He didn't remember exactly how old he was when the Fracture happened and the Paintress decided to make him a permanent resident of the living. His memories were slowly giving up on him, as his sanity was dissolving into rose petals at a rate of about a dozen petals per hour.

  He felt about a thousand years old, yet also like a toddler lost in a very loud, very shiny shopping mall.

  "Alright, Mr. Dessendre, just one more thing," Dr. Pelton said, leaning in. "Where exactly are you from? The police are currently scratching their heads trying to decide what to do with you."

  "Lumiere," Verso answered flatly.

  It had been an eternity since he’d actually called Lumiere home, but what were his other options? He couldn't exactly tell the truth. He couldn't go: Oh, you know, I left home to find the cosmic entity that triggered a world-shattering event called the Fracture. I've spent the last century wandering a devastated continent alone. Also, I’m pretty sure I’m from another dimension and I have no idea why your buildings are made of glass.

  Yeah, that would go over great. They’d just trade his hospital gown for a straitjacket.

  "So, you're from France?" Dr. Pelton asked.

  France? What was a France? Was it a type of bread?

  "I... I’ve forgotten most things," Verso offered, leaning into the amnesia card. "I don't even know who I am anymore."

  Technically, it wasn't a total lie. When his body had crumbled into dust and his entire world started to delete itself, he had fully expected to stay dead. Waking up here was a major plot hole in his life story.

  "Do you have any ID? A visa? A passport, maybe?" Dr. Pelton asked, though his face said he already knew he was wasting his breath.

  "I don't have papers. I'm a wanderer. I have nothing." Verso paused, feeling a bit dramatic. "I am nothing."

  It was a staggering bit of self-deprecation, really.

  First, he was a century-old immortal with the complexion of a man in his prime.

  Second, he had spent those hundred years butchering monsters and surviving horrors that were as absurd as they were lethal.

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  Third, his history of trauma was a saga so long it made a month's worth grocery list look like a short receipt.

  And finally, he had just successfully breached the walls of reality itself.

  As far as the hospital and the police were concerned, Verso was just another tragic mess who’d scrolled too deep into a fantasy world to find his way back. He was a guy with a trauma-sized hole in his head, wearing an outfit that screamed "theatrical production," and carrying daggers that were, for some reason, actually sharp.

  But it was the twenty-first century. If the police panicked every time a fanatic with a home-forged sword, they’d never have time for donuts. It wasn’t exactly a grand event.

  The cops did their due diligence, checking if he’d actually stabbed anyone. But no precinct had a single report on him. Not one witness had called in complaining about a "bearded madman yelling about Nevrons."

  He was harmless. Most of the blood on him was his own, and the rest was too ancient to identify—certainly not anything that matched their current criminal spreadsheets.

  So, with a collective shrug, the police tossed his file into the "someday, maybe" pile. They told the hospital he was just an insane guy with a dark past, lied about checking his immigrant status, and told the doctor to shove him toward a state shelter as soon as he stopped bleeding.

  There was no "Let me find you a sympathetic therapist" or "I really want to help you through this" script here. It was all cold, clinical detachment.

  Even Verso, who had spent decades as a professional hermit, found the whole thing a bit much. Was the entire world this heartless? He’d actually expected an angry mob to show up with torches, demanding the head of the immortal freak.

  At least that would have had some flair. But no—there was zero drama in this place.

  People found five literal swords on him, stared at his exotic rags, and watched his wounds knit together in real time, yet everyone just labeled it "crazy" and moved on with their shifts.

  It was isolating and kind of weird. But, in a way, it was a relief. This was honestly what Verso had wanted his whole life: to finally be the least interesting person in the room.

  He had no clue where he was or what he was even supposed to be doing, but he did the exact thing every otherworlder does when they first land here.

  He turned on the TV.

  He figured out the controls surprisingly fast. When the screen flickered to life, the sudden explosion of faces and noise inside the small, flat box was a bit of a jump scare, but his immortal brain adapted with annoying efficiency.

  Well, he’d just survived hell level of a doomed fate, family betrayals, and dimensional shenanigans. He could handle a little technical wizardry without having a total meltdown.

  Watching the thing was actually a pretty decent experience. So, this was how people in this world got their gossip and news. He got it.

  Turns out, he was in a place called New York, and some Mayor was doing things the local residents absolutely hated. It was May, and the summer heat had decided to launch an early invasion on spring. The weather talk drifted into "climate change" and then something about "clean energy."

  Wow. This world was dense. Up until some hours ago, the only thing he had to worry about was killing his family, then his friends, and then himself. Simple, really.

  Compared to that, this world’s problems felt like a lot of extra homework.