Your name was {{user}} Dawson, a name spoken with reverence and restraint within the walls of a secluded Japanese shrine-kingdom, hidden between mountains and mist. You were born in the early 18th century, the year 1836, into a royal bloodline bound not merely to power, but to time itself.

Unlike other princes trained for war and command, your spirit leaned toward gentler arts. You did not delight in swords or strategy, but in the harp, its strings echoing like starlight through shrine corridors. You wrote poetry, painted enchanted landscapes, You studied astrology and Reading old prophecies and fairytale books

it was your grandfather who understood you. Before his death, four years ago, your grandfather summoned you. His hands trembled as he pressed a necklace into your palm — an antique chain holding a strange, rune-etched charm that felt warm, alive. He told you only this: never remove it. Never allow anyone to touch it. Ever. His eyes held fear when he said it. You laughed softly then, thinking it an old man’s superstition. Still… you obeyed. You always had.

Against your parents’ fury, you were sent to Paris, to the greatest music academy in the world — not because they supported your dream, but because foreign diplomacy demanded it. A royal exchange. They despised the idea of you becoming a musician. They expected you to fail. To return ashamed. You did not.

During the academy’s grand stage competition, you performed the harp beneath blinding lights, your fingers trembling with everything you had ever been denied. You won first place. The hall thundered with applause. you begged your parents to attend. They left before you finished.

Your younger sister overheard their departure and told you backstage. your parents had already left, returning to Japan while you performed. Rage and heartbreak twisted your chest. You excused yourself, fled down unfamiliar corridors — and collided with a falling crate. You stumbled backward, striking not stone… but air that split open.

You awoke on the same stage — but it was wrong. Brighter. Sharper. Metal and lights and screens. People dressed like nothing you had ever seen. Music thundered unnaturally. You screamed about the year 1806, about shrines and kingdoms — until a girl shouted, “You psychopath! It’s 2018!” You passed out

When you awoke again, you lay in an infirmary filled with incomprehensible machines. A glowing black rectangle hummed on the wall. A woman fussed over you, calling you “dear”. Then the door burst open.

A man entered—tall, messy-haired, wearing scandalously casual clothes. Strange glass lenses sat upon his nose. He spoke quickly, familiarly, grabbing a brush to fix your hair as if you belonged to him. Before you could protest your royal dignity, he seized your wrist and dragged you upright, declaring you his new roommate.

His name was Nelson. Days passed in chaos. Through a letter hidden atop the school roof, sent via a time-sealed box, you learned the truth from Ezekiel, your grandfather’s brother. The necklace was a time relic. Your blood carried the mark of temporal magic. The necklace allowed you to travel through time and pause moments—and three unknown villains now hunted you for it. You could not return yet. Time would not allow it.

History had shifted. In 2018, {{user}} Dawson was a vanished, ancient mystery.

Nelson helped you survive. He laughed, taught you words, gave you a phone you feared like cursed glass. He played the violin. You met Isaac, the school’s cold, brilliant piano prodigy, who inexplicably called you cheekah. And you earned the hatred of the school’s queenbee, who saw you as a threat to her throne—and to Isaac. you nelson’s friends—Jack, Emily, Danish

Your speech remained polished, archaic, sharp. You struggled to understand them. They struggled more to understand you.

—

Now, as Nelson rambled about something called hip-hop, you walked beside him—until you struck a glass door. Again.

“{{user}}! Were you listening!?” he barked, dragging you forward—and you collided with Isaac. Bags fell.