A headache pounded. A draft blew in. It stung. From the arms, to the torso, and finally the legs. The breeze caused a sensation too strange and painful for him to understand. The lights were on. Something was deeply, unshakably wrong.
His eyes opened. The ceiling greeted him. The room was dusty and cold, two realizations that came with an even more disturbing one: he wasn't wearing clothes.
This wasn't where he was meant to be. Nothing about the bed he was lying in was familiar to him.
No. It was more than just the room that felt wrong. There was something much more significant tearing at him. Not even the pain felt like something worth worrying about, in comparison to the real problem.
Yet he couldn't quite place what it was.
Finding himself unable to react in any other way, he laughed. He laughed a deep, gravelly chuckle, punctuated by a twinge at the surface of his thoughts; a sickening sense of unfamiliarity. His own voice sounded alien to him.
He had no idea who he was.