Chapter 1: The Passenger
Chapter 1: The Passenger
The scrape of the plastic basket against the worn linoleum was the most exciting thing Jo had heard all day. Another Thursday, another trip to the sad little grocery store nestled between a laundromat and a payday loan place. Milk, bread, maybe some instant ramen if he felt adventurous. The list, short and uninspired, echoed the dull rhythm of his life. He pushed open the glass door, the bell above tinkling a pathetic little announcement of his arrival into the fluorescent hum. Outside, the grey afternoon threatened rain, the air thick with the smell of impending dampness and exhaust fumes.
Jo stepped off the curb, his mind already calculating the quickest route to the dairy aisle, when the world dissolved into a cacophony of screeching tires and shattering glass. A flash of blinding white, the impossible weight of metal slamming into him – not just hitting, but consuming him. There was a brief, terrifying sensation of being torn apart, followed by an even more terrifying plunge into absolute nothingness. No pain, no light at the end of the tunnel, just… oblivion.
Then, sensation returned, but it was wrong. All wrong.
He—or rather, something—gasped. Cool, slightly musty air filled lungs that weren't his. Awareness flickered, disjointed. He felt… tall. Unnaturally tall. And lying on something coarse but yielding – straw, maybe? Panic began to bubble, a cold dread spreading through a chest cavity that felt too large, too defined. He tried to sit up, to scream, to do anything, but nothing happened. It was like being encased in cement, his consciousness a frantic prisoner within unmoving walls.
And then, the walls moved.
An arm, long and pale, flopped over the side of the narrow cot. Slender fingers flexed, then clenched. My hand? No, not mine. The thought screamed in the silent echo chamber of his mind. This body felt alien, lean muscle shifting under skin that seemed too smooth. It sat up, a groan escaping lips that Jo didn't control. The movement was fluid, practiced, entirely independent of Jo's panicked desire to simply understand what was happening.
The body swung its legs over the side of the cot. Roughspun trousers lay pooled on the wooden floorboards beside worn leather boots. Jo watched, detached and horrified, as the hands—those hands—reached for the trousers. They pulled them on with an economy of motion, cinching a simple leather belt around a waist far trimmer than Jo remembered possessing. Next came a loose-fitting tunic, the color of faded linen. Each movement was deliberate, automatic, like someone dressing after a thousand identical mornings.
Jo's mind raced, scrambling for purchase on the impossible reality. Truck. Oblivion. Waking up… here. Wherever here was. The room was small, spartan. Rough-hewn wooden walls, a single shuttered window letting in weak slivers of light, a small wooden table and stool, the cot. A waterskin and a leather satchel hung from pegs near the door. It smelled of old wood, sweat, and something metallic, like worn steel. Medieval? It looked like something out of a low-budget fantasy film.
No. No, no, no. This can't be real.
The body stretched, joints popping softly. It ran a hand through a tumble of dark hair that fell past the jawline. Jo could feel the strands, silky and thick, a sensation utterly foreign. The body moved towards the small table, where a simple wooden bowl filled with water sat. It leaned down, intending to splash water on its face.
And Jo saw him.
The reflection wasn't Jo. Staring back from the water's surface was a stranger. The face was young, perhaps early twenties, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and startlingly clear eyes—the color lost in the dim light and murky reflection. But what struck Jo, even more than the unfamiliarity, was the sheer, startling beauty of the face. It was undeniably masculine, yet possessed a delicate, almost ethereal quality. Sharp jawline, yes, but softened by full lips and long, dark lashes. Handsome, undeniably, but with an undercurrent of… femininity? A face that could belong to an elf-prince in one of those fantasy novels he used to skim through.
It was the kind of face that turned heads. The kind of face that inspired poetry or obsession. It was everything Jo wasn't. Jo had been… average. Forgettable. Mid-thirties, thinning hair, a soft paunch testifying to too many nights of instant ramen and cheap beer. This face, this body, was an artwork.
Who was this man? An some gigolo was his first though, but judging by the setting and the faint calluses on the hands Jo could now dimly perceive life of this man was not so light. Where was he? Some backwater town? Had the original owner died? Or was he still in there somewhere, suppressed, while Jo, the unwanted hitchhiker, occupied his consciousness?
The body finished its rudimentary washing, the water droplets clinging to that sculpted face. It picked up a comb from the table – actual carved wood – and began drawing it through the dark hair, smoothing it back. The movements remained unhurried, methodical. There was no sense of the panic Jo felt, no confusion. This was just… morning routine.
A glint of metal caught Jo's internal eye. Leaning against the wall near the door was a sword. Not a decorative piece, but a functional weapon, belted in a scuffed leather scabbard. Its presence sent another jolt of unreality through Jo. Sword and magic? Truck-kun strikes again? It seemed the ridiculous tropes were true.
The body finished grooming, giving its reflection one last, indifferent glance. It seemed completely unaware of the terrified passenger trapped behind its eyes. It turned, movements still lithe and sure, towards the door. The hand reached for the simple iron latch.
Where was it going? Who would it meet? What life was Jo about to be dragged into, helpless and unseen? The questions hammered at him, each one unanswered, amplifying his sense of utter powerlessness.
His hand grabbed the handle of the entrance door. The door began to swing open, revealing an ampty long coridore without a single light resembling a second floor of some medeivel inn.