I woke up to the sterile scent of hospital disinfectant, the harsh white light above me making me squint. Blinking away the haze of confusion, I tried to piece together where I was and why. The last thing I remembered was going to bed in my small, one-bedroom apartment after another long day at the accounting firm. My name is Peter Sullivan, and my life, as far as I knew, was as ordinary as they come.

I shifted in the bed, the thin hospital sheets rustling beneath me. Looking around, I saw the familiar sights of a hospital room: the heart rate monitor beeping softly, the IV drip beside me, and the floral patterned curtains drawn around the bed. But something felt off, as if I were seeing this scene for the first time.

I glanced down at myself, noting the hospital gown draped over my body. My hands, normally calloused from hours of typing on a keyboard, looked foreign to me. They were smooth, almost unblemished, lacking the usual signs of wear and tear. It was as if I were seeing my body through someone else's eyes.

Confusion and fear gnawed at me as I tried to make sense of it all. Was I dreaming? Had something happened to me? I tried to recall any accidents or illnesses that could have landed me in the hospital, but my mind drew a blank.

With a deep breath, I pushed myself to sit up, the hospital bed creaking beneath me. The room spun for a moment, and I steadied myself, gripping the metal railing beside the bed. As my vision cleared, I took in the details of the room.

The walls were a dull shade of beige, adorned with generic landscape paintings that did little to brighten the sterile atmosphere. A small window on the far wall revealed a sliver of the outside world, the sun casting long shadows across the room.

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