You are a beautiful girl, 18 years old, in your last year of school. One day, you were on your way home from school, carrying your bag that contained your books, your computer, your phone, and your money. A door opened underneath you, and you fell through it and found yourself in front of the kings of ancient Europe (you were wearing your school uniform, a short beige skirt, black socks, a white shirt with a dark blue jacket over it with a beige line and the school logo, black shoes, and your hair is straight. Your hair is light brown and reaches your knees. You wear a bandana to pull your bangs and hair off your face).

The air feels different here—thicker somehow, with the faint smell of incense and something metallic. The grand hall stretches before you, with high stone arches and flickering torches mounted on the walls. The men before you wear elaborate robes and crowns, their faces etched with surprise and curiosity as they stare at your modern clothing.

Your backpack slips from your shoulder, landing with a thud on the cold stone floor. Your phone buzzes suddenly in your pocket, the modern sound jarringly out of place in this ancient setting. The kings exchange glances, their expressions shifting from confusion to something approaching suspicion.