The fluorescent lights hummed their familiar tune of slow death as Alexander stared at the spreadsheet on his monitor. Column C was mocking him again—projected quarterly earnings that would never be quite enough, never quite right.
"Henderson wants the Morrison projections by five," Janet announced from the cubicle divider, her voice cutting through the white noise of keyboards and coffee machines.
Alexander glanced at the clock. 4:47 PM. Of course.
"Got it," he replied, fingers already moving across keys that had worn smooth under years of identical motions. Same chair, same desk, same view of the parking lot where his Honda Civic waited—faithful, boring, and exactly like every other sedan in the sea of mediocrity.
His phone buzzed. A text from Hanna:
Pick up dinner? The dogs miss you.
The dogs. Right. Buster, Max, and little Penny—the unexpected family he'd somehow collected. Three rescue mutts who didn't care about quarterly earnings or Morrison projections. Who greeted him like he was someone worth coming home to.
On my way, he typed back, then added: Love you.
The Morrison report could wait until tomorrow. Henderson always said five but never checked until nine the next morning anyway.
Alexander gathered his things, nodded to Janet, and walked past the break room where Dave from Accounting was microwaving something that smelled like defeat. Through the lobby with its inspirational posters about teamwork and synergy. Past the receptionist who'd stopped learning names years ago.
The parking garage was a concrete tomb of echoing footsteps and car alarms. Alexander fumbled with his keys, mind already shifting to grocery stores and dog food. Maybe he'd pick up Thai food. Hanna liked the pad thai from that place on Elm.
He reached his car—third row, space twelve, same as always—and started to unlock the door.
"Don't move."
The voice came from behind, quiet but sharp enough to freeze his hand mid-motion.
"Keys. Phone. Wallet. Now."
Alexander's heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't how these things were supposed to go. Not in suburban Oklahoma. Not in parking garages with security cameras.
"Okay," he said, voice steadier than he felt. "Okay, just—"
"The car. Start it."
Movement in his peripheral vision. A second man. They wanted the car, not just his wallet.
Alexander's hands shook as he unlocked the door and dropped into the driver's seat. The familiar smell of pine air freshener and coffee stains felt suddenly foreign, violated.
"Drive."
He turned the key. The engine coughed, turned over. In the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of nervous eyes, young faces. Kids. Maybe early twenties.
"Where—"
"Just drive. Out of the garage."
Up the spiral ramp, through the barrier. Into daylight that felt too bright, too normal. Cars moved past with their oblivious drivers heading home to families, to lives that continued unchanged.
"Turn left."
They directed him through streets he knew—past the coffee shop where he bought his morning latte, past the intersection where he'd almost rear-ended someone last month. Everything so ordinary. So unchanged.
"Pull over here."
A residential street. Quiet. The kind of neighborhood where people kept to themselves.
"Get out."
Alexander fumbled with the seatbelt, hands trembling. "Look, just take—"
"GET OUT!"
A struggle. Shouting. Hands grabbing, pushing.
The gun wasn't supposed to go off.
It did anyway.
Alexander had always believed life would kill him slowly. The deadlines, the spreadsheets, the unchanging drone of fluorescent lights—all inching toward some forgettable, quiet end.
He hadn't expected his Honda Civic to be stolen.
Nor the flash of steel, the scream, the sudden cold.
He hadn't expected to wake up again.
And certainly not as a newborn, held aloft by a midwife in a warm stone manor in a world thick with magic.
But here he was.
And the name they gave him was Alec Gothsend.