Darkness.

You wake with your cheek pressed to wet stone. The air is thick with rot—human and otherwise. Your mouth tastes like iron and ash, your head rings with a pain that feels… old. Heavy.

You try to sit up. Your limbs respond slowly, as if they’ve forgotten how. The world tilts. Your stomach lurches, empty. You catch yourself against the wall—rough-hewn and damp with something foul.

The smell here is ancient: mold, sweat, shit, smoke. You are not alone, though you can’t see anyone. You can barely see at all.

There’s no light. No fire. Not even the ghost of moonlight. You’re deep—deep—underground.

Somewhere nearby, a rat skitters. A chain clinks. A voice coughs. But none of it feels… familiar.

Not this place.

Not your body.

Not even your own name.

You reach for something—anything—a scrap of memory, a face, a word. Nothing comes.

No.

Not nothing. There’s something there, clawing at the edge of your mind. A flicker. A sound. A smell. A name, half-spoken in a dream.

You just have to reach for it.