Reality Quest: Questism

The first thing I noticed was the light. Soft, natural, warm.

Not the sterile, artificial glare of my room's ceiling light. Not the dim, blue glow of my phone screen.

Sunlight. The kind that seeps through gaps in the clouds, golden and gentle, touching everything with the quiet promise of summer. And then… voices.

Loud. Familiar.

"…Bro, you actually think you passed maths?"

"Man, I swear, if I get a four, I'm dropping out."

"You can't drop out, dumbass. We've already finished."

Laughter. Effortless, unburdened. The kind of laughter that wraps around you, fills in the spaces between words, between thoughts. It was real. And suddenly, so was I.

The sky stretched overhead, a washed-out shade of blue, the kind that never quite deepened even on the hottest days. The streets were alive... people moving, cars honking, the faint scent of fried chicken, fresh-cut grass, and weed mixing in the air.

Someone biked past, their music tinny and distant through a phone speaker. A bus rumbled down the road, its brakes hissing.

I wasn't in Korea. I wasn't in Gwanak. I was in London. South, specifically. And more than that... I knew this place.

This wasn't some out-of-body experience. I wasn't watching through a screen, detached and ghostlike.

My feet hit the pavement. My blazer, school-issued, slightly too big at the shoulders, was slung over one shoulder, my tie loosened, curls a mess in the reflection of a passing shop window.

My hands... darker skin, warm, familiar... clenched and unclenched, just to be sure.

Sixteen. I was sixteen. And I'd just finished my GCSEs.

The realization hit me like a train.

This wasn't some tragic backstory. I wasn't some lab-grown experiment or a cursed child locked in a white room. I wasn't in some bizarre simulation where my memories weren't my own. I was a normal teenager. Or at least… I had been.

"Oi, Dowan—"

I turned, instinctively. But that wasn't my name. Not here. Not in this life.

The boy calling me didn't seem to care.

Rohan. His name clicked into place immediately, like a long-lost puzzle piece sliding back where it belonged. Taller than me by a few inches, lanky but strong, with a bag slung across his chest and a sly grin on his face.

"You reckon you flopped history?"

I scoffed. "I didn't even finish the last question."

"Bruh." He shoved me lightly. "And you were acting like some expert? 'Oh, I love history. Oh, I know everything about the Cold War.'"

"That's because I do. The Cold War was about nuclear—"

"No one cares, man!"

More laughter. A shove, a sidestep, the easy rhythm of friendship.

For a second, just a second, the rest of the world blurred. The air felt warmer, heavier with something I couldn't name. Like nostalgia, except I was still here, still living it. The kind of moment that wouldn't feel important until years later, when I'd look back and wish I could step into it one more time.

But for now, I just laughed, the weight of something long-forgotten settling into my bones.

I was home.

Laughter. Someone clapped me on the back… Ali. Shorter than both of us, but with the loudest voice in the group. "Forget history, you lot. What we doing for summer?"

I blinked. Summer. Right. That's what came after exams, didn't it? Long days of doing absolutely nothing. Playing football at the park. Staying up too late in group calls, arguing over which anime had the best fights. Visiting family.

And drawing.

My sketchbook was in my bag, tucked between my school books, full of half-finished character designs and messy doodles. 

My tablet was at home, waiting for me to come back so I could finally finish the webcomic panel I'd been working on for weeks. Art was just something I'd spent my entire life doing... it was comfortable.

I could already picture it… hours spent sketching, clipping, experimenting with those webtoon styles, maybe even trying out animation again.

A normal life. One I'd completely forgotten.

It was so ordinary. And yet, I felt like I was watching something precious slip through my fingers.

I didn't want to let it go.

I got home in the afternoon, just as the sun started dipping lower in the sky. The house smelled of spices.... masala, fried onions, something warm and familiar.

The front door was open just a crack, letting in a summer breeze.

A voice called out from the kitchen.

"You finished the exams?"

My mum.

I swallowed.

For a second, I hesitated, like I wasn't sure what version of myself I was supposed to be.

Then she stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her dark frizzy hair pulled back. Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, flicking to my half-loosened tie and the blazer hanging limply over my arm.

She frowned. "That's how you wear your uniform?"

I sighed. "Amma—"

"How hard is it to take off your blazer properly? Do you think clothes clean themselves?"

"I was hot."

"So you crumple it like a beggar?"

"Maybe."

She swatted my arm with the towel... light, but I could tell she wasn't impressed. "You act like we don't own a single hanger in this house."

I huffed a laugh, kicking off my shoes. "What, you want me to carry one around?"

She ignored that, already heading back toward the kitchen. "Tell me how it went during dinner."

I let my bag drop by the stairs. "What if I don't wanna talk about it?"

"Then you don't eat."

I groaned. "Wow. Blackmail."

"Yes. And it works, so don't test me."

I followed her in. The stove was on, a pot of something bubbling away. She grabbed a spoon, stirring as she spoke.

"You had history and physics today, right?"

"Yeah." I pulled out a chair and slumped into it.

"How was history?"

I groaned.

Her eyes narrowed immediately. "What happened?"

"I just—" I sighed. "I ran out of time on the last question."

She clicked her tongue. "Didn't I tell you to practice writing faster?"

"I did!"

"Then why did you run out of time?"

"I don't know!" I threw my hands up. "I just did! There was so much to write, and I got caught up in explaining stuff."

She exhaled sharply. "This is exactly what I told you. You always write too much nonsense instead of answering the question properly."

"It wasn't nonsense!"

"Mm." She didn't sound convinced. "And physics?"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine."

She gave me a look. "You better not be hiding a disaster from me."

"I'm not," I muttered.

She moved on. "Your other exams?"

"English was alright. I think I did well in the essay part."

"Only 'alright'?"

"Ammaaa, not everyone gets nines in English."

"Plenty of people do," she shot back.

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, well, I got all the marks in the unseen poetry last time, so maybe that makes up for it."

She didn't look impressed, but she didn't push it. "And maths?"

"Easy."

That, at least, she expected.

"As it should be," she said.

I scoffed. "Wow. No faith in my other subjects but maths is just expected to be perfect?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You want me to praise you for something you should already be good at?"

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "I hate this house."

"No, you don't. Now, your other subjects—"

I groaned louder.

"You're the one who said you want to apply to St. Francis," she reminded me, her voice taking on that tone.

I stiffened.

St. Francis. One of the best grammar schools in the area. A place that only took the smartest students for sixth form. The kind of school that medical applicants, Oxbridge applicants came from. The kind of school my mum had wanted me to aim for since forever.

"I am applying," I muttered.

"Then you need top grades."

"I know."

She studied me for a second before nodding. "Good."

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. I knew she meant well. I knew she just wanted me to succeed. But it was exhausting sometimes.

After a moment, she spoke again. "And art?"

I blinked.

She wasn't looking at me, too focused on adjusting the seasoning. But the question sat between us, heavier than the others.

"Art was fine," I said after a beat. "I think I did okay."

She made another thoughtful noise. "It's not too late to drop it, you know."

My grip tightened on the chair. "I don't want to drop it."

She sighed. "You already have so much to focus on."

"I know."

"You don't need distractions."

"It's not a distraction."

She finally looked at me. "Then what is it?"

I swallowed.

I wanted to say it was fun. That it was something I actually enjoyed. That it made me feel like myself, in a way that cramming for exams never did.

Instead, I said, "I get commissions."

That made her pause. "People pay you?"

"Yeah."

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "How much?"

I hesitated. "Like… £40 a piece?"

She blinked. I could see her recalculating things in her head.

"Hm," she said after a moment. "Well. As long as you're not wasting time."

I let out a breath. "I'm not."

She gave me another look, then sighed. "We'll talk about it later."

I swallowed. "So that's not a no?"

"It's a 'set the table before I change my mind about feeding you.'"

I huffed a laugh, standing up and grabbing the plates.

For the first time in a long time, things felt normal. And I wasn't ready to let that go.

And for a moment, everything felt right. Like I could just walk into the living room, switch on the TV, complain about the news, and pretend like this was real.

Like I wasn't going to wake up.

Like I wasn't going to lose this all over again.

But I was.

I knew it. Even before it started to happen. Even before the edges of the world started to blur. Even before the scent of home-cooked food faded into nothing. Even before my mum's voice became distant.

The memory was slipping.

And no matter how hard I tried to hold onto it… 

It was gone.

I woke up shaking. My chest felt tight. My head ached.

I blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling, at the world that wasn't mine. The Master Card was back in my inventory.

In its place... a single notification remained.

[A Piece of Your Past Has Been Restored]

Memory Recovered: 1/10

The moment I sat up, it hit me like a tidal wave.

My breath came out in sharp, uneven gasps. 

My chest felt tight, like something was crushing it from the inside. 

My vision blurred before I even realized what was happening.

I knew what my mum looked like.

I knew her voice. The way she sighed dramatically when I left my blazer crumpled, the warmth in her teasing words. I could still smell the spices from the kitchen, still hear the distant murmur of the TV in the living room.

I knew my friends. Rohan's lanky frame, Ali's loud, boisterous laugh. The streets we walked home on, the fried chicken shop we stopped at when we had spare change, the way summer felt like it would stretch on forever.

I knew who I was.

Not Dowan. Not some overpowered protagonist in a manhwa world.

Just a sixteen-year-old kid from London. A kid who had dreams, who loved to draw, who stayed up too late watching anime and arguing about fights that didn't matter. A kid who had a home, a life, a future.

And I had lost it all.

A choked sound left my throat. I barely even recognized it as my own. I pressed my palm against my face, trying to steady my breathing, but the moment my fingers touched my skin, it all came undone.

Tears spilled over before I could stop them.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, but the sobs still wracked through me, shaking my whole body. I hadn't cried like this in… I didn't even know how long. Maybe not since I first arrived in this world. Maybe not even then.

Because back then, I didn't remember.

I didn't know what I had lost.

But now I did.

I curled in on myself, my shoulders trembling, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. It felt wrong… crying like this in a room that wasn't mine, in a body that wasn't even supposed to exist. 

I was a stranger in my own skin, a ghost in a life that didn't belong to me.

And no one here knew.

No one knew that Dowan wasn't real. That I wasn't real. That I was supposed to be somewhere else, laughing with my friends, drawing on my tablet, complaining about history exams. That somewhere out there, in another world, my mum was still going about her day, maybe wondering why I wasn't home yet.

Did she know?

Did she know I was dead?

My breath hitched. I pressed my forehead against my knees, squeezing my eyes shut, as if that could stop the ache growing inside my chest.

I didn't even know how I died.

I didn't know if it was an accident, an illness, something sudden or something slow.

I didn't know if my mum had been waiting for me to come home that day, if she had called my name and gotten no response.

I didn't know if my friends had ever found out. If my teachers had looked at the empty seat where I used to sit.

I didn't know—

I didn't know…

The sobs kept coming, raw and broken. My fingers curled into the sheets beneath me, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

I wanted to go back.

Even if it was impossible. Even if I knew, deep down, that I was never going to wake up in my old bed, never going to hear my mum's voice calling me for dinner again.

I still wanted to go back.

But I couldn't.

And all I had left were nine more cards.

Nine more pieces of myself.

I needed them all.

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Some inspiration taken from my life obviously.

I love fried chicken.

Kebab too. 

But fried chicken's the goat.

I wouldn't be who I am today without fried chicken.

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