Mark lowered Ethan onto the air mattress more carefully this time.
The basement was quiet except for the distant hum of the bar above them, which was now empty after closing.
Down here, the air smelled faintly of dust, old concrete, and stale smoke. Mark threw a blanket over him, lingering as he looked down at his friend.
'Seven years...'
It was hard to fathom.
Seven years of concrete and bars. Of fists and shouting and alarms. While the world outside tore itself apart and stitched itself back together into something unrecognisable.
Gates. Monsters. Titled.
Mark swallowed.
'And you missed all of it.'
He tugged the thin blanket higher over Ethan's shoulders, then stopped himself from doing more. There was no point; Ethan was slumped and likely wouldn't wake even if he shook him violently.
Mark rubbed a hand down his face, thumb catching on stubble.
'This wasn't how it was supposed to go.'
He remembered Ethan before - lean but sharp, grin too quick, eyes always alive.
The kind of guy who always talked his way out of trouble, and if his words weren't enough, let his fists do the talking.
He was so full of life, yet always staking it all when push came to shove.
Mark's jaw tightened.
'It should be me.'
The basement felt smaller the longer he stood there, almost like it was closing in on him.
'On an air mattress with nothing going for me,' he thought.
Was that all his seven years were worth?
Was this all he could do for him after what he sacrificed?
Mark hung up his past, smoothed things over with the people that mattered, and opened a bar.
He had got away scot free.
'All while Ethan...'
Mark exhaled slowly through his nose.
There was the smoking, which was surprising.
Then there was the drinking, which was even more surprising.
Ethan wasn't the type to do either, yet now his days revolved around them.
But the biggest change was in his behaviour: the way he flinched when someone got too close to him, the way his eyes always tracked exits and potential weapons without meaning to.
'I can only imagine what he had to endure, and knowing him...'
It hurt him just to think about it - Ethan taking on prisoner after prisoner, his sentence a living hell.
'At least he hasn't touched the harder stuff, like Mace and his crew sell.'
Mark clung to that small mercy like it meant more than it did - Ethan knew better than anyone what those drugs did to people.
But alcohol was more than enough to hollow a man out on its own.
It'd only been a month since Ethan got out.
A month, and Ethan hadn't interacted with anyone or done much of anything other than smoke and drink.
There was no curiosity about the world that had changed without him - only unease.
He hadn't even asked about Mark's family.
The family he also grew up with and was practically his own.
That hurt more than Mark liked to admit.
'He doesn't trust anyone anymore,' he thought, looking down at him. 'Not even me.'
Ethan shifted slightly, brows creasing in his sleep, almost as if he was in pain.
Mark's chest tightened.
'He always used to be reckless, but now...' Mark thought grimly. 'He lives like he doesn't care if tomorrow comes.'
That scared him.
More than anything else - gates, monsters, or foes from their past.
Mark dragged a hand through his hair.
'And now this talk of receiving a Title, what's that about?'
Logic said his friend had lost it, but a deeper part of him wanted to believe him.
He'd known Ethan most of his life.
From his grin when bullshitting to the way his eyes darted around to make something up, he knew the sound of lies.
Today hadn't felt like that.
'If anyone wouldn't fake something like this…'
Mark let the thought trail off.
He looked at Ethan one last time.
'Whether he's really a Titled or not,' he thought, turning away, 'I just want him to be okay.'
Though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't hoping his friend had been granted the abilities to take a second shot at a better life.
He headed for the stairs, leaving the basement in darkness.
Unaware that at that very moment, Ethan Crowe was no longer sleeping beneath his bar at all...
-
"What the fuck is going on…?"
Ethan's eyes snapped open.
He shot upright, breath hitching, heart hammering in his chest.
"Didn't I black out? Where the fuck am I?"
The last thing he remembered was the bar, the burn of alcohol down his throat, and slurring at Mark. He was an odd drunk, laughing one second, unravelling the next. Then there was...
Nothing.
That quiet of blacking out was unbeatable for the man who struggled to rest his mind.
But now he was wide awake, sober, and painfully lucid.
He looked around slowly.
Trees.
Tall, ancient-looking trees with thick trunks and tangled roots stretched in every direction. Pale light filtered through a dense canopy, casting long shadows across mossy ground.
'This definitely isn't anywhere in New York?'
Ethan then looked down at himself, and that was even more puzzling.
He was in rags; torn cloth hung loosely from his frame, rough and uncomfortable against his skin. As for his feet, they were bare except for crude sandals tied together with fraying rope.
'This definitely wasn't what I was wearing.'
He swallowed.
'Am I dreaming… or just finally losing my mind?'
He pinched the inside of his arm.
Pain flared sharp and immediate.
Ethan hissed.
"...That hurt."
His chest tightened.
'So this is real...'
That sparked a bunch of questions.
'Is this some kind of gate? But then how did I get into it? Why am I sober? And who put me in these damned rags?!'
Then...
The world itself seemed to vibrate.
A hoarse, ancient voice rolled through the forest, not inside his head, but everywhere at once. It echoed between the trees, sank into the soil, and pressed down on him like a physical weight.
{Welcome to the Tower Of Beasts!}
Ethan froze.
The sound wasn't loud, but it was absolute.
There was no direction to it, no source to turn toward; it simply was.
His blood ran cold.
'That voice…'
His breath came shallow.
'It's the same one. The one I heard when I thought I got a title.'
More questions exploded through his mind.
'Tower of Beasts? What the fuck does that mean?'
'Is this my real body… or some kind of separate space?'
'And most importantly-'
His pulse thundered.
'Does this mean I really am Titled?'
The forest trembled again as the voice returned.
{Floor Zero: Initiation for Lord Of Beasts}
A translucent interface materialised in front of him, hovering in the air like something straight out of a game.
Ethan stared at it.
Then laughed, breathless and disbelieving.
"…So this shit is real."
Text scrolled across the interface.
{This is a trial and Floor Zero of the Tower}
Another line followed.
{You are the 999th candidate for the title. To officially become Lord Of Beasts, you must...}
Ethan's jaw tightened.
Then a single ominous objective appeared before him.
{Objective: Survive for 24 hours}
He blinked.
"…That's it?"
No further instructions.
No simple daily exercises that he needed to complete to get stronger.
Just survive.
His eyes narrowed, and questions piled up again.
"Survive?" he asked the empty forest. "Against what? What's out here? Am I allowed to leave this area?"
No response.
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate.
Ethan swallowed.
"…And if I die here?"
That question was answered instantly, the voice reverberating through the trees with cold finality.
{Death within the Tower is absolute.}
His stomach dropped.
The voice continued.
{The host's soul will perish, never to live again in any vessel.}
For a long moment, Ethan didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then he let out a slow exhale.
"Sounds about right," he said sarcastically.
As soon as the words left his mouth, the interface shifted.
A timer appeared.
23:59:59
23:59:58
23:59:57
The countdown had begun.
Ethan stared at it, then slowly looked out into the forest around him.
Despite the danger.
Despite the madness.
Despite the fact that this place could be the death of him.
His hands were shaking for another reason.
Excitement.
Real, sharp excitement.
For the first time since stepping out of that prison, Ethan didn't feel small.
Didn't feel weak.
Didn't feel insignificant.
'So this is it,' he thought, lips curling faintly. 'My last shot.'
If he survived these twenty-four hours…
Then he wouldn't be another lost nobody in a world ruled by Monsters and Titled.
He'd stand among them.
And if he didn't-
'Well,' he thought grimly, 'it's not like many people will miss me. I'm sure Mark'll be fine.'