Chapter 2: The Crown Prince’s Awakening

...Wake up, wake up...

The unfamiliar voice drilled into my skull, sharp and urgent—the kind that drags you out of a deep sleep on a Saturday and lets you know something’s gone sideways. My head pounded, about to split open.

"Your Highness, Crown Prince, something big has happened!"

"What? Crown Prince?" My mouth tasted like stale coffee and confusion. The room smelled faintly of lemon polish and old books, a far cry from the burnt popcorn stench of my old apartment.

When I opened my eyes, I saw attendants and staff who looked like they’d walked off the set of a period piece—crisp uniforms, old-fashioned manners, not a cell phone in sight. It felt like my world had been swapped out for a Civil War reenactment, only nobody was smiling.

"What are you all doing?" I rubbed my eyes, half-expecting to spot a camcorder crew filming some prank show.

Who am I? Where am I? What am I supposed to do? My brain scrambled, running through every movie trope—was this a dream? Did I get cast in some historical drama without knowing?

"Looks like His Highness isn’t fully awake yet, please forgive him."

The attendant waved his hand, and the staff rushed up to surround me—like a football team on third down, no room to breathe.

"Come on, you don’t have to rough me up—I’m broke, and my kidneys aren’t worth much anyway!" My voice shook, more nervous than I meant it to be. It was half-joke, half-desperate plea.

These staffers meant business—they tugged at my clothes with real strength, and I fought back just as hard. Elbows flying, feet digging into the floor, but there were too many of them. I caught a whiff of starch and expensive soap, the kind I could never afford in my old life.

"Your Highness, please stop joking around, something big has happened!"

The attendant stomped anxiously, his patent leather shoes squeaking on the polished hardwood. "The Chief is still waiting outside!"

"Chief? Which Chief?" I glanced at the staff, looking for some clue—was this the police? The school principal? My heart thudded in my chest.

"You..." The attendant glared at me, clearly disapproving but not daring to scold me. He lowered his voice: "Your Highness, what are you saying? In our country, who else could be Chief but Grant?"

Country, Chief, Grant?

My mind was still a mess, but the staff had already finished dressing me. They’d shoved me into a stiff suit that felt like it belonged at a governor’s ball, not a hospital room. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror—hair perfectly combed, cheeks flushed, not a trace of the night before.

The attendant opened the door, and immediately I saw an older man who looked extremely familiar—like a face from U.S. history books, or maybe from those old black-and-white portraits lining the walls of City Hall.

That man was the picture of scholarly grace, holding a feather pen and wearing a silk scarf, bowing deeply to me. The gesture was somewhere between an old-fashioned Southern gentleman and a university dean at commencement—formal, but not foreign.

"Your Highness, the situation is urgent, there’s no time to explain. Please, get in the car quickly!"

After saying this, the man grabbed me and rushed out as if we were heading to a funeral. His grip was firm, callused—like someone who’d spent his life handling books and handshakes, not weapons.

By the way, his hand was a bit rough, but warm... Warm?

This isn’t a dream, is it? The cold morning air, the distant hum of a car engine—everything was too real, too sharp around the edges.

Holy crap—a living Grant Campbell! My head spun. In any other context, I might’ve asked for a selfie.