The last thing he remembered was the glow of his monitor in the dark room, the weight of countless sleepless nights pressing down on his body.
Hour after hour, he had lost himself in the world of Assassin's Creed missions, battles, rooftops, shadows.
His fingers clung to the controller until they went numb.
And then, finally, his strength failed him.
The screen blurred, his chest grew heavy, and everything slipped into black.
He thought it was the end.
But when he opened his eyes again… he wasn't slumped in his chair, nor trapped in some eternal void.
He was standing on a weathered stone rooftop, dust swirling around him, cold wind tugging at the edges of a cloak he had never owned.
His trembling hand brushed against coarse fabric wrapping his body and something metallic strapped to his wrist.
When his finger pressed instinctively, a blade snapped forward with a sharp shhk, glinting in the sunlight.
"This… this can't be real."
He staggered to the edge, staring down at crowded medieval streets vendors shouting, armored soldiers marching, banners rippling with the symbols of the cross and the dragon.
The mingling of church bells and muezzin calls filled the air, and the city reeked of spice, sweat, and steel.
In the reflection of a dusty glass window, he caught sight of himself
and gasped.
It wasn't his real face. He wore the hood and features of a character he knew all too well, the very assassin he had controlled through sleepless nights of obsession.
"No way… I'm inside Assassin's Creed?!"
Panic clawed at his chest. He tried to move but stumbled. The pain was sharp, real
and the terrifying realization hit him:
This was no dream.
Every detail was vivid to the point of cruelty.
If he fell from this rooftop, his death would be permanent.
That was when the voice came.
A whisper echoing through his mind, distant yet commanding:
"Survival lies in choice… between light and shadow, freedom and order."
From the alleys below, he glimpsed hooded figures in white, eyes fixed on him the Assassins.
And across the square, knights in heavy armor, banners of the Templars fluttering above, stared at him with cold authority.
His heartbeat thundered. This was no longer a game. This was the eternal war of freedom versus control and failure meant his annihilation.
He crouched, clutching his chest, thinking:
Do I live as a killer in the shadows… or as a knight enforcing order with an iron hand?
Which path secures my survival… and which drags me to ruin?
Then, with a bitter smile tugging at his lips, he whispered:
"Even in death… I wasn't given rest. Fine then. Let's try surviving in this so-called game."
He rose, tightened the cloak around him, and fixed his gaze on the two opposing banners
ready to make his first choice.