Chapter 1: The Attic & The First Death
The attic smelled like time forgotten, a sharp tang of dust and mildew that clung to Kael Renar's throat as he coughed, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence. His eyes cracked open to a sepia haze, the world framed by splintered wooden beams and a sagging ceiling. A single bulb dangled from a frayed cord, its weak flicker casting jagged shadows that danced like nervous ghosts. The floorboards beneath him were cold, biting through his thin jacket—a cheap, navy thing he vaguely remembered buying on a startup budget. His sneakers, scuffed and slightly damp, squeaked as he shifted, the noise jarring in the stillness. A draft, sharp and precise, grazed the back of his neck, making his skin prickle. He spun, heart thudding, but saw only a bare wall, its peeling paint mocking his unease.
This isn't real. A stress dream. My brain's frying after that car crash. His last memory was a blur of screeching tires, the steering wheel slamming into his chest, and the bitter taste of failure—a startup imploded, investors bailing, his life unraveling in a single, reckless moment. Kael, once a tech wunderkind at 28, was now… here. Wherever here was.
A cold, clinical blue light flared in his vision, not a screen but words etched into his mind:
[SYSTEM: SURVIVE. THAT'S IT.]
Kael blinked, swiping at the air, his fingers passing through the text like smoke. "Great," he muttered, voice hoarse. "The afterlife comes with a user manual. Minimalist design, zero help." Like my last pitch deck. His sarcasm was a shield, but his pulse raced, a frantic drumbeat against the attic's oppressive quiet. He stood, wincing as his knee popped, a mundane ache grounding him in this surreal nightmare. His jeans were stiff with dust, and he brushed them off, the motion automatic, a distraction from the panic clawing at his chest.
Okay, think, Kael. You're a strategist. Break it down. The System's message was a game mechanic, a rule. Survive. No health bars, no tutorials, just a cryptic command. His mind, wired for patterns, latched onto it. If this is a game, death isn't the end. It's a reset. A… resource. His startup days taught him to pivot fast, to turn failure into opportunity. Maybe dying here wasn't game over but a way to gain something—skills, power, an edge.
A whisper, thin as a spider's thread, drifted from the shadows. "Mirror…" Kael froze, his breath catching. The word wasn't just sound; it felt like a tug, pulling him toward a cracked, full-length mirror propped against a dusty trunk. Its glass was clouded, but a faint, silvery pulse flickered within, like a heartbeat trapped in frost. Spirit-sense? Something in him stirred, a weak, tingling awareness, like static on a bad radio. He stepped closer, floorboards groaning under his weight, each creak amplifying his nerves.
"Alright, System," he said, forcing a smirk, his voice steadier than he felt. "Let's pitch this. I die to the big ghost, get the big skill. Classic RPG logic. High risk, high reward." Like betting the company on a buggy app. He leaned toward the mirror, the pulsing energy growing stronger, his spirit-sense buzzing faintly. "If I nail this, I'm out of this haunted startup in no time."
"Play with us…" The voice was closer now, a child's sing-song carried on a cold wind. Kael spun, expecting a spectral figure, but saw only dust motes swirling in the bulb's weak light. His confidence wobbled, his planner's brain scrambling for a target. Where's the damn ghost? I need the boss fight, not hide-and-seek. His throat tightened, a flicker of his old impulsiveness threatening to derail his strategy. He swallowed it, straightening. "Come on, poltergeist. I'm ready for my upgrade."
The air turned to ice. A spectral hand, invisible but crushing, wrapped around his throat. Kael gasped, clawing at nothing, his sneakers skidding on the floor. His vision blurred, black fog creeping in. This isn't the main ghost. It's a damn minion. Humiliation burned hotter than the pain. He'd planned for a grand, calculated death, but this was a cheap shot, a glitch in his strategy. Not like this. I didn't fail my startup to choke on a ghost's budget attack.
The world faded, his lungs screaming. Then, nothing.
Kael jolted awake, gasping, face-down on the same cold floor. Dust coated his lips, his throat raw. He was alive, his body intact but trembling. I died. And I'm back. His hands shook as he pushed himself up, the attic unchanged, the bulb still flickering. The blue text flared again:
[SYSTEM: SKILL ACQUIRED: SPIRIT-SENSE (5M, 10% ACCURACY). TRY HARDER.]
"Try harder?" he croaked, voice cracking. "You give me a knockoff ghost detector and tell me to try harder?" The System's dry tone stung, a mocking echo of his old investors. His spirit-sense, weak as it was, flickered, revealing a blurry, translucent figure by the mirror—a ghostly outline, barely there. Humiliation twisted in his gut. I aimed for the CEO suite and got the intern's desk. He was still Kael Renar, the guy who overplanned and underdelivered.
The ghostly figure shimmered, then drifted through the floor, leaving a faint trail of blue light that burned away the dust. Kael's dread shifted to curiosity, sharp and focused. That's my clue. My pivot. He wasn't a failure yet. He'd follow the ghost, figure out its game, and prove he could outsmart this cursed system. He grabbed his jacket, brushing off more dust, and headed for the attic stairs, his sneakers squeaking with every determined step.
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