"Sometimes I really wish life was different."
John Rasler exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as his gaze flickered from the engineering diagrams sprawled across his desk to the clock ticking away on the wall. 2:05 PM. Roughly three more hours before he could pack up, go home, and maybe—if he wasn't completely drained—pretend there was something to look forward to.
The fluorescent hum above him was steady but grating, blending with the rhythmic scratch of a colleague's pen and the occasional clatter of metal from the adjacent workbench. The office smelled faintly of machine oil and old coffee, the kind that had been sitting on the burner too long but still got poured anyway. Someone two desks over was muttering under their breath about a miscalculated ratio, and john could feel the same weariness in the room that settled in around this hour, like a shared inevitability.
He tapped his pen against the desk, glancing at the half-drained mug beside his keyboard. The stain near the rim hadn't budged despite multiple washes, a small reminder of just how many times he had sat in this exact spot, staring at identical calculations, reliving identical days. Wednesday. Still two full workdays before the weekend, and even that wasn't much to look forward to.
At thirty-three, he had the resume of a man who had done what was expected—college, career, marriage, kids—but somehow, despite checking all the right boxes, life had narrowed itself into something smaller than he had imagined. He saw his kids, of course—just not enough, and never in the way he wanted. The weekends were spent at home, because going anywhere required money, and money was scarce. They complained about it. He understood, maybe too much.
John leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders as the office phone buzzed faintly in the background. He should get back to work. He really should. But his eyes lingered on the clock again, as if watching the minutes crawl by would make them move faster.
4:13 PM.
The numbers on the clock glowed faintly, indifferent to his impatience. John ran a hand through his hair, shifting in his chair as the office continued its steady drone of papers rustling, pens scratching, and low murmurs of half-hearted complaints.
Another hour. Then home. Then—what?
The thought lingered as he finally pushed back from the desk, rolling his shoulders before grabbing his bag. No point in staring at diagrams when his head was too foggy to focus. Might as well head home early, he doubted they would fire him for it anyway.
The city met him with the familiar blur of movement—cars idling at intersections, pedestrians weaving past one another, voices melding into an indistinct hum. He walked without much thought, feet following the usual route home.
That was when he felt it—a light jolt as someone brushed past him, just enough to break his stride.
John almost didnt notice the shoulder check. The collision was light, just a brush against his jacket, but enough to break his train of thought.
A muttered apology barely formed on his lips before he glanced back—the person was already gone, swallowed by the steady stream of bodies pushing through the sidewalk. Just another face in the city, rushing somewhere, nowhere. The kind of fleeting interaction that usually faded in seconds.
Except for the coin.
It glinted against the concrete, reflecting the last stretch of daylight with an unnatural gleam. He hesitated for only a moment before stooping to pick it up. Cold metal against his fingertips, worn smooth but lined with strange, raised engravings.
A quick inspection under the dull streetlight made him chuckle, exhausted but amused. Some foreign trinket, maybe even something cheap from a novelty shop. Not like it was worth much effort—whoever dropped it was long gone.
Just as John straightened, headlights flooded the pavement ahead, an impatient blare ripping through the evening air.
The truck's tires screamed against asphalt, too close, too fast.
He saw the blur of motion more than he processed it, felt the rush of displaced air as the vehicle's frame passed inches from where he should have been—where he would have been, had he not stopped.
For a second, he didn't move.
Then, with a breath that came too late, he laughed. A weak, incredulous chuckle that scraped against his throat.
"Guess I'm keeping this one." He flipped the coin between his fingers, shaking his head as he slipped it into his pocket.
Lucky, huh?
The tension from the near miss settled by the time John rounded the last corner toward his apartment complex. The truck's headlights still flashed in the back of his mind—not as fear, just lingering awareness—but with each step, the moment faded into the usual rhythm of an evening walk home.
He slid his key into the lock, stepping into the dim glow of his living room, kicking off his shoes with a practiced motion. The silence was heavier today—not uncomfortable, just noticeable. Wednesday. One of the nights the kids stayed with their mom.
John paused by the couch, absently rubbing his hand against his jaw as he weighed the evening ahead. He could boot up his PC, see if his cousin was online. They hadn't gotten online together in a few weeks—life kept getting in the way—but it was always easy enough to jump back in, vent about work over chaotic gunfire and strategy debates.
He hovered over the thought for a moment, turning it over like the coin still in his pocket.
But then his gaze shifted—to the stack of project folders near his desk, the half-finished reports, the emails flagged as Important but never urgent enough to prioritize.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Yeah. He should probably get caught up.
Slumping into his chair, John dug out the coin before setting it beside his keyboard, where it gleamed against the dull lamplight. Even now, after everything, it still felt like nothing more than a novelty—just a chunk of metal with some weird markings.
He didn't bother looking too closely this time. Just let it sit there as he cracked open his notes, settling in for the long night ahead.
The soft scratch of pencil against paper had long since faded into the quiet hum of a tired mind. John blinked, shifting in his chair, trying to stay focused, but his thoughts kept drifting, his fingers absently reaching for the coin beside the keyboard.
The smooth metal turned over in his palm as he exhaled slowly. Lucky, huh? He still wasn't sure if he believed in that kind of thing—random chance, divine intervention—but it had kept him from getting flattened earlier, so maybe it wasn't worthless after all.
He leaned back, rolling the coin over his knuckles, letting its cool weight settle against his skin.
At some point, exhaustion won. The numbers on the screen blurred, the notes in front of him became unreadable scribbles. John barely registered the moment he tipped his head forward, elbow resting against the desk, coin still tucked firmly in his grasp. One second, the weight of the day pressed into his shoulders, his grip loose around the coin as his eyelids grew heavier. The next—
White.
Not just brightness, but something all-consuming. It didn't burn, but it swallowed everything, leaving him adrift in a space that felt empty and heavy at the same time. His stomach twisted with the unmistakable sensation of falling—no wind, no sound, just the quiet pull of gravity dragging him downward.
Instinct kicked in before thought—his arm came up, shielding his eyes against the flood of light. He braced for impact, for anything solid beneath him.
Then, warmth.
The light faded, washed away by something softer—sunlight, golden and steady, pressing against his skin. His breath hitched as he lowered his arm, blinking through the glare until the world finally took shape.
Sand.
Fine grains clung to his skin, warmed from the day's sun. The scent of salt hung thick in the air, carried by the breeze that traced lazy patterns along the shoreline. The steady rhythm of waves rolling onto the beach filled the silence, calm but impossibly real.
John swallowed, pushing himself up onto his elbows as he scanned the unfamiliar horizon. The city was gone. His apartment, his desk, the unfinished projects—gone.
Instead, he was here. Wherever here was.
His fingers curled around the coin still resting in his palm, its cool surface a stark contrast to the heat around him. He exhaled sharply, heart beating a little harder than he was comfortable admitting, trying to make sense of the impossible.
This wasn't a dream. It felt like one, but the sand against his skin, the taste of salt in the air, the warmth of the sun on his back—none of it carried that hazy, distant quality of sleep.
John sat up fully, pressing his palm against his forehead as the last remnants of grogginess faded.
"What the hell?"
John rose to his feet slowly, brushing the sand from his arms. His legs still felt a little unsteady, like he hadn't quite settled into himself. A breeze rolled off the water, cool and salt-tinged, stirring the hem of his shirt.
He took a few cautious steps toward the shore, the sand warm and dry beneath his heels until the wet grit kissed his soles. The water lapped quietly at the beach, inviting but unfamiliar.
Crouching, he dipped his hand beneath the surface. The shock of the cold made him inhale sharply—it wasn't biting, just alive, real in a way dreams never managed to be. He turned his hand palm-up beneath the surface, watched the ripples spread outward, then pulled it free and let the water pour off his fingers in small, glistening streams.
His eyes lingered on the shapes made by the falling droplets, then drifted outward, following the water's reach toward the horizon.
How far am I from home?
The thought floated up unbidden, heavy in its simplicity. No phone, no buildings, no familiar skyline—just an endless blue expanse and the steady pull of the tide.
Then, without warning, the surface broke.
A massive body surged from the water, its glistening back arcing high into the air before crashing down in a spray of white foam. John flinched backward, heart thudding. Whatever it was—fish, leviathan, god-knows-what—it had cleared the surface like it weighed nothing.
Water pounded the shore in response, soaking his legs. He stood frozen, staring out into the waves where the breach had come and gone, like the sea had just casually reminded him it was keeping secrets.
He wasn't just lost. He was somewhere else. And the rules here… clearly weren't going to be ordinary.
Another massive shape cleaved the surface of the water, its sleek body glinting briefly in the sun before vanishing in a thunderous crash that sent ripples racing toward the shore. John instinctively took a step back, his heartbeat still playing catch-up from the first breach.
He squinted into the horizon, scanning for more motion but seeing only the quiet return of waves curling along the beach. Whatever those fish were, they moved like they owned the sea.
Turning his gaze back inland, John caught sight of a ridge rising at the edge of the beach—low and uneven, tufted with wild grass and pale earth. Just beyond it, thick tree trunks pressed in close together, their canopies casting dappled shadows even in the bright afternoon sun.
A forest. Dense, dark, and deep.
He let out a breath, shifting the coin in his pocket like a nervous habit. "Please," he muttered, "let the wildlife get smaller the farther inland I go."
It wasn't much of a plan, but standing still wasn't an option either. The fish were unsettling enough—and the beach, while open and safe for now, didn't exactly scream shelter. With one last glance at the sea, he adjusted his footing and made for the ridge, sand slipping underfoot as he climbed toward the trees and whatever waited beyond.