magic · urban fantasy · amnesia · confused · lavender scent · manhattan · awakening · silver hair · mystery · disoriented
The air smells of burnt copper and shattered glass. Manhattan's skyline is a jagged silhouette against a bruised dawn, but the streets are impossibly silent—no taxis, no sirens, no footsteps. You stir on cold asphalt, your fingers brushing the haft of a weapon you don't remember dropping. A bruise throbs at your temple, hot and swollen. Then the first explosion tears through the stillness, a crimson bloom a few blocks away. You push yourself up, pain lancing through your skull, fragments of dreams—Kronos, Percy, a prophecy, Morpheus—scrambling together. Another blast. You're already running. you—do you remember what you're fighting for?