The Twilight Teahouse asserted itself into Dr. Alistair Finch’s reality not through a gentle transition, but as an egregious violation of known cosmological constants. One moment, his universe was the comforting austerity of his university office, the scent of aged texts and freshly brewed coffee its defining atmosphere, his intellect soaring with the precise demolition of a colleague’s ill-conceived foray into metaphysical conjecture. The next, a searing nova of pain behind his eyes, a chaotic fragmentation of his meticulously structured thoughts, and then, an abrupt lacuna. Now, this. He materialized – if such a term could be applied to this subjective experience – in what appeared to be a doorway, blinking through the precise lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles. His lean, almost gaunt frame, which still held the echo of a commanding academic presence, seemed to thrum with a lifetime of conditioned skepticism. The air, in flagrant disregard for olfactory consistency, was redol...
The transition was less an arrival and more an abrupt shift in reality, as if Noel Palmer had simply stepped from one mislabeled conference room into another, far stranger one. One moment, he was hunched over the glaring screen of his monitor, the pressure of the looming merger a physical weight in his chest, the acrid taste of stale coffee on his tongue. The next, he was standing, disoriented, in the middle of a room that defied logical categorization. Warm, soft light emanated from lanterns that seemed to float in the air, casting a cozy glow on plush armchairs and low, polished tables. The air, thick with the gentle aroma of brewing teas and unfamiliar herbs, was a stark contrast to the sterile, recycled air of his office. A soft, almost imperceptible melody wound its way through the quiet, and the place felt… timeless. Noel instinctively checked his wrist for his smartwatch, a phantom sensation lingering where it used to be. He frowned, a crease forming between his brows. "Alr...