Chapter One — Game Over
The room was dark, but not silent. A steady cascade of clicks and rapid joystick taps broke the stillness, their rhythm rising and falling like a battle drum. The only illumination came from the bright glow of a flat screen, throwing shifting light across the messy walls, the empty snack packets, and the figure hunched forward on the couch.
Sam.
Nineteen years old, though anyone seeing him like this might have guessed younger. He had the frame of someone who never left his room, pale skin washed by the light of the screen, shadows carved beneath eyes that no longer knew regular sleep. Once, he had been different—full of life, carefree laughter filling a home that had been warm and whole. That was before the plane crash. Before the hospital bed. Before the diagnosis that shattered everything.
Brain cancer. Terminal. Four years. That was what the doctors had told him.
Sam never forgot the faint hum of machines in the sterile white room, the way his uncle's voice broke the news with rehearsed pity, or the sterile indifference of the lawyers that came after. They had stripped him of everything—his parents' company, his inheritance, his place in the world. All gone, tucked neatly into the pockets of "family." The only thing they had left him with was money. Enough to live on comfortably for a handful of years, but not enough to buy back time.
So Sam had quit life. He found his new world in glowing screens and virtual realms, where health bars could be restored and loss was always temporary.
And right now, he was at war.
"Yes! Ha ha ha, I won!" Sam shot to his feet, fists pumping the air, an untamed grin splitting his face.
On the screen, his final blow landed. The monstrous boss dissolved into ash, and triumphant music rang out. His heart hammered as he stared at the victory screen, chest heaving with exhilaration. He had done it. He had beaten one of the Ten Greats—games so brutally difficult that only around fifty people in the world had ever cleared even one. Sam had just finished his fifth.
He let himself bask in the glow of accomplishment. "Among the greats now, huh?" he murmured, eyes shining with something dangerously close to hope. Then, just as quickly, it faded into a sigh. "…Now what?"
When nothing mattered anymore, time was an infinite resource. And Sam had spent nearly all of it inside these virtual battlegrounds.
Shaking his head, he stretched, joints popping, then padded off to the bathroom. Behind him, the screen slowly dimmed into silence, casting the room back into shadow. If anyone had peeked inside, they would've seen the battlefield he left behind: pizza boxes stacked by the corner, energy drink cans forming a metallic tower, chip packets scattered across the floor. It looked less like a bedroom and more like the lair of a ghost haunting his own past.
Descending the staircase, he found Lora, the maid, bent over a mop in the living room. She was young—mid-twenties, blonde, with a crisp uniform that always seemed too neat for this disheveled house.
"Oh, hi Lora. I'm stepping out for a bit. Be back soon." He paused, scratching the back of his head as he remembered the chaos upstairs. "And… uh, clean my room while you're at it. Please."
"Yes, sir," she replied smoothly, her voice professional, eyes lowered.
Sam waved a hand and disappeared into the garage. A moment later, the low growl of a Lamborghini's engine echoed through the modest mansion. The car slid down the driveway, vanishing into the city streets like a streak of red fire.
Silence lingered in his absence. Then, softly, Lora's mop clattered against the floor.
She pulled out her phone. Her voice was a whisper, low but trembling with excitement. "Yes. He just left."
"Good," came the reply—cold, male. "The money will be transferred soon."
Her lips curved into a smile. "Thank you, sir."
She ended the call, hurrying to her room where a suitcase already sat on the bed, packed neatly to the brim.
Meanwhile, Sam drove on, oblivious.
The city night blurred around him, neon signs painting the streets in shifting colors. His chest felt light, the afterglow of victory still thrumming in his veins. Maybe, he thought idly, he'd start virtue of sainthood next—one of the few Greats he hadn't cleared. The thought alone made his pulse race.
The gaming shop door jingled as he pushed it open. Inside, the place was quiet save for the soft snore of the man slumped over the counter. Mike. His childhood friend, his dealer of all things digital, and, currently, a puddle of drool on polished wood.
Sam smirked. He couldn't resist. He crept forward and leaned close. "Wake up, Mike. It's your boss."
"What—?! No, I'm awake! I wasn't sleeping!" Mike scrambled upright, flailing for dignity, wiping his chin in a panic.
Sam doubled over laughing. "Ha! You should've seen your face."
Realization dawned on Mike's features, followed by a long-suffering sigh. "Damn it, Sam…" He rubbed his temple. "What do you want this time? Don't tell me you already finished the last one. It's been three weeks!"
"Mm-hm. Finished it not long ago."
Mike stared at him like he'd grown horns. "Monster."
Sam chuckled but said nothing. The record for beating that game had been four months. He had done it in three weeks.
"Got anything new? Preferably harder."
Mike's lips twitched into a sly smile. "As a matter of fact…" He ducked into the back room and returned cradling a case like it was holy scripture. "Check this out."
Sam's breath caught as his eyes landed on the title. Blood Reborn. His hands trembled slightly as he took it, reverence flooding through him. "Is this real?"
Blood reborn was the second ranked on the ten greats. Not only was it insanely difficult but it had never been cleared.
There was not a lot of copies available so you could understand his excitement at finding it here so turning to Mike and seeing him nodding solemnly.
Excitement surged through Sam's veins, sharp and electric. He paid without another word and left, eager to dive into this new world.
Sliding into his car, he dropped the case on the passenger seat, a grin plastered on his face. His hand hovered over the ignition—when he froze.
There was a box sitting beside the game. A box that hadn't been there before. A box with a blinking red light.
And a sharp-
Beep.
The sound sliced through the night.
Sam's blood turned cold. One word echoed in his head. Bomb.
"Oh… shit." His hand fumbled for the door handle, heart hammering in panic.
Beep.
Faster now. Louder.
He yanked at the handle, desperate to throw himself out, but the lock resisted—stubborn, unmoving.
Beeeeeep—
And then
The world went white.
Flame roared, swallowing steel and flesh alike. The Lamborghini became a coffin of fire, exploding into a shower of sparks that lit up the night sky.
And Sam, who once had everything, who had already lost it all, vanished with it.
It was…..
Game over.