This is based on a CYOA. You can find said CYOA here at any time if you get confused: https://imgchest.com/p/ljyq8qgdy25The first thing you noticed upon waking up was how… wrong your bed felt. It was too narrow, too firm, with sheets that carried an unfamiliar crispness. Your body shifted automatically to compensate, and a dull ache in your shoulder informed you that you'd been sleeping in the same position for too long.
Your eyes remained closed for a while longer as you tried to parse through the sounds around you. The soft whir of ventilation was there, yes, but underneath it lay a deeper thrum, a steady vibration that seemed to permeate everything. Like standing too close to an industrial air handler, but… different. Deeper. More
present somehow. Somewhere above, metal creaked against metal, and footsteps echoed with a precise rhythm through what could only be a corridor.
You squint as you sit up and find yourself staring at a steel bulkhead, its surface covered in what looked like standard naval paint, probably white or cream but turned uncertain shades by the early morning light. That light filtered through what you recognized as a porthole window, ones that wouldn't be out of place on a ship. This one cast sharp rectangles across a built-in desk that looked like polished wood, though you couldn't have named the specific type. The furniture was unmistakably naval in design, all efficient corners and secured drawers, nothing that could shift in rough seas.
"Sir?" A sharp knock at what seemed to be a door. "Admiral, morning reports are ready."
Admiral?Your eyes fully snapped open in response to the title you were being addressed with.
That's not how you remember being addressed in the past, but it is clear there is someone on the other side who thinks you wear such a title and is waiting for your response.
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