A short man with short black hair was on the side of the road, unconscious. All around him, people walked past him, assuming that he was simply another passed out drunkard.
"What a disgrace…"
"This city's gonna end up just like Paris…"
"Can't even find a street without filth now…"
Their voices cut through the air—sharp, dismissive, heavy with the kind of judgment reserved for strangers whose stories they would never bother to know. They spoke over him as though he were an object, not a person.These voices filled those who passed him, all except one.
"What a poor boy."
A quiet voice murmured from somewhere within the crowd, warm where the others were cold. Golden eyes lingered on the unconscious young man—the only pair that bothered to stop, to see rather than assume…
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
A few hours later
"Ugh…"
The boy stirred, a soft groan escaping him as his lashes fluttered. The surface beneath him felt… soft. Too soft. His body, once pressed against rough pavement, now sank into something plush and warm.
'Where am I?'
The question rang through his mind like an alarm as he pushed himself upright, his joints aching in protest. His gaze darted around the room, taking in the unfamiliar scenery with growing confusion and worry
He was on a bed—an extremely comfortable bed, its sheets so smooth they felt like silk kissed by moonlight. And everything around him looked expensive to a ridiculous degree.
Silken carpets spread across the floor like flowing rivers of color, shifting beautifully with every movement of light. Gold-trimmed curtains framed wide windows, from which spilled a dim, soothing glow that softened the whole room. A drawer beside him gleamed with polished wood, so flawlessly varnished that he could see a warped reflection of his own bewildered expression staring back.
His fingers brushed the sheets again, as though touching them would help him understand why he was here. It didn't.
He slowly slid out of the bed, wobbling slightly as his feet met the carpet. His mind was a blank slate, carrying only one solid thought:
I need to figure out what this place is.
Click.
The soft sound echoed. The door eased open, and someone stepped inside—a woman, but not like any woman he had ever seen.
Her skin was a deep, warm brown and her eyes shone gold, bright enough to catch his attention instantly… but that wasn't the strange part. Not even close.
Short white hair crowned her head like winter frost, and from it rose the tufted ears of a lynx—sharp, expressive, and undeniably real. One ear was adorned with a small golden earring that glimmered when she moved. Behind her, a long, elegant tail swayed in an unhurried rhythm, the movement strange yet mesmerizing.
"You're awake."
Her voice was calm—steady enough to snap him out of his trance.
A cough burst out of him as reality rushed back. His shoulders tightened, and his posture shifted defensively.
"Where am I?" he managed. A valid question. Maybe the only one he could form.
"My house."
She answered quickly. Too quickly. The kind of quickness that made his stomach twist.
He stepped back slightly. She was standing calmly by the door—maybe he could run for it. Maybe he could shove past her—
But she noticed the tension instantly. Her ears twitched, and she let out a small sigh.
"Don't worry. I won't hurt you."
Then, as if remembering something, she pulled a folded paper from her pocket and began reading from it.
"Triple hybrid… Conviction… Mark located on the back of the hand… fountain pen… low blood alcohol content…"
Her tone was almost casual, but each word confused him more than the last.
He blinked at her blankly, completely lost. He didn't recognize a single term. Not a single concept. It was all foreign.
She set the paper down on the drawer, then approached him with slow, measured steps. Her tail swayed gently behind her with every movement.
"Tell me, what's your name?" she asked, her voice steady.
And that was when reality hit him like a blow to the chest. A cold emptiness opened in his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, and yet nothing came out.
His eyes widened.
What was his name?
"I… don't remember."
"Huh?"
Confusion flickered across her face, ears tilting forward slightly. Memory loss wasn't on the list. It wasn't supposed to be part of this.
"What's my name…?" His voice trembled as he pressed a hand to the back of his head, desperately clawing at empty spaces in his mind, trying to grasp something—anything.
As he did, the back of his right hand began to glow faintly. He didn't notice. Panic drowned out everything.
A firm, warm hand landed on his shoulder.
He jolted, looking up into her steady golden eyes.
"Don't lose yourself," she murmured. "Your Conviction might go haywire."
Her gaze held him in place—strong, grounding, unshakable. He didn't know why, but he trusted her instinctively, as though something deep inside whispered that she wasn't lying. That she was safe.
He forced himself to breathe—slow, shaky breaths that gradually steadied under her guidance. She gently eased him back onto the soft bed until he sat, calmer, though still trembling.
"Since you don't know your name," she said softly, "let me tell you mine."
She placed a hand on her chest.
"Hogaamin Farah. My first name's hard to pronounce, so just call me Farah."
He nodded slowly, finally taking her in properly. Before, he'd been too overwhelmed by her animalistic features… but now…
Now he could see her fully.
And she was beautiful. Strikingly so.
He looked away quickly, coughing and averting his gaze, feeling heat rush to his cheeks.
He would then remember something she said, twice actually...
"What did you mean by Conviction?"