Elias Cruz never thought much about destiny.
He believed in logic, in code that compiled, in problems that could be debugged. If something didn't make sense, there was always a reason — a missing semicolon, a misclick, a bad line of code. Simple. Predictable.
Life, however, didn't seem to share that philosophy.
At twenty-two, fresh out of college and armed with a degree in computer science, Elias stood in the marble lobby of Tech Future Innovations, one of the country's most prestigious software companies.
His résumé was polished, his tie was straight, and his anxiety level was hovering somewhere between "minor heart attack" and "existential crisis."
The receptionist gave him a polite smile before pointing him toward the interview room.
Elias nodded, mumbling a thanks that sounded more like static.
He adjusted his coat and muttered, "Okay, Elias. This is it. Don't stutter, don't overthink, don't—" He caught his reflection in the glass wall.
His black hair was perfectly in place, but his expression screamed anything but fine. "Yeah. You look great."
Like a man who definitely didn't rehearse his introduction in the shower for three days.
He smirked at his own sarcasm. Humor, he'd learned, was his best coping mechanism — right after caffeine and denial.
The corridor to the interview room was eerily quiet. His shoes clicked against the polished floor as he approached a silver door with the company's logo etched into the metal.
Behind it, he imagined a panel of executives ready to decide whether his life became a success story or a cautionary tale.
He exhaled. "No pressure."
Elias gripped the handle, inhaled once, then opened the door.
And instantly, every logical part of his brain crashed.
There were no walls. No tables. No interviewers.
Just wind.
And grass. Miles and miles of it, rippling under the golden light of a sun that shouldn't even exist here. The air smelled of rain and wildflowers, and the soft hum of cicadas filled the silence.
He stood frozen, hand still midair where the doorknob should've been. Behind him — nothing. The door was gone.
Elias blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"...Okay," he muttered slowly.
"So either I've died and gone to a very low-budget afterlife, or Tech Future's really committed to immersive simulation testing."
No response. Just the wind brushing through the grass.
He stood there for another full minute, the wind tugging gently at his blazer while his mind scrambled to rationalize anything about the situation.
Then, with the composure of a man clinging desperately to denial, Elias nodded to himself.
"Alright. Okay. I see what's happening here." He gestured vaguely at the open plains. "This is… impressive. Very impressive. So this is that 'next-gen virtual reality environment' TechFuture bragged about in their brochure, huh? Must be their way of testing how candidates handle unexpected variables. Brilliant."
He laughed — short, dry, almost convincing. "Yeah, sure. Immersive simulation. Fully sensory feedback, realistic atmospheric rendering, maybe even adaptive AI flora. Top-tier stuff."
The wind rustled again, almost in response.
Elias squinted at the sky. "Oh, and dynamic weather too? Of course. Wouldn't be complete without that."
He straightened his tie, dusted off imaginary dirt from his sleeves, and started pacing slowly, like a man reviewing a presentation instead of facing a metaphysical crisis.
"Honestly," he muttered, "if this is part of the interview, then they've outdone themselves. The realism's insane. The air's got texture, the lighting's perfectly diffused, and—" He crouched down and plucked a blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers. "—they even nailed the haptic feedback. Unreal Engine could never."
He let the grass fall and exhaled. "Man, if this is what corporate onboarding looks like in 2025, I take back every complaint I ever made about capitalism."
There was no reply — not even a bird call. Just silence stretching across an infinite field.
He laughed under his breath, a little too loudly for someone supposedly alone. "You know what? I'd be honored to work here. Truly. A company bold enough to traumatize its applicants in high-definition deserves my loyalty."
He nodded as if addressing an invisible panel. "I mean, sure, dropping me into a hyper-realistic wilderness without warning is unconventional, but hey — innovation requires risk. And mild psychological damage."
The wind whistled through the grass. Elias took that as encouragement.
"I get it," he continued, pacing again. "You're testing adaptability. Creativity under pressure. Emotional stability when stranded in… whatever this is." He gestured vaguely at the horizon. "Genius. Absolutely genius."
He clasped his hands behind his back, maintaining the straight posture of a man trying very hard to appear calm before his imaginary employers. "Rest assured, Tech Future, I will remember this experience during the annual employee satisfaction survey. Five stars. Highly immersive. Would recommend."
He smiled faintly — tired, amused, and just a little hollow. The kind of smile that said if I stop talking, I'll start panicking.
Then, with mock sincerity, he looked toward the sky and added, "Seriously though, if this is some advanced reality sim, consider this my formal acceptance letter. I'll start on Monday."
The silence that followed stretched too long — uncomfortably long. The kind of silence that didn't belong in any simulation.
Elias's smile wavered. "...Right. Monday it is."
He waited another moment, half-expecting a holographic recruiter to materialize and hand him a welcome kit. Nothing. Just the wind.
His chest tightened. He laughed again, but it came out shaky this time. "Okay, funny. Really funny. You can stop now."
He spun in a slow circle, scanning the horizon. "Is there perhaps a delay? The—" His voice cracked as he pointed at the empty air where the door had been. "The door that was right there five minutes ago?"
The wind whispered back nothing.
Elias took a cautious step forward, then another, then broke into a brisk walk that quickly turned into a nervous march. "No, no, no, no. This can't be real. It's way too… detailed. Yeah, this is all rendered, obviously." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breathing. "It's… it's just a high-end simulation. Smells real, feels real, sounds real — because it's meant to feel real. That's the point."
He laughed again, though the sound came out dry. "Very immersive, Tech Future. Really outdone yourselves."
But the further he walked, the quieter it got — no footsteps echoing off walls, no hum of distant city noise, no glitch, no flicker. Just nature. Endless, silent nature.
His pace slowed. His hands trembled slightly. "This… isn't a test, is it?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
And for the first time since he opened that door, Elias felt the full weight of the impossible pressing down on him — heavy, cold, and real.
...
Hours later — or maybe it was less. Time didn't make much sense anymore.
I was still walking. My legs felt like lead, my shirt clung to my back, and the once-perfect blazer I'd borrowed from my cousin was now hanging over my shoulder like a defeated flag.
The shine on my black shoes was long gone, replaced with a healthy coat of dirt and bad decisions.
"Okay…" I wheezed, pausing to catch my breath. "Simulation or not… this onboarding program has terrible user experience."
I laughed, short and bitter. It echoed awkwardly in the open air.
Everywhere I looked, there was just grass — tall, green, and endless. No door, no buildings, no "Welcome to the VR assessment program" pop-up hovering in front of me. Not even a single bird. Just me, my sweat, and a growing sense that I'd made the worst career move in history.
Eventually, the excuses started running out.
I stopped walking, hands on my knees, panting hard. My reflection stared back at me in a puddle near my feet — tired eyes, messy hair, and the kind of expression that usually comes right before an existential crisis.
"This… this is real, isn't it?" I muttered. The words felt heavy, final. "This isn't Tech Future. This isn't anywhere near Earth."
The idea sat in my chest like a weight I couldn't shrug off. I'd read about this kind of thing before — transmigration, reincarnation, isekai, whatever you wanted to call it.
Some office worker or college kid wakes up in another world, gains superpowers, and somehow becomes a hero.
I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Right. Except those guys get some glowing portal or divine summons. Me? I just opened the wrong door like an idiot."
I rubbed the back of my neck and stared at the horizon.
The sky was different here — brighter, wider, too perfect. I didn't know whether to be amazed or terrified.
"So, what now?" I asked the air. "Find a village? Get mistaken for a chosen one? Unlock some cool magic system?"
I waited a few seconds, staring at the sky like an idiot.
"...Status screen?" I tried again, waving my hand in front of me like some wannabe anime protagonist.
Silence. No glowing interface. No divine voice. Just the wind brushing against my face, probably judging me.
I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. "This is far more embarrassing than I thought. Luckily, no one's here to witness it."
I said again, louder this time. "Hello? Tutorial quest? Any button I'm supposed to press?"
Nothing. Not even a sound.
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. "Figures. The one time I get isekai'd, I don't even get a starter pack."
For a while, I just stood there — tired, hungry, and mildly insulted by the universe. Then, finally, I started walking again. Slowly this time.
I kept my pace steady, trying to look calm — or at least convincingly delusional.
Every step crunched softly against the grass, the sound swallowed by the endless quiet around me. The wind brushed my face, cool and almost too real.
I wasn't panicking. Not yet.
Panic required energy, and right now I was running purely on stubborn denial and residual caffeine. But if this really was some far-off world — no food, no clean water, no Wi-Fi — then misery wasn't just possible, it was inevitable. A slow, uncomfortable, and extremely unhygienic kind of misery.
I wasn't built for this. I'd never gone camping. My idea of "roughing it" was when the air conditioner broke for half a day. I didn't know how to start a fire, purify water, or tell edible berries from poisonous ones. The closest I'd ever gotten to wilderness survival was watching a survival show.
I was a modern man — trained to solve logic errors, not hunger. My greatest survival skill was refreshing Stack Overflow until my code worked.
I exhaled and looked up at the sky, where the sun just kept hanging there, oblivious to my suffering. "Great. Thrown into another world with no tutorial, no map, no snacks. Fantastic start."
My blazer hung over my arm, sweat sticking my shirt to my back. The once-pristine tie now looked like it had survived a natural disaster. And as much as I wanted answers, or maybe just a bit of shade, there was one thought echoing louder than the rest.
If I couldn't shower, shave, or at least wash my face — I might actually lose my mind before starvation even had the chance.
The sun was starting to dip, painting the sky in soft streaks of orange and pink.
The warmth that had baked the fields all day began to fade, replaced by a gentle chill that hinted the night wasn't far behind.
I glanced at my watch — still ticking, the screen faintly glowing, but the time was definitely off. Maybe the date too. Not that it mattered much; I doubted this place followed the Gregorian calendar.
"Figures," I muttered, pressing a few buttons and squinting at the display.
I had no idea what the correct time was, so I just estimated — adjusted it based on where the sun sat, like I'd seen people do in movies.
It wasn't perfect, but it gave me a small sense of control — like I still had some grip on the day, even if everything else made zero sense. I tightened the strap around my wrist and sighed. "Good enough. If I'm stuck here, I might as well know when to panic."
I decided to think rationally — or at least pretend to. If I was really stuck here, the first step was obvious: find shelter before it got dark. Easy enough in theory.
The problem was, there wasn't anything to find. No mountains, no hills, no rivers, not even a hint of civilization. Just grass. Endless, ankle-high grass swaying under the wind.
After what felt like an hour of wandering in circles, I gave up on ambition and lowered my standards. A tree — a single, lonely tree standing off in the distance — looked good enough.
"Alright," I muttered, trudging toward it.
It wasn't much, but it was the closest thing to shelter in this oversized lawn of a world.
I leaned against the tree, sliding down until I was sitting with my back pressed to the rough bark. The air was cooling fast, and the sky above was fading into deep indigo.
For a while, I just stared out at the empty plains, thinking — or at least trying to. Questions kept circling my head like flies: Where am I? How did this happen? What now? None of them had answers. Eventually, my brain decided to give up and focus on the more immediate goal — sleep.
I closed my eyes, trying to get comfortable against the roots. It almost worked. Almost.
Then came the mosquitos.
Tiny, merciless, and apparently very interested in me. I swatted at them half-heartedly, groaning. "Of course. Another world, same insects. Guess some universal constants really don't change."
I swatted another mosquito off my arm, irritation turning into unease. If there were bugs here, that meant there was an ecosystem — and ecosystems usually came with something higher up the food chain.
Predators.
The thought slipped in quietly but stayed, heavy and cold. I glanced around the darkening plains, suddenly aware of how exposed I was. No walls. No weapons. Just me, a tree, and grass tall enough to hide… well, anything.
"Great,"