The apartment door slammed open with a force that rattled the cheap hinges. A young man, who seems to in his late 20s , stormed inside, his blue dress shirt already halfway untucked from his black slacks, the fabric wrinkled from a day that felt like it had lasted three lifetimes. Outside, the sky had taken on that peculiar golden-gray shade that comes just before evening truly settles in—the sun hadn't quite surrendered yet, but dark clouds were gathering on the horizon like an army preparing for siege.
Wind whipped through the gap in the windows, making the curtains dance violently. One side billowed inward, then snapped back out with aggressive force. The weather forecast had mentioned something about climate disturbances, but Jake hadn't paid attention. Why would he? He had enough disturbances in his own life without worrying about what the sky was doing.
His laptop bag sailed through the air and landed with a heavy thud on the worn leather sofa. The zipper was still open from when he'd shoved his work laptop inside without care, desperate to escape the office before his manager could pile on yet another "urgent" task. Jake's jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. His hands were balled into fists, nails digging crescents into his palms.
"Son of a witch," he muttered, kicking off his dress shoes without bothering to untie them. One bounced off the coffee table, the other disappeared somewhere under the TV stand. He didn't care. "Every single day. Every. Single. Day."
The apartment was small—just a one-bedroom box on the twelfth floor of a building that had seen better decades. The walls were that generic beige color that screamed "rental property," and the furniture was a mismatched collection of hand-me-downs and clearance sale finds. But it was his space, his sanctuary from the corporate machine that chewed through his weekends like they were complimentary snacks.
Jake's boss—that smug, condescending excuse for a human being—had done it again. Waited until five minutes before the director's inspection to dump a mountain of work on Jake's desk. "I need this formatted and printed in fifteen minutes," the man had said with that infuriating smile, as if he hadn't just ruined Jake's entire evening. Again. As if Jake didn't have a life beyond being the office workhorse.
"What does he think I am?" Jake yanked his shirt off and tossed it in the general direction of the bedroom. "A machine? A robot that doesn't need sleep or food or a single moment to breathe?"
The wind outside howled louder now, rattling the window frames. The curtains were practically horizontal with the force of it, but Jake barely registered the sound. He was already moving on autopilot toward his real therapy, his actual escape from the pressure cooker his life had become.
The gaming console sat beneath the TV like a faithful friend, its little light blinking in standby mode. Jake dropped onto the large floor pillow he used as a chair—too broke and too tired to invest in actual furniture—and grabbed the controller. The familiar weight of it in his hands was already soothing, like picking up a weapon you'd trained with for years.
He powered everything on and navigated through the menu with practiced ease. His game library was modest, mostly free-to-play titles and a few purchases from years ago. But there was only one game he really played anymore, one that let him work out his frustrations in a way that didn't involve assault charges.
Martial Combat.
The loading screen lit up the TV, all flashy graphics and dramatic music. It was a ridiculous game, honestly—a bizarre fusion of supernatural abilities and hand-to-hand fighting that made absolutely no sense from a physics standpoint. But that was the point. In Martial Combat, you could be anyone, do anything. The matches were simple: one-on-one fights where you beat your opponent senseless until someone hit the ground and stayed there.
"I'm going to crush his bones and powder them," Jake growled, his fingers already warming up on the buttons as the game loaded. In his mind, every opponent had his manager's face. "That son of a witch thinks he can just keep dumping work on me. Right before deadlines. Eating up my weekends like I don't have a life outside that hellhole office."
The character selection screen appeared. Jake didn't even hesitate—he went straight for his main, the character he'd logged probably a thousand hours with: Pulverizer.
The avatar materialized on screen in all its absurd glory. Pulverizer wore bright red shorts that looked spray-painted on, paired inexplicably with a formal blazer covered in studs and spikes. Two massive metal hoops hung from his arms like oversized bracelets, and his hair defied gravity in a geometric pyramid shape that would make any hair stylist weep. The character design made no sense, but in Martial Combat, nothing did. That was the beauty of it.
"Come on, come on," Jake muttered, waiting for matchmaking to pair him with an opponent. The wind outside had intensified to the point where it sounded like someone screaming, but Jake had his headset on now, the world narrowing to just him and the screen.
The matchmaking completed with a triumphant chime. His opponent loaded in: King of Butlers.
The character was even more ridiculous than Pulverizer. King of Butlers wore what could only be described as a fever dream of formal dining wear—a butler's outfit constructed entirely from tableware. Plates formed shoulder pads, forks jutted out from the sleeves like spines, and spoons dangled everywhere like deranged ornaments. The character's special moves involved weaponizing cutlery in ways that would make any restaurant owner faint.
"Let's do this," Jake whispered, cracking his knuckles.
The fight began. Both characters squared off in a generic urban arena—broken street, abandoned cars, the usual backdrop. Pulverizer made the first move. Jake's fingers flew across the controller as his character reached to his side, producing a baseball bat that had definitely not been there a second ago. It materialized like a sword being drawn from an invisible sheath.
Pulverizer charged forward, bat raised high.
King of Butlers responded instantly. The opposing player was good—Jake could tell from the precise movements. Two forks appeared in the character's hands, normal-sized at first, then growing to match the length of Jake's bat. The absurdity of two people fighting with oversized cutlery and a baseball bat didn't even register anymore. This was normal. This was therapy.
The bat swung down. The forks crossed to block. Metal rang against metal—well, whatever sound effect the game designers had decided metal-on-metal should make. Then King of Butlers countered, the forks jabbing forward in rapid succession, targeting Pulverizer's torso like a demented fencer.
Jake blocked, dodged, countered. His thumbs were a blur. This wasn't about strategy anymore; it was about speed, reflexes, muscle memory. Every successful hit was a small victory against his terrible day. Every combo he pulled off was revenge for another weekend stolen, another evening destroyed by last-minute deadlines.
They traded blows like street brawlers, no elegance, no grace—just raw violence. Pulverizer's bat connected with King of Butlers' head with a satisfying crack. The health bar at the top of the screen ticked down. Jake grinned. King of Butlers retaliated, both forks piercing into Pulverizer's sides, and Jake's own health bar dropped.
The fight continued, both characters taking damage, both players refusing to give ground. After several seconds of sustained combat, the special meter filled. The power-up attack was ready.
Jake activated it without hesitation.
Pulverizer's animation triggered. The bat glowed with impossible energy, and then—WHAM—an uppercut swing that caught King of Butlers square in the jaw. The opposing character's head snapped back, the whole body going limp for a fraction of a second, that beautiful moment of vulnerability that every fighting game player lives for.
But Jake wasn't done. Before King of Butlers could hit the ground, Pulverizer followed up with a brutal sequence. A second swing launched the character into the air. As they fell, a vicious kick to the groin—the kind of move that made every man watching wince—connected with devastating effect. The health bar plummeted.
"Yes!" Jake hissed through clenched teeth. "Take that!"
But his opponent wasn't finished either. King of Butlers' own special meter was full now. The retaliation came swift and merciless.
Both forks drove forward at angles, piercing Pulverizer from the front, the weapons crossing at the point of impact and staying lodged there like gruesome decorations. Before Jake could react, King of Butlers produced two more forks—because apparently this character had an unlimited supply—and drove them in from behind, creating a symmetrical skewering that would have been instantly fatal in any realistic game.
Then the plates started flying.
King of Butlers ripped the decorative dishes from his outfit and began using them like stone discs, hurling them at Pulverizer's head with the force of a major league pitcher. Each impact made a ceramic shattering sound that was both comedic and satisfying. Jake's health bar was dropping fast now, the tide of the match turning.
His fingers moved faster, trying to mount a comeback. Just needed one good opening, one—
The entire apartment shook.
At first, it was subtle. Just a tremor, the kind that could be mistaken for a large truck passing outside. Jake's focus didn't waver. He was too deep in the game, too absorbed in the digital violence playing out on screen.
Then it got stronger.
The TV stand began to rattle. Small items on the shelves—a coffee mug, some books, a forgotten phone charger—started to dance and shift. The pillow beneath Jake vibrated.
He kept playing. Probably just construction. Or maybe a heavy vehicle. Nothing to worry about. Pulverizer landed a combo, and Jake's lips curved into a smile.
The shaking intensified.
Now the TV itself was shaking, the image on screen blurring slightly with the vibration. The stand it sat on was moving, actually moving, sliding incrementally to the right. Jake's eyes remained glued to the screen, his hands still working the controller. Just a few more hits. Just needed to land the finishing—
The entire building lurched.
Suddenly, everything shifted. The TV stand didn't just rattle anymore—it slid, really slid, like it was on a declining surface being pulled by gravity. The floor was tilting. Actually tilting.
Jake's pillow began to slide too. He was moving, everything was moving, sliding to the right like the whole world had decided to become a funhouse attraction. Small appliances—a fan, a charging station, loose cables—all skittered across the floor in the same direction, tumbling and clattering.
"What the—" Jake's words were cut off by a massive boom that rattled his teeth.
He ripped off his headset. The sound that filled his ears made his blood run cold. It wasn't just shaking anymore. It was roaring—a deep, grinding, catastrophic sound like the earth itself was tearing apart. Through the open window, he could hear car alarms shrieking, glass shattering, people screaming.
The apartment continued to tilt. Thirty or some where near thirty-five degrees now, maybe more. Jake scrambled to find something to hold onto, but there was nothing to grab. His eyes swept the room frantically—a pillar, a doorframe, anything—but everything was sliding, tumbling, falling. The TV crashed over. The sofa that his laptop bag had landed on was now skidding toward him like a battering ram.
He slid helplessly toward the window, the one with the curtains that had been billowing in the wind. His body hit the wall beside it with bruising force, and for a moment, he was wedged there against the tilted surface.
That's when he looked out.
His apartment was on the twelfth floor. Had been on the twelfth floor. Now he was looking almost straight down at a sickening angle. The building he lived in was leaning, propped against the adjacent structure like a drunk friend who couldn't stand anymore.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The adjacent building on the different side—the one that should have been standing tall, the massive skyscraper that housed offices and expensive condos—was gone. Not gone-gone, but collapsed. Fallen. A mountain of concrete and steel and shattered glass spread across the street like a giant's corpse. Slabs of building material lay broken and scattered. Twisted rebar jutted out like exposed bones. And somewhere beneath all that rubble...
People.
Had to be people. There were always people.
Some might still be alive down there. Trapped. Crushed. Dying.
Jake's hands were shaking. The wind howled through the window, tugging at the curtains that now hung uselessly in the open air, pulling at his hair and clothes. He was suspended here, wedged against a window twelve stories up in a building that was no longer vertical, looking down at a scene of destruction that his brain couldn't quite process.
His throat was dry. His heart hammered against his ribs. The controller was still in his hand—he hadn't even dropped it—the plastic warm from his grip, the game probably still running somewhere on the fallen TV.
"I think I have used up all my luck," he whispered to himself, the words barely audible over the wind and the distant sirens that were beginning to wail.
Because by all rights, he should be dead. Should have been crushed by the falling TV, or impaled by tumbling furniture, or thrown from the window when the building first tilted. Should be buried under rubble like the people in that collapsed skyscraper across the way.
But he wasn't.
He was alive.
Terrified, bruised, trapped in a leaning deathtrap of a building, but alive.
The wind screamed. The building groaned. And Jake held on.