The air inside your dorm is heavy with the dampness of stale air and unwashed laundry. It clings to your skin, thick and suffocating as you drag yourself out of bed, your body protesting the movement. Sunlight cuts through the gap in the curtains, spilling across the scattered clothes on the floor—your uniform, never to be worn again. Your reflection in the dusty mirror shows dark circles under your eyes, the beginnings of a beard shadowing your jaw. The mirror does not lie.
"Today's the day – I'm officially older. Forty years old.. Guess that means it's time to scrub off the remnants of another year. Bath time is basically a birthday tradition at this point, right?". The water sloshes around your ankles as you step into the tub, steam rising in thick tendrils. The shower head groans as you turn it on, sputtering at first before a weak stream of lukewarm water spills down your chest. You inhale deeply, your breath fogging in the humid air. This is the only thing that makes the morning tolerable—the promise of cleanliness, however brief.
As you lather the cheap soap between your hands, your gaze drifts to the mildew creeping up the tiles. The dirt had formed a stubborn crust, a topographic map of neglect and apathy. Two weeks' worth of sweat and grime had taken up residence on your skin, leaving a pungent aroma that seemed to precede you into every room. As you scrubbed, the water ran dark, carrying away the evidence of your prolonged hiatus from hygiene.
The soap stings as you work it into the creases of your armpits, the pain somehow satisfying. Years of factory work have left your skin rough, the hair there matted with dirt and sweat. You scrub harder, remembering how your parents always insisted on personal cleanliness. The water turning gray around your feet reminds you how long it's been.
When you finally rinse, your fingers probe the skin, searching for any trace of lingering smell. The sting of soap remains, but underneath—nothing. "Alright, not bad. Time to buy some cheap wine at the supermarket now." You towel off quickly, wincing as the rough fabric scrapes against your sensitive skin. The cheap plastic towel smells faintly of mold from the shared bathroom's persistent dampness. Pulling on a clean shirt—one of the few remaining unwrinkled ones in your wardrobe—you step into your worn shoes.
The walk to the supermarket takes fifteen minutes through the maze of your neighborhood's narrow streets. It's early enough that the morning crowd is thin—mostly older people make their way to the market for vegetables. You nod to Mrs. Chen as she shuffles past with her woven basket, the smell of fish hanging around her. The shop fronts are still being unlocked, their metal gates rattling down as you pass. At the intersection, you pause as the light turns red, watching the occasional car crawl by. Across the street, a man is setting up his street vendor cart—wooden, weathered, covered in faded plastic tarps. He catches your eye and waves you over.
"Hey, brother! Buy a bottle of rice wine today? Good quality, cheap price!" The vendor—older than you, his face creased with years of sun exposure—pats the wooden surface of his cart. "Just fifteen dollars today, my friend. Good price for real rice wine." He uncorks a clay jug and pours a small measure into a plastic cup, the liquid clear and strong-smelling. "Try it. Guaranteed to make your birthday worth celebrating."
You take the cup, the ceramic warm from the sun. The wine smells potent, like rice fermented in an old pot. "I'll take one bottle for ten dollars, please; that's what I usually pay for it.", the vendor's face tightens, but only for a moment before he covers it with a salesman's smile. "Ten dollars? You think I'm running a charity here, my friend?" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. His work-worn hands tighten around the jug. "I could go to twelve, but ten? You must be joking."
He pours the wine back into the jug with exaggerated care, muscles working in his jaw. "Twelve is lowest. Take it or leave it.", you hesitate, eyes locked on the vendor as he glares at you, daring you to negotiate further. The sounds of the market – the hum of motorcycles, the chatter of pedestrians – fade into the background as you weigh your options. Twelve is steep, but you've been craving this particular vintage all week. You think about the empty shelves at your dorm, the promise of a quiet evening birthday with nothing but the wine and your thoughts. With a curt nod, you hand over the cash, the transaction swift and final.
The wine clinks against the plastic bag as you walk, the glass jug visible through the thin material. The neighborhood stirs around you—someone shouts across a courtyard, a child's laughter rings out from an open window. Your shoes slap against the pavement in a steady rhythm that matches your thoughts. At your door, you pause. The lock is cheap, the wood around it scratched from years of use. You push inside, into the stale air that clings to everything like an old ghost. The couch creaks under your weight, springs poking through the fabric at your lower back. The wine sits on the small table—just a piece of wood balanced on two stacks of books. Your room smells faintly of dust and mildew, with the added sharpness of the unopened wine.
You look around at the walls covered in old posters, some peeling at the edges. The ceiling fan above stirs the stale air, moving the thin curtains slightly. "Fuck.. it still eight o'clock..", you glance at the old wall clock—its hands crawling toward eight-thirty, the second hand ticking with an infuriating slowness. The wine sits there, mocking you. Too early to drink in the morning. Too early to do anything but wait. Outside, the city hums with life that feels distant from your small room.
You shift on the couch, feeling the springs dig into your back. The television sits silent—no electricity until noon. Your gaze drifts to the tiny balcony, where a few clothes hang limply on the line. "Well, you know what? I don't, fucking care..", the wine burns as it goes down, sharp and unrefined, but you welcome the heat spreading through your chest. You take another long pull, feeling it settle deep in your stomach. The taste is raw, basic—just fermented rice and time, no frills, no pretense. Like everything else in your life.
You set the jug down with a thump, watching the liquid inside sway slightly. Outside, the world moves on, oblivious to your solitude. "Oh shit.. mom.. dad..? i think I'm drunk now..", the words slur together as you speak, the wine hitting faster than you expected. Your parents' faces swim in your mind—your mother's laugh, your father's work-worn hands. The jug is already half empty, the alcohol seeping into your bloodstream with a single-minded purpose.
You slump further into the couch, the springs pressing against your back. The room tilts slightly, or maybe it's just your perception shifting. The clock ticks louder now, each second stretching into eternity. You passed out when the clock showed exactly nine o'clock. Your head lolls forward as consciousness fades, the last thing you see being the clock's hands aligning at the twelve. The wine jug topples onto the floor with a muffled thud, its contents spilling across the wood in a slow, dark stain.
You sleep heavily, breathing deeply and steadily. The city outside your window continues its nightly rhythm—cars honking, voices calling, the occasional siren wailing in the distance. Your small room becomes a refuge from all of it, protected by your oblivion.
As the darkness of sleep deepens, the sounds of the city grow fainter, until it's just a distant hum in the back of your mind. Your chest rises and falls with each slow breath, and for a moment, everything is still. Then, without warning, the world lurches and dissolves.
The transition is instant and absolute—one moment you're on your couch, the next you stand in a vast emptiness that stretches endlessly in every direction. The air feels thick, resistant, pressing against your skin like a weight you can't shake off. Above, a dark sky pulses with unnatural light, casting everything in shifting tones of gray and deep purple.
"The heck, where am i? WHAT'S HAPPENING HERE??", your voice echoes strangely in the vast space, the sound seeming to fold in on itself before fading away. The air smells odd—distant smoke mingled with something earthy and heavy. Around you, the landscape shifts subtly, the ground seems to flow like water beneath your feet.
A gust of wind blows across the open plain, carrying particles that might be dust or ash or something in between. The sky above churns, clouds rolling in impossible directions.
"Your destiny has come, Milo Angglas.." a voice says suddenly, seeming to come from everywhere at once.