"The Wrong Reality"

When Marcus Trent awoke on June 12th, everything felt slightly... off.

The alarm buzzed at 6:45 a.m., just like it had every weekday for the past five years. He rolled out of bed, brushing past his cat, Nimbus, who meowed in protest. The air smelled like burnt toast, even though his toaster was unplugged. In the mirror, his reflection blinked a moment after he did.

Shrugging it off as sleep-deprivation, Marcus dressed in his navy-blue work suit, tied his burgundy tie with mechanical precision, and walked out into the hallway of his apartment building.

That’s when the second oddity hit him.

His neighbor, Mr. Kessler, a grumpy ex-military man who always wore mismatched socks and cursed under his breath, was walking down the hall—wearing a full tuxedo and whistling “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” He gave Marcus a wink and said, “Beautiful day to fly, don’t you think?” before stepping into the elevator and vanishing from sight.

Marcus stood still, blinking.

He took the stairs.

At the coffee shop on the corner, the barista handed him his usual black coffee with one sugar—except he hadn’t ordered anything. She grinned as if she knew him.

“No charge today,” she said. “It’s Appreciation Thursday.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Marcus replied.

Her grin faded for a second, replaced by a twitch of confusion. “Of course. Silly me. Wednesday. Time is tricky these days.”

He took the coffee, his heartbeat beginning to race.

His office building was where things really spiraled.

The receptionist, who normally greeted everyone with an ice-cold nod, waved cheerfully and called him “Captain Trent.” The walls were lined with strange murals—ones he had never seen before—depicting people with glowing eyes and floating cities above oceans of stars.

The elevator didn’t go to the 18th floor anymore. The button had been replaced with one labeled simply “Ω.”

He pressed it.

As the elevator descended instead of ascending, Marcus felt a vertigo that had nothing to do with motion sickness. When the doors opened, he found himself not in his office, but in a vast white chamber lined with flickering screens. Dozens of people in white lab coats milled around, none acknowledging his presence.

A woman turned to him suddenly. She looked vaguely familiar—her face like a blur in a dream just before waking. “You’re not supposed to be here yet,” she said, frowning.

“I... work in marketing,” Marcus stammered. “I’m not sure what this is.”

“This is the Transition Hub,” she said. “But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is—”

Suddenly, alarms blared. The screens blinked violently. Symbols he couldn’t recognize filled the air like smoke.

“System breach!” someone shouted. “Reality sync destabilizing!”

The woman turned to Marcus again, her eyes wide. “You need to wake up. This isn’t your reality.”

“I’m awake!” Marcus insisted.

“No, Marcus. You’re stuck in the wrong one.”

The next moment, he was sitting at his desk in his cubicle, sweaty and shaking, surrounded by spreadsheets and soft jazz. His coworker Alan leaned over the wall.

“Rough night?”

Marcus wiped his face. “You have no idea.”

Over the following days, reality continued to unravel. Street signs showed different names from hour to hour. Strangers called him “Lieutenant,” “Witness,” or “Codewalker.” His reflection still lagged slightly behind. Nimbus, his cat, began speaking in riddles while perched atop the fridge, asking questions like “Have you chosen your frequency yet?”

Marcus stopped sleeping.

He combed through old journals and found entries he didn’t remember writing. One read: “Experiment 9X initiated. Subject believes he is Marcus Trent. Progressing beyond expected parameters.”

The worst moment came one night when he visited his mother.

She opened the door, eyes glassy and vacant.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“It’s me, Mom. Marcus.”

She looked behind him, then whispered, “They told me you’d try this. You’re not real. None of this is.”

She slammed the door in his face.

On June 24th—assuming the calendar was even accurate anymore—Marcus broke.

He returned to the building with the “Ω” elevator. The front lobby had been replaced by a hall of mirrors. His reflection in each one was different: a soldier, a child, an old man, a robot, a woman with tear-streaked eyes.

He chose the mirror where he looked the most like himself and stepped through.

He fell.

He landed in the white chamber again. The woman was there, waiting.

“I was hoping you’d come back,” she said softly.

“What is this?” Marcus asked, shaking. “Am I going insane?”

“No,” she said. “You’re the test subject for Project Echelon. Your consciousness was uploaded into a series of simulated realities to test adaptability and cognition in unstable environments.”

“I never signed up for this!”

“You did,” she said. “In the prime reality, you volunteered. Your body is in stasis. We’re trying to bring you home, but something went wrong.”

He took a shaky step backward. “Why don’t I remember any of it?”

“The system had to suppress your memories to preserve the integrity of the trial. But the experiment degraded. Multiple simulations bled into one another. You’re stuck between layers now. That’s why things don’t make sense. Why time is broken. Why your cat talks.”

She smiled faintly.

Marcus stared at her, realization dawning like an eclipse lifting.

“You’re... me,” he whispered. “A version of me.”

“Close enough,” she said. “You created this. And only you can end it.”

Marcus closed his eyes. The air around him thickened, like syrup. Thoughts blurred. Sounds reversed. He reached into himself—not physically, but into some deeper layer—and pulled.

When he awoke again, it was raining.

Real rain, with real cold drops. Nimbus was curled up beside him, purring quietly.

The toaster was unplugged. The air smelled clean.

He walked to the mirror.

His reflection blinked at the same time.

And smiled.