At once, all of his senses were regained. Appearing in a split second.

The dust in his airways, the searing pain in the front of his head, a dry stickiness matting his hair to what was perhaps concrete. He felt crisp gusts of cool air on the tip of his nose. But sound was the most difficult to bear. Boisterous horns and angry drivers, leaving incomprehensible slews of fury to the wind. Muffled music, speech, laughter. It all rang in his ears abruptly.

Slowly he broke open his eyes, a slight crust had formed. Lacing his eyelashes to one another. The man gazed into the bleak air above. The air was light yet still dark like it was perpetually stuck in a haze.

Taking a few more blinks, the man began to feel himself situated in the world around him.

“I’m gonna puke.” He stated, mind whirling like he was on a roller coaster, all while being sat upright on a dusty rooftop. He tried to steady himself, the nausea rolling like thunder through his bones.

Aches like he’d been rooted underground in a thick slumber made his joints heavy and crack as he pulled himself up from the ground. Slowly, the ringing in his ears faded into nothingness. He finally pulled himself into an awkward sitting position. Across from him a dusty grey pigeon sat on the edge of the building. Its wings were dusted with gravel and its beak quickly picked at some debris between its feathers.

The man blinked at it for a while, not a thought in his head.

A pounding headache pulled a hand to the edge of his damp hairline. His legs wobbled slightly as he rose from the rooftop. His hands were scuffed and pressed up against the cold pavement to pull himself from the ground. He leaned over the edge of the rooftop and gazed down. The blaring sounds of a city hit his semi adjusted senses once again.

Like small dots, cars zipped by below him. Air whooshed around him carrying a coppery scent that met a rancid sour scent almost unbearably.

Immediately he stepped back, a dizziness and nausea swirling in his head. Maybe the blood loss was getting to him, he thought. Looking back up to the staggered city horizon, a few buildings stood out to him.

The man’s voice cracked loudly in a gasp. The empire state building, 432 Park Avenue, the Chrysler building.

Stepping back slowly, wobbling atop a fictitious tightrope, the man ventured further and further from the edge of the building. His mind spinning as tried to conjure answers to why he was in this city.

New York City?

This is when his brows furrowed further. A battering of questions pummeled his brain. He tried to conjure an answer to simply any of the questions, yet nothing came. Like opening an empty box and still expecting something to magically appear, the man kept at it. Asking more questions than he knew, and each of them coming up empty.

Who am I?

Why am I here?

Why am I on this roof?

Why am I in New York City?

And once again, ‘Who am I?’ grabbed his attention, holding his limbs still. He recognized nothing on his person so far. Short, cracked nails, the stubble he could feel on his chin, all of it lacked a feeling of significance, of life attached to it.

The last question brought a churning motion to his stomach. Moments passed as no name, no memory came to mind. Confusion melted quickly into fear as the heat began to boom in his chest.

The roof was not where he wanted to be. It certainly wasn’t a place of answers. It was a simple goal, the only one he could bring himself to make alongside the shaking nausea in his throat. If he thought too long about his predicament he’d only begin to break down further.

Behind him, a small door stood. Rust had corroded the metal handle of the rooftop door. it creaked loudly, moaning and groaning as he opened it.

A small and smelly staircase was on the other side. Paint chips fell from the grey walls all around him and there was an unknown sticky substance on the floor turning it more brown than grey.

He stumbled down the staircase, walking without a purpose. His feet moving ahead without thought. Nausea brimmed his throat with every new and echoing step.

But then he stopped, his hand drifted to the circular silver handle of the third floor before slowly opening it. He didn’t know why he chose the third floor. It hadn’t looked any different, the same musk and mold smell emanating from it like the other floors.

Throwing open the uncomfortably sticky metal door, the man stepped onwards. Each step past the door was stilted, like he didn’t quite trust his legs not to buckle beneath him at a moment's notice.

The carpet beneath him was orange, with matted blue dots. The hallway smelt more like cigarettes than air. The man took small steps forward, hoping, wondering if something might pop out to him.

An old lady pulled her small grocery trolley and closed the gap in the hallway. She smiled at him, showing off her slightly yellowing teeth, “Good morning, Mr. Nabokov.”

The woman wore a thick wool cardigan, it draped down to her open sandals. The brown leather had reptile-like patterns.

Taking a moment, the man looked up and down the hall. Behind and in front of himself. There was no one else, “Uh…uh…yeah, good morning.”

Nabokov. The word gave him no satisfaction.

Why did you lie?! Why didn’t you say anything?! He internally berated, you’re not good at all, She could’ve helped us!

The man did not know why he lied, or why he didn’t ask for help. The old lady, whoever she was, seemed to know him. She probably could’ve been helpful.

“Oh, Mr Nabokov?” The old woman’s grainy voice beckoned him once again just before his aching hand touched the door handle.

“Yes?” He croaked.

“If you need help getting out that stain don’t be afraid to knock on my door. You know how Joshua is, so now I’m great at getting out stains.” She smiled, the corners of her wrinkly mouth turning upwards.

Joshua? Who is Joshua?

“…Stain?”

She raised a shaking and wrinkled hand to point at the middle of his chest.

“Right. My, uh…pen exploded…I think?” He chuckled awkwardly, now just taking the time to look at his clothes. There was a large black stain in the middle of his chest, like a giant inky pen had exploded over the front of his grey t-shirt. The man’s nose wrinkled as he breathed in something acrid.

Like his shirt had been burnt.

The man turned and began to open the door. His hand touched the handle before pulling away again at a louder voice, “Mr. Nabokov?” the woman spoke.

Slowly he raised his head, waiting another moment before responding, “Yes?”

She pointed down the hallway, “Yours is two doors down.”

He looked back to the wooden door, “Ope. Sorry.”

How do you know me? He wanted to ask. The words stood at the edge of his tongue before curdling and dissipating the longer he looked over to the hunched woman.

His supposed neighbour responded cheerfully, “It’s early, “She waved him off, “I understand.”

The man stopped in front of his “actual door”, his hand slightly trembled before pressing down on the golden handle, the door broke open, completely unlocked.

The apartment itself seemed discontent with being left in the state it was. Blankets padded the oak floor alongside sideswept papers and open soda cans. A large and dark bookshelf was overstuffed with books.

Before he could venture further into the apartment, a small light caught his attention. Flashing brightly, he took a few steps closer to the vinyl kitchen counter.

Displayed in emboldened letters it said, Nina, Boss - Don’t pick up

A million other missed call notifications sat below the current notification for an incoming call. Though these ones were from a Kunym, but he didn’t know who that was. The sheer amount made the nausea coil and explode within him. The phone was at 5% as he picked it up, “Uh, hello?”

“Erik? For fucks sake get your ass over here? You started work an hour ago!”

“Erik? Work?”

“Yes.” She breathed a heavy sigh. He could imagine this woman rubbing her forehead, exhaustion weighing her shoulders down, “Work. You absolute idiot. At the American Museum of Natural History? Are you high right now?! ”

“Yeah…yep… wait no! I’m not high! Sorry the traffic has just been horrible this morning so I’m stuck. I'll be there in five.”

The dial tone rang.

“Where is that again?” He muttered, leaving the app and trying to find a search engine and look up the address. But before he could do that, the screen went black.