A beautiful clock, its face painted a rare marrs green, strikes twelve. Slivers of blue, red, and yellow ripple across its surface like breath caught in glass.

Roy is running—faster than he ever has—through a crumbling street, chased by a tsunami of bricks. The air quakes with their weight. They grind against each other like stone teeth, ready to devour him whole.

His foot catches.

He falls.

An empty abyss swallows him. The silence is suffocating… until it isn’t.
From the dark, eyes open—dozens, hundreds—watching.
Unblinking.
Judging.
Remembering.

He hits something solid.

He’s on the floor, cold and smooth like hospital tile. Then—hands.
Pale hands, dozens of them, erupt from beneath, seizing his arms, his legs, and his throat.
He opens his mouth to scream—but they covered his mouth before he could.

He blinks.

Now he’s standing in the middle of a mediaeval village.
Cobblestone streets. Black smoke in the air. The smell of fire and rusted metal.
A bell rings, deep and grim.

Then—gravity shifts.

The world tilts. Sideways.

He falls into the sky, not down but sideways, buildings scattering like feathers, villagers going about their lives as if the world hadn’t just betrayed physics.

He passes a nebula, floating through its swirling, celestial colours—violet stars and golden dust painting streaks across the void. It’s breathtaking. As if time slowed down.

His gaze changes.

Now, he’s standing before a door.
His hand moves on its own. It opens.
A classroom.
Every head turns to stare at him. Silent. Lifeless.

He looks left.

A boy with his face holds a mirror—and smashes it across his head.

Glass shards explode mid-air, suspended in time. Each piece a window:
One shard—him laughing.
Another—him crying.
A third—him holding someone’s hand.
Another—him dying.

Then, he crashes into a field of blood—but it’s dry, like flaking paint.
At the centre, a child version of him curled up, whispering the same phrase over and over.

He runs.

But the ground dissolves.
He’s in a black ocean, sinking fast.
His arms thrash above the surface while glowing fish swim below, each one showing fragments of forgotten memories, old lives, and lost names.

Then:
A garden—strangely serene. Flowers bloom in unnatural colours.
Roy sits in a wheelchair, motionless.
A man walks past him. Roy recalls that he knew him but doesn’t know from where.

The ground cracks.

The floor breaks apart like glass, and he falls again—this time into thick fog.
Everything is grey. Silent.

From it, a figure in white emerges, face blurred, undefined.
They raise a gun and say calmly,

“This is your last one.”

The trigger clicks.
A deafening gunshot.Darkness.

Then a voice:

"Time resets when you forget who you are… Wake up, Roy."

Roy gasps awake.

The ceiling above him is plain, white, and still. The hum of cars leaks through the dorm window. His shirt clings to his chest, soaked in sweat.
His heart pounds against his ribs.
But the echoes… they’re still there.
The eyes.
The whispers.
The shards.