The first rays of dawn seeped through grime-caked windows, painting streaks of pale gold across a room that reeked of decay. I stirred, my limbs heavy, as if weighted by chains of lead. The air clung to my skin—stale, thick with the sour tang of alcohol and sweat. My eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim light, and the world sharpened into a tableau of chaos.

An unfamiliar woman lay beside me, her face half-buried in a threadbare blanket, her dyed crimson hair fanned across a stained pillow. Scattered around us were crumpled tissues, empty bottles, and the detritus of a night lost to oblivion. Against the far wall, a mountain of trash festered: moldering pizza boxes, crushed cans, and a swarm of fruit flies dancing above it all. But none of this stirred me—not the filth, not the stranger, not even the throbbing ache behind my temples.

Who am I?

The question slithered into my mind, cold and clinical. My gaze drifted to a cracked mirror propped against the wall. Reflected there was a stranger—a boy, soft and doughy, with a pallid face framed by greasy hair. His eyes, a dull hazel, stared back, empty as a doll's.

"A waste of space," I muttered, the words tasting foreign. Disappointment flickered, brief and distant, before dissolving into apathy.

The woman shifted, her voice slurred with sleep. "What even are you? An animal?"

I turned, studying her. No memories surfaced—no lust, no regret. Only hollow curiosity.

The stench of rot finally pricked my senses. I stumbled to the window, wrenching it open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the metallic bite of rain. But it was the view that froze me.

Beyond the glass sprawled a surreal panorama: a gargantuan tree, its branches clawing at the clouds; a creature with iridescent scales and leathern wings soaring past, ridden by a man in armor; figures with gossamer wings flitting between neon-lit balconies.

"D'you live under a rock?" The woman's sneer cut through my awe. She gestured to a flickering screen across the alley—a TV in a neighboring apartment. On it played a film: knights, elves, a dragon rider battling shadowy beasts. "Fantasy crap. No wonder everyone avoids you."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Dragon. Elf. Fairy. The words ignited something in my chest—a longing sharp as a blade.

"How do I ride one?" I whispered.

She snorted. "Hopeless." Dressing hastily, she slammed the door, leaving me alone with the TV's glow.

I leaned closer, transfixed. The film's hero—a vengeful orphan—clashed with a demonic general astride a dragon. The camera zoomed in on the villain: slit-pupiled eyes, serrated teeth, a smile that dripped malice.

"Predictable garbage," a voice grumbled. A grizzled man smoking on a fire escape spat at the screen. "Hero'll win 'cause plot armor. Waste of time."

As if summoned, the dragon rider turned, his gaze locking with mine through the screen. His grin widened, knowing. Then—static. The TV went black.

The word "rent" meant nothing to me, but the landlord's snarling tone carved its meaning clear: debt. My gaze flicked to the putrid trash mound. It was the only offense here worthy of such fury.

"I moved it outside," I said. "You can collect it now."

His jaw slackened. For a moment, he vanished into the alley's gloom—only to reappear at my door seconds later, boots pounding like judge's gavels. "Where?"

I pointed to the reeking heap.

His face purpled. Fists knotted my shirt, yanking me into the hall's flickering fluorescence. "Think you're clever, you motherf*****g leech?" The first punch cratered my gut, the second snapped my head sideways. I staggered, my body a sluggish puppet, too numb to flinch properly. He was a storm of muscle and rage—a predator to my lumbering prey.

"Fat pig!" he roared, knee driving into my ribs. "Worthless bastard!"

I cataloged each insult like a linguist dissecting dead tongues. Pig. Leech. Loser. Curious, how these syllables could twist a man's face so.

When he finally stilled, sweat-drenched and heaving, his eyes narrowed. "Why ain't you cryin'? Beggin'?"

I wiped blood from my split lip, studying the crimson streak. "Should I?"

"I'll pay," I rasped. This came out in survival instinct even I didn't knew what I said and what I have to do to survive.

"1,000Rs . By tomorrow… or you're cooked."

He left, his threat hanging like a stormcloud. I touched my split lip, mesmerized by the copper smear on my fingers. Outside, the TV flickered back to life. The dragon rider soared again, his laughter echoing in my bones.

I belong there, I realized. Not here.

But first—survive.

The room stank of blood and mildew. I hauled the trash bags into the alley, their contents sloshing. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting the brick walls in garish hues. Somewhere, the film's soundtrack swelled: trumpets, thunder, the dragon's roar.

I smiled.

Then again the general's head moved to my direction and laughed and road the dragon towards me and jumped out.