I wake up strapped to… something.
Cold metal? Wood? A bed? I can't tell.
It's solid and wrong beneath me. Feels too smooth, too still.
Where am I?
What happened?
Why is everything black?
I try to move my arms. My legs. Anything.
Nothing.
"Help!" I try to scream, but it comes out muffled.
There's cloth jammed between my teeth, rough, soaked in spit.
Panic starts to climb my throat like a living thing.
I try to breathe. To think. To remember.
But all I get are blanks — questions begetting more questions.
Where am I?
What am I doing here?
Who… am I?
I dig through my memories, but all I find is static.
Nothing but darkness.
WHO AM I?
Suddenly — light!
A blinding flash cuts through the dark, splitting my world in two.
A figure steps into view — a man, old and withered, his frame so brittle it looks like gravity's holding him hostage.
His eyes, though… they burn. Cold. Focused. Like someone who's been waiting a very, very long time.
He studies me for a moment before rasping, "Good. You're awake."
He leans in and removes the gag from my mouth.
Air rushes in — sharp, cold, painful.
My mouth opens and closes, my brain scrambling for words.
"Who… no — where am I?"
A quick glance tells me a few things.
There's a chair to my left.
Behind him, a crooked door barely hanging on its hinges.
The floor creaks. The air stinks of damp wood and old dust.
The kind of place that's one huff or puff away from coming down.
The old man drags the chair closer and sits, slow but deliberate.
"As to where you are," he says, "you're in my humble abode."
He pauses, stroking his beard.
"But as to who you are… well, I was rather hoping you'd tell me."
Who… am I?
And then — pain.
Memories detonate inside my skull.
Two guys laughing over greasy food.
A man tilling the soil under a fading sun.
A scholar arguing over phrasing in a speech.
A firefighter running into flames one last time.
A scientist racing a deadline, screens glowing blue in the dark.
A farmer praying for morning in the cold.
A soldier saluting as a medal is pinned to his chest.
Then, from deep in the noise — a voice.
"$&@#%," it whispers faintly.
"$&@!#% W@kę %!" Louder. Urgent.
"What—what was that?" I shout.
"$&@!#% WAKE U—"
I jolt upright.
Cold sweat slides down my face.
The shack is gone. The old man too.
I'm in a bed — soft, warm, perfect.
The room around me looks like something out of a dream.
White walls trimmed in gold, a chandelier throwing soft light across the ceiling.
A door slightly ajar, marble gleaming beyond it.
A lamp hums beside me, and through the tall window, I see a glittering city stretching to the horizon.
For a long moment, I just sit there, breathing.
Then I throw the blanket off and swing my legs out of bed — ready to move — when a knock breaks the silence.
"May I come in, sir?" a voice asks politely from the other side.
I hesitate. Then, putting on my best impression of someone who has their life together, I say, "You may."
The tone comes out smooth, practiced. Almost royal.
I can't help the smirk tugging at my face.
Felix would've laughed his ass off at that.
The thought hits me like a knife twist.
Felix. My little brother.
My throat tightens before I can stop it.
Before the grief can take hold, the door opens.
A man steps in — tall, sharp, dressed in the cleanest butler suit I've ever seen. Pocket watch, gloves, the whole nine yards. Even his voice sounds ironed.
"The master wishes to know if you'll be joining him for dinner," he says with a slight bow.
"The… master?" I ask.
"Yes, sir. The master of this house."
"Who the hell calls themselves 'master'? And where the hell am I?"
His polite smile doesn't even twitch.
"All will be explained soon, sir. But first, if you'd be so kind—" he gestures toward the open closet "—the master requests you dress for the occasion."
I sigh, step into the closet, and shut the door behind me.
Inside, it's nearly empty.
Only one outfit hangs there — a full black suit.
Black shirt, pants, shoes, socks, cufflinks, even the watch.
Every piece perfectly tailored… but something about it feels slightly off.
Like the fabric isn't made of cloth, but darkness itself.
I run a hand over it. It's cold. Smooth. Almost alive.
Still, better than blood-stained rags.
I strip, hop into the shower, and wash off the grime as fast as I can.
The water's feels warm — too warm — like the room itself is trying to comfort me.
I don't let it.
Leaping out, I towel off and throw on the suit.
The fabric slides across my skin like it's remembering me.
When I check the mirror, I freeze.
I look… good. Really good.
My black hair looks good for once, my skin — usually brown, hairy, and ashy — was brown and clean. My face was clean-shaven and I felt like I could take on the whole world.
If I had this back then—
No. Don't think about then.
"All these useless thoughts only cloud my head," I mutter. "Focus, dammit."
When I step out, the butler is waiting in the hall exactly where I left him — still, composed, like he'd been frozen there.
"Yo," I say without thinking, my voice still a little shaky.
"Let's go meet your master."
He doesn't react.
Just nods, turns, and begins walking.
The mansion swallows us in silence.
Our footsteps echo against marble floors and impossibly tall ceilings. Every hallway has the same gold trim, white walls and dim lamps until I'm convinced the whole place is looping in on itself. A maze designed by someone with too much money and too little sanity.
After what feels like ten minutes of wandering, we finally stop in front of a gigantic double door.
The butler places a gloved hand on one handle, opens it just a crack, and gestures for me to enter.
I slip through the gap.
The air changes instantly — warm, heavy, almost regal.
The room is massive. A hall fit for a king or a tyrant. A long table stretches down the center, so big it could seat a small army. Chairs are scattered around it, each carved with strange symbols I can't decipher.
And food… so much food. Piled high across every inch — meats, fruits, pastries, dishes I don't even recognize. Enough to feed a starving village.
But only one person is sitting there, in the middle section of the long table.
The old man.
"Old man?" I say, unsure if I'm relieved or horrified.
He looks up at me casually, like we're two neighbors bumping into each other at the store.
"Who else?" he says. "Sit. Eat."
I walk over slowly and take the seat directly across from him.
He makes a small noise — a thoughtful hum.
"So that's the seat you chose."
"Does it matter what seat I pick?" I ask.
"Not really," he says, waving a hand. "Just making an observation."
"Where are we?" I ask.
"The main house. I had to drag you in after you blacked out."
There's a beat of silence.
"Anyway," he continues, "who are you?"
I stare at him. "What kind of question is that?"
"Just answer." His voice sharpens ever so slightly. "Who are you?"
"…My name is Rio."
The old man grins a little, but just enough to make every instinct in me tighten.
"And how much," he asks, leaning slightly forward, "do you know… about everything so far?"
"Am I supposed to know something?" I reply, laying the dumb act on thick.
He snorts. "Good. So you're not a complete fool. There may be hope for you yet, boy."
He says this while shoveling chicken into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in a century.
"Hope for… what exactly?" I ask, frowning.
"Hope for you to go home. Hope for my… revenge."
"Revenge on who?"
I'm trying to sound casual, but it's hard to stay calm when the guy across from you looks like he could kill you with a sigh.
"I was like you, boy," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "I came from another world as well. The Agency sent me to a blank world."
"A blank world?"
"A world with nothing on it," he explains, sliding his empty plate away and immediately starting another. "They told me to make a world. To build a civilization. And so I did."
He talks between large bites of mac and cheese.
"I made a home. A wife. Children. Servants to help with the daily tasks. Over time, we grew a civilization that made the Roman Empire look like a small town. The people loved me. I ruled over humanity in peace. No war. No hunger. No want. Ahh the days were truly beautiful in Camelot—"
"Camelot? You really created a country—"
"More like an empire."
"…And you named it Camelot?"
I laugh. I can't help it.
He leans back, not offended, just amused.
"I didn't have the greatest naming sense back then. Also — I didn't create. I made."
"There's a difference?"
He watches me wrestling with how to eat a chicken pot pie that looks like perfection itself.
"Creating implies making something out of nothing," he says. "That right belongs to God alone. What I do — what all magic does — is make. Rearranging, reshaping. It's the only thing Harry Potter and Fullmetal Alchemist understood correctly about magic."
He takes a long swig of strawberry lemonade, clears his throat, and continues.
"I lived happily for a long time. My city flourished. Humanity thrived. And then…"
His tone darkens.
The warm, chuckling old man evaporates.
"I was betrayed," he whispers. "By my own damned servants."
He leans in, eyes hollow and burning.
"They killed my wife. My children. Then they killed me."
He pauses.
"And then… they ate my body."
Every shred of appetite I had shrivels and dies.
"They what?" I choke out, almost spitting out my food.
He looks at me with a mixture of fury and grief so old it's fossilized.
"As the years went on, I got lazy. Too comfortable. I set my sword down to run my kingdom… to experiment in my lab… to enjoy the world I built. Little did I know my slimy, scheming, scummy servants — the ones I taught, trained,tempered were plotting behind my back!"
His voice drops to a murmur of almost shock.
"They ate me. Somehow that was worse than dying."
"But… why would they eat you?" I stammer, shaking off my shock and returning to eating some truly magical banana bread.
He arches a brow. "Have you read LOTM?"
Mouth full of delicious banana elixir, I nod.
"You remember how they ate that one guy?"
I nod again, washing it down with a strawberry milkshake.
"You do remember why they ate him, right?"
I freeze mid-drink.
Shake my head.
"They wanted his power," he says. "I made the mistake of telling them that story. And out of greed or some crazy delusions, they thought it would work."
"And did it?"
"It did, but that's not really something you should test on your bloody boss!"
He gestures sharply toward the wall or maybe the horizon, or the world itself.
"And now all ten of those cannibalistic celestial crazies are out there… playing 'god.' Stealing my achievements. Calling me evil. And pretending they can create."
"…So," I say, licking banana off my thumb, "what exactly do you want me to do about all that? I'm just some random guy. Hell, I couldn't even stop a damn truck. What makes you think I can do anything against your 'gods'?"
He grins teeth still sharp despite his age.
"I'll train you myself," he says. "And give you some of my power."
I stare at him. "You can… do that?"
He shrugs, almost offended by the question.
"Why not? They give power to their cults out there. I'll make you stronger than any of them. Besides…" he chuckles "they're not gods. They're much weaker than that."
He leans back, smiling like a man who just placed a winning bet.
"Any questions?" he asks.
I pause my love affair with a piece of chocolate cake.
"Three, matter of fact. One, how are you not dead? Two, can you actually guarantee I'll get to go home? And three… who made all this wondrous food?"
The old man grins. "You really ask a lot of questions, don't you?"
I mirror the smile, but mine's a little less enthusiastic.
He leans back, looking up as if flipping through centuries of memories.
"First: I dance in this lovely space between life and death. Neither side has managed to drag me over permanently."
Real comforting.
"Second: I signed a contract with the Agency. If you complete this task in a satisfactory manner, you'll receive a reward from them. A wish. Any wish. Even one that sends you home."
That one lands like a stone in my chest.
"And third," he continues, "when you can't fully live or die, you get a lot of time to perfect things. Cooking included."
He raises his brows. "Does that do it for you?"
"For now," I say.
"So you're accepting my proposal?"
"It's not like I have much of a choice," I mutter gloomily.
He stands, walking the long curve of the table until he reaches the seat beside me.
When he sits, the room seems to quiet around him.
"I know how you feel," he says softly. "To never be able to see the people you love again hurts. But you… you're different. You can reach them. You can…." His voice cracks, just barely. "You can see them again."
I look up, surprised at the raw pain sitting in his eyes.
"I would kill for the chance at one minute with my loved ones," he says. "Don't waste this, Rio. Please. Let at least one of us get a happy ending."
The words hang there heavy, desperate, honest.
And for the first time, I see not a powerful being, not a king, not a creator.
All I see is a man suffering from the same wounds I was, going through the same feelings I was. In a world where I feel truly alone, he is like a breath of fresh air.
Tears streaming down my face, I stand up and offer him my hand.
"I'll do it for the both of us."
Grabbing my hand and standing up, wiping off tears, "Good," he says, still a little unsteady. "Then let us begin."