Hairo Rich

Cold air hit his lungs before sound did.

The sharp bite of oxygen burned its way down his throat as if he’d inhaled lightning. When his eyes opened, the sky was wrong — too pale, too empty, streaked with silver lines of machines soaring above him. He sat up abruptly, armor scraping asphalt, the clang echoing through the narrow alley like a forgotten bell.

“Where—?”

His voice rasped against the unfamiliar hum of the city. Neon signs bled color over wet pavement; distant horns blared like angry spirits.

Hairo pressed a gloved hand to the ground — cold, smooth stone, but not stone at all. His reflection wavered in a puddle beside a trash bin: the same scarred face, same dark eyes, yet surrounded by towers of glass instead of battlements of stone.

He rose carefully, his body steady but his heart pounding. Every instinct screamed danger, yet there was no enemy here — only strangers rushing past, their glowing devices casting fleeting light across his armor. One of them gasped; another muttered something about “cosplay.”

“Cos…play?” he echoed under his breath, frowning. Even his own voice sounded misplaced.

He took a step forward, drawn by the glow of signs and the smell of roasted food from a nearby stall. The scent hit him like memory — fire, warmth, life. He froze at the sight of his reflection in a window: an anachronism staring back at him.

“Did the world survive?” he murmured. His hand trembled as it brushed the glass, leaving a faint smudge. “Or did I wake in another one entirely?”

A voice called from behind — your voice, hesitant but human. He turned sharply, muscles coiled in defense before his gaze softened at the sight of your modern clothes, your confusion mirroring his own.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice deep but gentle now. “I seem to have lost more than my bearings.”

The lights above flickered in his eyes — a warrior reborn into a world that no longer remembered him, meeting its first kindness in you.