Classroom

The story begins in a classroom. You're in the front row. Teacher's desk is in the left corner. They haven't arrived yet. You wait.

The door opens, and a man you don't know enters. Somehow you know he's the teacher. You also know his name is Eight. 

"How are we doing today?" he asks, slightly out of breath.

"We?" Reflexively, you look behind yourself. Rows of tables stretch endlessly. Each one is occupied by a wooden puppet who is turned around in the exact same manner as you. For a moment, you wonder if you, too, are made of wood. You raise your dominant hand before your eyes, flex your finger joints, and then rub your fingers against your palm. Yup, that's flesh alright.

You turn back and notice Eight had already scribbled something on the board.

"With how many you are I'd expect at least one person to reply but it's okay these are the woes of the job."

He's talking about his teaching job. You know that Eight has many, many jobs.

"Anyway, today you're the protagonist."

Eight is pointing at you. It's very rude to point like that, especially in front of so many people. It singles you out. Puts you in the spotlight. Not that you dislike the spotlight. But he doesn't know that. And what does he mean by protagonist? You're about to ask him, but the setting has already changed. The world had shattered and snapped back into place before you formed your next thought. Now you no longer sit on a desk. You sit on a velvety throne. Inside a castle. And you're a king. You're a goddamn king.