the tram line. The buildings closer. Narrower. The air felt tighter. He could hear his own breath.
South Court.
Block 7B.
He kept going.