He doesn't know where he is.

It must be a dream; this is what he determines, but he has no idea how to wake up. Chance Bones does not panic, not really, but his heart is beating faster than normal, and his hands are shaking - he doesn't know whether it's from anticipation or something else, but he's not actually sure if he cares about that or not. He just knows that he has to keep going. He has to keep walking.

The corridor stretches out in front of him like a hall of misfit toys, broken doors hanging from hinges all along the way. Chance tries a few of these doors, but to no avail. There's nothing but blackness in most of them - all of them - and he keeps moving, his long legs creating longer strides to propel him forwards.

He can't stop his chest from feeling tight. It's an unpleasant, unfamiliar sensation that he doesn't quite grasp, doesn't quite understand. Everything around him feels hazy and confusing, and he keeps going anyway, because that just seems like the right thing to do.

Something tugs him forward - he doesn't know what, some innate feeling deep within him that seems to drive him. Chance rounds a corner, and something is ahead - something lost in the shadows, unclear and shifting and lacking form - or at least, a form that he can see. It's like trying to make something out without glasses on, fuzzy and distorted.

He stretches out a hand, and there is a strange feeling that emanates from whatever the thing is - but he knows he should grab it, knows he should get it, and he wraps his fingers around it -

- Chance awakes with a start, his eyes wide as he blinks rapidly. He's alone in his own room, not in Otto's, curled up in bed, and for a few seconds, he's hazy on the details of even falling asleep in the first place - a novelty for him. Groggily, he pushes himself up, a hand running through his sleep mussed hair, and Chance turns to swing his legs over the side of the bed, intending to get up.

Which is when he sees it, sitting there on the desk, as innocuous and innocent as the sketchbook next to it. A slim, leatherbound notebook, entirely unfamiliar - and Chance does not have a great deal of possessions. The few he does keep he knows very well, and none of them are like this.

He slides his fingers over the cover without hesitation, though he probably should have restrained himself. Still, he doesn't think it's dangerous - hopefully - and when the book does not burn his hand off or knock him out, or do anything else drastic, Chance pulls it into his lap, staring at it.

It's more than just a notebook. He knows this, and somehow it feels right that it's with him. There's no telling what it's actually for, but something tells him that it will be of use to him later - and with any luck, more use than the traitorous manacle in his desk drawer.

Chance does not lock this notebook away, but instead secures it around his waist for safekeeping.