It Real

The first thing Michael noticed was the weight of his eyelids—heavy, reluctant to open. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, painting golden stripes across the ceiling. He blinked slowly, letting the blurriness fade until the unfamiliar room came into focus.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 'So it's real.'

He lifted his right hand, watching it rise into the morning light. The fingers were long, slender, with clean nails—hands that had been cared for. He flexed them experimentally, marveling at how they responded despite feeling like borrowed tools.

Michael brought his hand to his face, tracing along his jawline. The bone structure was sharper than he remembered, more defined. His skin felt smooth, younger somehow.

'This is my face now. These are my hands.'

He pushed himself upright and stood, testing his balance. The wooden floor was cool against his bare feet. He walked toward the window, movements more coordinated than yesterday but still strange. Outside, he could see the impossible mix of floating and ground-based vehicles navigating morning traffic.

'I need to understand this place.'

He turned toward the wardrobe in the corner, a simple wooden piece with two handles. The left side opened to reveal hanging clothes—mostly casual wear in muted colors. T-shirts, jeans, a few button-down shirts that looked like they'd been worn but well-maintained. Everything was clean, organized, the clothes of someone who took care of their possessions even if they weren't expensive.

Michael reached for the right handle and pulled. Instead of more clothes, he found himself staring at his reflection in a full-length mirror mounted on the inside of the door.

The face looking back at him was definitely not the one he'd worn for twenty-three years.

This Michael was younger—seventeen, maybe eighteen at most. The features were sharper but softer at the same time, aristocratic in a way that spoke of good nutrition and care rather than privilege. His black hair fell messily across his forehead, and his dark eyes held an intelligence that seemed both familiar and foreign. He looked like someone who spent time thinking, studying, questioning.

'Jesus. I really am someone else now.'

He studied his reflection for a long moment, turning his head to see the profile, noting how different everything was. This wasn't just a new body—it was a completely different person's life, complete with their own history, relationships, and secrets.

The books on the desk caught his attention again, pulling him away from the mirror. He closed the wardrobe and crossed the room, settling into the wooden chair that had been pushed back from yesterday's hasty departure. The desk surface was covered with open texts and handwritten notes, evidence of serious study.

Michael picked up the book he'd glimpsed the night before—"A History of Humanity's Last Stand"—and opened it to the front page. The title page was simple, stark: "The Invasion of Symbolics and Hollows: A Comprehensive Account of the Great War."

His fingers traced the words, and he felt a chill run down his spine. He was about to turn to the first chapter when a soft knock interrupted him.

A soft knock interrupted him.

"Michael?" Sophie's voice came through the door. "Are you up?"

"Yeah, I'm awake," he called back, closing the book.

Sophie peered inside with a warm smile. She was dressed professionally in a white blouse and black slacks, hair pulled back neatly.

"Good morning. How did you sleep?"

"Better than I expected."

"Breakfast is ready when you are." She noticed the book in his hands. "Doing some reading already? You always were an early starter."

"Just trying to... remember things. Everything still feels fuzzy."

Sophie's expression softened. "Take your time. Why don't you get cleaned up? The bathroom's across the hall, and I'll keep your food warm."

Michael grabbed clothes from the wardrobe and made his way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, washed his face with cold water, and ran his fingers through his hair.

'This is my life now. Whatever happened to the original Michael, I'm him now.'

In the kitchen, the smell of eggs and toast filled the air. Sophie was plating food and checking her phone, adding a black blazer to complete her work outfit.

"Perfect timing," she said, setting a plate down. "Scrambled eggs and toast—nothing fancy, but it'll do."

Michael sat down. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Work. I have a job at the Administrative District—filing and data entry, but it pays the bills."

"What about Mom?" Michael asked, taking a bite of the eggs. They were perfectly cooked, seasoned just right.

"She's still at work," Sophie explained, pouring herself a quick cup of coffee. "She works night shifts at the hospital—same one you were just in, actually. She'll be home later this afternoon to sleep."

They ate in comfortable silence until Michael's curiosity won out.

"Sophie, what are Hollows?"

Sophie looked up. "And Symbolics," she finished automatically, as if the words always went together.

"Yeah, those too. I saw something about them in the books."

"Your memory's starting to come back?"

"Maybe. I just felt like I should know what they mean."

Sophie glanced at the clock, then settled back into her chair, her expression growing serious.

"The Hollows and Symbolics are the reason we live behind the walls. A hundred and thirty-five years ago, portals opened everywhere. Two types of creatures came through. The Hollows were parasites that took over people, turned them into monsters that hunt humans. The Symbolics bonded with people but let them keep their humanity while giving them special abilities."

Michael leaned forward. "What happened then?"

"War. The people bonded with Symbolics fought the Hollows to protect humanity. Most of the world was destroyed. The Hollows invaded their hosts completely, turning loved ones into monsters while preserving enough of their personalities to make it truly horrific. Parents watched their children tear into neighbors, fully aware but unable to control themselves."

Michael felt a chill at the clinical description that couldn't hide the horror.

"The Symbolics chose differently—they bonded selectively, granting extraordinary abilities while preserving humanity. These relationships became mankind's only hope."

Sophie continued, "In the end, there was this warrior called the Knight who used all his power to create the great wall protecting our city. He saved everyone left, but the wall is getting weaker every year. The cracks are spreading, and everyone knows eventually, we'll have to face what's out there again."

Sophie stood quickly, gathering her things. "I'm sorry, Michael. I wish I could stay and tell you more, but I'm late for work." She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, then paused. "There's food in the fridge for lunch, and those books will tell you much more than I can. I'll be back by evening."

"Have a good day at work."

Sophie smiled. "It's really good to have you home, Michael. Even with the memory loss, you seem different. In a good way."

She left before he could ask what she meant.

Michael stood in the kitchen, processing everything. Hollows, Symbolics, a great war, failing walls—this world was far more dangerous than he'd realized.

He looked toward the hallway leading to his room, thinking about the books waiting on the desk. The original Michael had been studying this history for a reason.

'Time to learn about this world,' he thought, clearing his plate and heading upstairs. 'Time to find out what role Michael Andrews was meant to play in it all.'