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MidReal Story
The Lost Years
Anonymous
Jul 3
Scenario:Ross è un ragazzo qualunque, o almeno per le persone intorno a lui è stato così.
Un giorno uscì pianificando una pizzata con gli amici e qualcosa lo ha portato a bere da solo alcolici vari fino al coma.
È caduto a terra ed ha picchiato la testa, si è risvegliato 3 secondi dopo esser caduto e poi boom si risveglia 3 anni dopo senza nessun ricordo di ciò che ha passato negli ultimi 3 anni
Si è lasciato la ragazza alle spalle e le amicizie le ha buttate in un bidone
Ora è in cerca di risposte e sta analizzando ogni singola traccia degli ultimi 3 anni
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Ross Jeffries
He is a man who wakes up in a hospital three years after collapsing due to an unknown period of coma. He is curious, determined, and skeptical. Ross discovers that he has missed three years of life, including the death of his father and a possible past relationship. With no memory of what happened, he sets out to piece together his life, reuniting with old friends and investigating mysterious events.
Dr. Kathryn Morris
She is the doctor who treated Ross during his coma and subsequent hospital stay. She is professional, empathetic, and slightly mysterious. When Ross awakens in the hospital, she explains his situation to him but avoids discussing details further due to confidentiality laws. Her demeanor and brief revelation about Ross's past three years hint at underlying complexities in their interaction.
Morgan
She is the current girlfriend of Ross's childhood friend, Nate. She is caring, patient, and protective. Morgan is surprised to see Ross at a party and is initially confused about their relationship status. When Ross questions her about his past three years, she tries to explain but feels uncomfortable about it. Her interactions with Ross suggest that there may be more to their connection than just a casual relationship.
I was just an ordinary boy.
I had plans to go out with my friends for a pizza night the next day, but I never made it.
Something strange happened, and I drank different kinds of alcohol by myself.
Then, I fell down hard and fainted for three seconds before waking up.
After that, boom!
My life changed.
Three years went by in a flash.
I woke up again in a hospital, and my life became even stranger.
I don't know what happened during those three years.
I was looking for answers, but I didn't get any.
Instead, I met Nate's current girlfriend, Morgan, whom I had never seen before, at a party.
She seemed to be a kind and patient person.
When she saw me at the party, she looked surprised and confused.
She asked me where I had been all these years and what happened to me.
I told her I didn't know and asked her the same question in return.
She tried to explain but seemed uncomfortable with the topic and eventually stopped talking about it.
My friend Nate told me not to ask him those kinds of questions anymore.
I was skeptical but decided to respect his wishes.
The doctor who treated me during my coma and subsequent hospital stay didn't give me any answers either.
She said confidentiality laws prevented her from discussing it further.
I approach Morgan while she's alone by the drinks table.
The music is loud enough that we can have a private conversation.
My hands are fidgeting with an empty cup.
"Nate is acting strange whenever I ask him about the past three years," I say casually.
Morgan's shoulders tense, and she pours herself another drink without looking at me.
"Is it something I should know about?"
She starts to explain, "Nate changed a lot after you disappeared. He became more withdrawn and paranoid. He would often tell me to stay away from certain people and places."
Suddenly, she stops mid-sentence and glances across the room.
Her face pales as she sees Nate watching us.
"Oh no, he's here," she whispers urgently.
She quickly excuses herself, leaving her half-full glass on the table.
Nate approaches with a forced smile, but his eyes betray a storm of secrets.
I watch Morgan rush through the crowd toward the exit.
Her shoulders are tense, and her steps are quick.
Nate is distracted by other guests, so I weave my way through the partygoers and slip out the front door.
The street is dimly lit by yellow lamplight, and I spot Morgan's blue dress disappearing around the corner.
I keep my distance, trailing her past closed storefronts and empty cafes.
She keeps checking over her shoulder, clutching her purse tightly.
When she stops at a bus stop, I duck behind a newspaper stand.
She pulls out her phone, dials quickly, and whispers urgently into it.
I step closer, trying to catch her words without being seen.
"Morgan, you need to tell me what's going on," I say softly, stepping out from my hiding spot.
She jumps, startled, and her eyes widen with a mix of fear and relief.
Her hands tremble as she scribbles something on a crumpled receipt.
"Three PM sharp. Don't tell Nate," she whispers, glancing nervously at the passing headlights.
I notice fresh bruises on her wrist when her sleeve rides up.
She quickly pulls it down, but not before I see the distinct pattern of fingermarks.
A black SUV turns onto our street, its engine growling low.
Morgan shoves the paper into my hand and hurries toward the bus that just arrived.
Through the bus window, I see her sink into a seat, shoulders hunched.
The SUV slows as it passes, and I realize I'm not just chasing answers—I'm running from something darker.
I stand frozen on the sidewalk as the SUV idles a few yards away.
My instincts scream to run, but I force myself to act casual, pretending to check my phone while keeping the vehicle in my peripheral vision.
The tinted window descends with a soft mechanical whir, revealing only darkness inside.
A metallic glint catches my eye - the unmistakable shape of a camera lens emerging from the shadows.
My heart pounds in my chest as I hear the subtle click of photos being taken.
I grip the crumpled receipt tightly in my fist as the SUV's door creaks open.
My muscles tense, ready to run, but I force myself to remain still, maintaining the facade of checking my phone.
Heavy boots crunch on broken glass as the figure steps out.
They wear tactical gear - a black vest, cargo pants, and combat boots.
The mask is a plain white facade with narrow eye slits.
My heart races as I notice their right hand sliding toward a concealed holster.
Through the reflection on my phone screen, I track their deliberate steps.
Ten feet away.
Eight feet.
Five feet.
My voice trembles slightly as I raise my hands in surrender, palms facing outward.
"Whoa, I don't want any trouble."
The figure stops advancing but doesn't lower their hand from the holster.
The street remains eerily empty except for us and the idling SUV, its engine providing a low background hum.
"What do you want from me?"
I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
The figure doesn't respond but continues to study me intently.
A car passes by, its headlights briefly illuminating the darkened street.
In that flash of light, I notice something - a tattoo on the figure's neck, exposed above the collar of their shirt.
It's a design I recognize, one that I discovered in those photos from my missing years.
