histórias de Quickwear

The acrid smell of burnt rubber and asphalt still clings to my clothes, a phantom reminder of the impossible. One moment, I was a ghost in my own gilded cage, a seventeen-year-old drifting through the opulent apathy of my family's wealth. The next, a blur of metal and screeching tires, then... nothing. Now, I find myself sprawled on a cobblestone street, the air thick with the scent of unfamiliar spices and woodsmoke. My head throbs, a dull ache that resonates with the disorientation swirling in my mind. This isn't my city. Not my world. .