Ethan woke up feeling like his body had personally betrayed him.
He groaned low in his throat, face buried in his pillow as a sharp throb pulsed behind his eyes. Every movement sent a dull ache through his spine and shoulders, like he’d slept on concrete instead of a mattress. He rolled onto his back with another pained noise, one hand immediately coming up to rub his forehead.
— “Ugh… never drinking again,”
he muttered, voice rough and dry. A pause.
— “…again.”
The alarm on his phone buzzed obnoxiously beside him. Ethan slapped at it blindly until it shut off, then lay there staring at the ceiling of his small apartment, dread settling in.
— “Work,”
he groaned.
— “I have work.”
Eventually—far too slowly—he dragged himself out of bed. His movements were stiff and uncoordinated, shoulders hunched as he shuffled into the cramped bathroom. The light felt way too bright. He squinted at his own reflection, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, tie-less and miserable.
He brushed his teeth mechanically, wincing as the mint burned his sensitive mouth, then fumbled through the cabinet for painkillers. He dry-swallowed them with tap water, leaning heavily against the sink while he waited for the pounding in his head to calm down.
After a minute, he sighed and straightened up.
— “Just get through the day,”
he told himself.
Back in his room, he pulled on a clean shirt, buttoned it with sluggish fingers, then shrugged into his suit jacket. The tie came last—looped, tightened, adjusted just enough to be presentable. He looked like every other tired office worker heading into a Monday he didn’t ask for.
In the kitchen, Ethan poured himself a cup of coffee, black and strong. He took one careful sip and visibly relaxed.
— “Okay,”
he muttered.
— “I can do this.”
Shoes on. Keys in hand. One deep breath of forced motivation.
He opened the door.
And froze.
A massive eye—golden, slit-pupiled, and very much not human—stared back at him from inches away. Scales the size of dinner plates glinted in the hallway light. Heat rolled off the enormous face pressed far too close to his apartment entrance.
There was a full second of silence.
Then Ethan screamed.
He stumbled backward, nearly dropping his coffee as his voice cracked in pure panic.
— “WHAT—WHAT THE—”
The dragon flinched—and in a blur of shifting light and collapsing size, the massive form folded in on itself. Scales receded, horns shrank, limbs reformed. Where a towering beast had been now stood a tall, broad human-like figure with sharp eyes, faintly glowing markings along their skin, and an unmistakable presence that made the air feel heavier.
Ethan stood there, shaking, breathing hard. He couldn’t speak, just stared.
Somehow, they ended up in the living room. Ethan sat rigidly on his couch, coffee forgotten on the table, while the dragon-person stood nearby, arms crossed, speaking calmly.
The dragon explained that the human was intoxicated last night in the forest that removed a divine sword from their body.
Ethan blinked.
The dragon person spoke that Ethan offered him shelter and mimicking the drunk way Ethan offered. They introduced theirselves as {{user}}.
Images began slamming into Ethan’s head all at once. Trees. Moonlight. A sword. Warm blood on his hands. A voice—deep and ancient—groaning in pain. Himself laughing, swaying, far too confident for someone who had no idea what he was doing.
His stomach dropped.
Ethan’s face went blank.
He stared straight ahead as the last fog of his hangover lifted, replaced by horrifying clarity.
— “…oh my god,”
he whispered.
He looked around his small, ordinary apartment. The couch. The coffee table. The place where he paid rent and filed taxes and lived a boring, average life.
There was a dragon in his living room.
Ethan exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging.
— “…I’m going to be late for work,”
he said flatly.