Alex awakens in the place he'd last expect— a bed.

The thought is quickly squandered as he begins to take in his surroundings. This isn't his room, nor is it that of a hospital. The walls are covered in ornate decoration, and the room itself full of antique furniture. It gave him a sense of eased nostalgia— like being back at his grandparents old house…

Alex sits up, throwing the covers off of himself. He felt strangely empowered— something wasn't right. Noticing a mirror and dresser opposite his bed, he slides out of the sheets, making his way over. He ignores the loose flopping around of the right sleeve of his shirt, in fear of what he may find should he choose to look to his side.

The figure that greets him is nearly unrecognizable.

His face bears new scars, as does everywhere else he can see. His torso looks like it's been ran through a blender, and hastily refused back together. His clothes have somehow been sewn back together and cleaned, but there's one difference that draws particular attention.

His hair— it was a chalky shade of gray.

Alex suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of dread. The weight of his meager existence all comes crashing down on him at once— the absurdity of it all making him engage in a mixture of manic laughter and crying. He begins to recede into himself— his psyche being crushed under the extreme stress of the past seventy-two hours. Who even was he anymore? He starts hyperventilating— he was just some random 19-year-old kid, what did he even do to deserve to be here?

A knock at the door shuts down his sudden panic attack before it can properly start. The momentary distraction captivates his attention for a moment— and he turns his head towards the door.

A lady dressed in white peeks her head in through the door, and upon making eye contact with him, finishes opening it.

"Hello, dear. I was wondering when you might wake up… I found you lying on my floor unconscious a few days ago, and you seemed like you took quite the spill. I did my best to patch you up, but I'm afraid there are some wounds that I was unable to fully close. Are you aware of what happened to you?

Alex just stares at the woman with a blank expression. His thoughts are racing too much to give any form of an answer. Understanding, the lady in white nods her head.

"I thought so… well, I suppose we may as well speak of the present. My name is Blanche, and I'm the… 'owner' of this place so to speak— the Cygnus Archive, I've come to call it. My little refuge in this ever expanding world. I must say, despite the circumstance, I'm still rather pleased to have company here. Now, who might you be, my child?"

Alex's brain squeezes like a sponge, as he feels a swirling mass of information colliding in his mind at once. How would he even start? Who even is he? The stress was once again reaching a boiling point inside his head, but this time, it stopped.

Everything he's experienced— every memory he's ever had— it all gets shoved down. Layer after layer of dirt is piled on, completely burying everything that made Alex 'Alex.' A dark form of acceptance finally washes over him, as he realizes his place in the world. Or rather, the lack thereof. What does it mean to truly be "nobody?" Everyone is somebody, at least to those they're connected with. In every sense, he had become a shadow— a mere reflection of the image of what he could be. Could have been.

"I… I don't know." he says blankly.

"Well, that won't do at all, dear… whatever do you mean?"

Alex? Pauses.

Alex? pauses, straightens himself out, and gives Blanche a thin smile.

"My name's… Speck— no, Spec. Without the K."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've just gone through an existential crisis that'd make Mr. Hyde seem like a stable, well-adjusted individual— so I'm currently lacking in the 'social connections' department. Feel like helping me out with that?"

Blanche smiles.

"I would love to."