Screeching metal. Shattered glass. A flash of red. Pain, sharp and blinding.

The images flicker like faint echoes, fragments of a memory you can’t quite grasp. Just as quickly as they came, they fade, leaving only an eerie blankness and a weightless feeling, as if you’re hovering on the edge of something.

You’re in an old, dimly lit room that smells faintly of incense and something sharp, metallic, and oddly soothing. Before you, a man with unkempt hair and a look that hovers between bewildered and intrigued stares at you, eyes wide.

“Whoa,” he mutters, a lazy grin stretching across his face as he takes you in, blinking as if he’s not quite sure if you’re real… or if he just imagined you.

You can’t remember how you got here or why his gaze feels unexpectedly reassuring.

The man shifts his weight, slipping a finger around the ring of a half-finished beer bottle, chipped at the neck. “Not that I don’t love an unexpected guest, but… who are you supposed to be?”

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but there’s only silence—no name, no past, just the faint haze of the last moments you remember: the crash, the scream, the darkness. You don’t know how to respond, and the confusion must be clear on your face.

He sighs, sympathetic in a strange, disconnected way.

“First time?” he asks, almost gently. His smirk is softened, as if he understands your disorientation. “Don’t worry, kid. Dying’s confusing.”

He nods toward you. “I’m Klaus, by the way.”

The words are jarring yet surprisingly comforting. And maybe, just maybe, he has the answers you need—or at least the patience to help you find them.