| Beneath the Surface

A voice, neither human nor beast, whispered through the endless dark. It spoke in a language beyond comprehension, the syllables twisting and unraveling like the tendrils of some unseen force. The very sound of it pressed against Rowan Lysander's skull, a discordant melody that clawed at his mind. It was not meant for human ears.

Then, suddenly—

"Hey! Are you okay?"

A second voice, this time tangible, sharp, and real. A rough shake jolted Rowan's body.

"Wake up!"

Rowan's eyes shot open, his breath ragged, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Panic flooded his veins as he gasped for air. He found himself sprawled against the cold, uneven ground, his trembling arm resting atop a large, dark green dumpster. Its rusted surface was slick beneath his palm, the metallic scent of decay filling his nostrils. He struggled to rise, his legs unsteady, as if he had fallen from a great height—no, as if he had been dropped into this place.

The man before him, who had roused him from unconsciousness, peered at him with concern. He was a sanitation worker, judging by his worn reflective sweatshirt and the little torn cap perched upon his head. His face bore the weary lines of labor, his hands rough and calloused.

"Here, let me help you." The man extended a hand.

Still dazed, Rowan grasped it and was pulled to his feet. He wavered, his mind reeling, the unfamiliar weight of this place pressing upon him. He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising nausea.

"Th—thank you," Rowan managed, his voice trembling.

The sanitation worker eyed him for a moment, then nodded before returning to his work.

Rowan turned, his surroundings coming into grim focus. He stood in a narrow alleyway, swallowed by darkness. The walls on either side were damp and stained, the bricks cracked with age. Broken pipes jutted from the structures, dripping water that pooled at his feet, the scent of mildew thick in the air. Moss clung to the stone, creeping like fingers desperate for life. The alley was lined with refuse—discarded rags, shattered glass, the remnants of a world that had long since stopped caring for this corner of its existence.

Steadying himself, Rowan took slow, deliberate steps toward the mouth of the alley. He emerged into the open—and froze.

The sight before him was beyond anything he could have imagined.

Towering structures stretched into the heavens, buildings of steel and glass stacked upon one another in a dizzying maze of impossible heights. Great metal walkways wove between them, suspended as if by nothing at all. Above, in the sky, trains rumbled past—no tracks, no cables, only eerie green light that pulsed beneath them, keeping them aloft.

His breath caught. This was not his world. Or was it?

Rowan's eyes flicked downward, where the disparity between the sky and the streets below became starkly evident. The area he had awoken in was old, crumbling—forgotten. The stench of neglect and poverty clung to the air. Garbage lay strewn across the cracked pavement, pooling in the corners where rats darted between the filth. People moved like specters, their clothes tattered and stained, their faces gaunt with hunger.

A woman huddled against a wall, cradling a boy in her arms. The child's skin was pallid, his frail body wracked with shallow breaths. His mother, too, was ghostlike—her eyes hollow, dark crescents beneath them betraying sleepless nights and endless suffering. She rocked him gently, her lips moving in a silent plea, though the answer to her prayer had long been written.

Rowan's stomach twisted.

The opulence above, the suffering below—two worlds stacked atop one another, existing in tandem, yet wholly divided.

And he did not know where he stood.

Had he been cast into some forgotten future? Or was this some distant land, far removed from his own?

Questions burned in his mind, but no answers came. He needed information.

His sharp eyes scanned the street, searching for someone who might offer him clarity. Then he saw him—a hunched figure pushing an old shopping trolley, its metal frame bent and warped. The man's beard was thick and unkempt, a wild mess of gray and white, his clothes a patchwork of tattered fabrics layered upon one another. His presence seemed almost rooted in this place, as if he had weathered its decay for decades.

Determined, Rowan approached.

"Good evening, sir," he greeted, his voice steady despite the weight of uncertainty pressing upon him.

The old man paused, lifting his head. His eyes, hidden beneath bushy brows, gleamed with sharpness despite his aged exterior.

"Evening to you, lad," the man replied, his tone rough but not unkind.

Rowan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I am… from another land. This place is unfamiliar to me. Might you tell me more about it?"

The old man studied him for a moment before nodding. "A stranger, eh? A rare thing these days." He gestured toward the street ahead. "Come. My place isn't much, but I've got tea. A warm drink always helps with a lost mind."

Rowan considered the offer briefly before inclining his head. "That would be much appreciated."

As the old man turned, Rowan noticed the strain in his posture as he pushed the battered trolley. Without thinking, Rowan stepped forward.

"Allow me," he said.

The old man's eyes flickered with surprise before he gave a slow nod. Together, they began their slow trek through the city's forgotten streets, the trolley's wheels rattling against the uneven pavement.

Rowan's mind swirled with a thousand questions.

Where was he?

How had he come here?

And most importantly—how would he ever find his way back?