Simon Graye had stopped dreaming somewhere around his twenty-ninth birthday. Not that he remembered the exact moment it happened, just that sometime between another missed gym visit and another unreturned text from his sister, the future had stopped mattering.
Now at thirty-two, the only thing Simon planned with any certainty was what aisle the peanut butter protein bars would be in at the grocery store.
He wasn't miserable. Just numb.
His apartment was small, neat, and forgettable. Third floor, no elevator, no pets, no neighbors he could name. Every morning, he pulled on the same stretched dress shirt, the same khaki slacks, and drove to a job where he moved numbers around on a screen for eight hours. He wasn't bad at it. Just invisible. Which, most days, suited him fine.
At 6'4" and 250 pounds, he looked like someone who should be on a football field, not hunched behind a desk. But the only things he'd tackled lately were email chains and monthly reports. His strength was largely decorative—broad shoulders, big hands, and a body that intimidated chairs and car doors but wasn't much use in a world of meetings and management.
He'd stopped wondering why life felt so off-kilter. Stopped asking when it got this boring. Stopped trying to change it. Routine had taken over. And routine never asked questions.
---
Wednesday.
He stared at the time in the corner of his work monitor.
4:32 p.m.
Only twenty-eight minutes left.
His desk, like always, was a sea of spreadsheets. Customer IDs. Invoice breakdowns. Flags for missing payment data. It was the kind of work that didn't require thought—just endurance.
He chewed on a protein bar, not because he was hungry, but because it gave his jaw something to do. Peanut butter. Dry. Reliable.
Co-workers chatted nearby about some new game or TV show. Fantasy something. He ignored it.
He didn't watch fantasy. Didn't play games. Never understood the appeal of stats, levels, or crafting systems. His life had been measured in deadlines, not damage numbers.
When 5:00 finally rolled around, Simon stood, slung his worn backpack over one shoulder, and left without a word. The drive home was quiet, like always. No music. Just thoughts that never finished forming.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door—
—and froze.
There was a package on the floor. No sound of a delivery. No email. No knock.
It was perfectly square, matte black, and utterly blank—except for one label.
SIMON GRAYE
Printed in bold, white block letters. No sender. No return address.
He picked it up. It was cold. Heavier than it looked. Inside, something shifted faintly—like weighted metal—but didn't rattle. Balanced. Purposeful.
Simon set the package on his kitchen table and opened it.
Inside was a single object: a cube, about the size of a baseball, carved from dark grey stone with glowing silver etchings across its surface. They pulsed gently, dimly, like a heartbeat beneath the surface.
Resting beside it was a single white card.
> Do you want to begin?
Y/N
He stared at it for a full minute. There was no branding. No instructions. No QR code. Just the question.
He laughed. Once. "Begin what?"
The cube pulsed once brighter, then the light faded.
Simon picked it up.
And the world vanished.
---
No sound. No sensation. No light. Just a blank, infinite void.
Lines formed around him—white and clinical, not drawn but calculated. A grid of logic, cold and impersonal. Symbols and diagrams built themselves out of the void. Simon didn't move. He wasn't sure he even had a body here.
Text appeared in front of him. Not spoken. Not typed. Just there.
---
IDENTITY CONFIRMED: GRAYE, SIMON
CLASS STATUS: UNASSIGNED
ALIGNMENT: NULL
SYSTEM ENTRY INITIALIZED
---
A dozen glyphs rotated in his peripheral vision. Panels unfolded in every direction, detailing elements he couldn't understand. Then, slowly, a data stream narrowed into something readable:
---
STATISTICS
PHYSICAL
Strength: 6
Dexterity: 4
Constitution: 5
Endurance: 7
MENTAL
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 6
Control: 5
Focus: 9
METAPHYSICAL
Charisma: 3
Perception: 7
Soul: 4
Luck: 6
---
CLASS SLOTS ASSIGNED
Combat: 9
Production: 8
---
EXP BANK CAPACITY: 1,000
CURRENT EXP: 0
ACTIVE CLASSES: NONE
---
No fanfare. No voice. Just raw information, projected with absolute neutrality.
Then came one final line, centered and steady:
> WELCOME TO THE SYSTEM-BOUND WORLD. YOU MAY NOW BEGIN.
---
Color exploded.
Simon's feet hit packed dirt, his balance faltered, and he stumbled forward into sunlight.
Air filled his lungs. Wind moved across his face. The sudden switch from sensory deprivation to sensory overload made him drop to a knee.
He looked up, squinting.
Trees. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. A forest, sprawling and alive, bordered the edge of a hill. Birds called in the distance. The breeze smelled faintly of mint and rain. This wasn't Earth.
Simon checked his clothes. They weren't his. Thick brown boots. Canvas trousers. A grey tunic fitted with reinforced stitching. Leather straps across his chest held three empty pouches and a dull metal bracer on his left forearm.
He flexed his hand.
The bracer glowed briefly, and without a single gesture or word, a panel slid into view in front of his eyes. Not projected. Not real. Just there—like it was burned into his vision.
---
SIMON GRAYE
Level: 1
EXP Bank: 0 / 1,000
Class Slots: 9 Combat / 8 Production
Active Classes: None
Skills: None
---
His stat grid hovered just beneath, clean and unadorned. Nothing blinked. Nothing glowed red. No hint of narrative or tutorial. The system wasn't interested in helping him.
It just… was.
Simon waved his hand to the side, and the display slid out of view, like closing a window on a computer. No delay. No resistance.
It responded to intention, not motion.
The system operated like a machine. Logical. Direct. Rigid.
He didn't know why he was here, or who had sent the cube. He didn't know the rules. But he understood one thing immediately:
This place ran on numbers.