The knocking started as a polite, rhythmic tap.
By the third round, it wasn't knocking anymore. It was pounding.
Ethan Cole sat at his small kitchen table, staring at the unopened bills spread out in front of him. The numbers blurred together — past due, final notice, outstanding balance — all of it forming a dull, suffocating weight in his chest. The cheap clock on the wall ticked too loudly in the silence.
The pounding at the door grew harder.
"Mr. Cole!" a man's voice called, muffled but sharp. "We know you're in there. Open the door."
Ethan closed his eyes for a moment.
Of course they came today.
He'd been dodging calls for weeks. The credit card company. The bank. The landlord. The hospital billing department. He'd gotten good at ignoring unknown numbers and pretending everything was fine as long as he didn't open the mail.
But some debts didn't stay on paper.
Some of them came with boots and fists.
He stood up slowly, his chair scraping against the worn linoleum. His heart was already beating too fast, a tight, uncomfortable thud in his chest. He glanced toward the front door, then toward the hallway that led to the back of the house.
The pounding came again, rattling the door in its frame.
"Last chance, Cole!" another voice shouted. This one was deeper, rougher. "You don't want us to come in."
He did not want them to come in.
He also didn't have their money.
Ethan swallowed, his throat dry. He was thirty, broke, and alone in a house he could barely afford. The last of his savings had gone into paying off his mother's medical bills before she died. The rest had vanished into rent, groceries, and the slow, grinding cost of staying alive.
He had no backup.
No family.
No one to call.
The only thing he had was a house with a failing foundation and a basement he barely used.
The pounding turned into a heavy thud — a shoulder hitting the door.
They were going to break it down.
Ethan's mind snapped into motion.
He couldn't fight them. There were at least two of them, maybe more. He didn't own a gun. The best he had was a kitchen knife and a rusty hammer.
He looked down the hallway again.
The basement.
He didn't have a plan beyond that, but staying here was not an option.
Another slam hit the door. The wood cracked.
Ethan grabbed his phone from the table, shoved it into his pocket, and moved.
He slipped out of the kitchen, his socks silent on the floor, and hurried down the narrow hallway. The house was small — living room, kitchen, one bedroom, one bathroom — but the basement door was tucked away at the very end, half-hidden behind a leaning bookshelf and a coat rack.
He reached it just as the front door finally gave way with a splintering crash.
"Cole!" a voice roared. "Get your ass out here!"
Ethan yanked the basement door open.
The smell of dust and cold concrete drifted up. The single bulb at the bottom of the stairs flickered weakly, casting a pale, sickly light.
He didn't hesitate.
He slipped inside and pulled the door almost shut behind him, leaving only a narrow crack. He held his breath and listened.
Heavy footsteps stomped into the living room. Something crashed — probably the coffee table. A cabinet door slammed. Drawers were yanked open.
"Check the bedroom," one of the men said. "He better not be stupid enough to run."
Ethan moved down the stairs as quietly as he could, one hand on the railing, the other braced against the wall. The wood creaked under his weight, and he winced at every sound.
The basement was unfinished — bare concrete floor, exposed beams, a few old shelves, and the breaker box mounted on the far wall. He'd always meant to clean it up, maybe turn it into a workshop or a storage space. Instead, it had become a place to dump things he didn't want to deal with.
Like his life, he thought bitterly.
He reached the bottom step and pressed himself against the wall, listening.
Footsteps thudded overhead.
"Bedroom's clear," someone called. "Bathroom too."
"He's here," the deeper voice said. "Car's outside. He didn't go far."
Ethan's heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat trickled down his back. He looked around the basement, searching for anywhere to hide.
There wasn't much.
A few cardboard boxes. An old mattress rolled up in the corner. A stack of paint cans. A sagging shelf with tools and junk.
The footsteps moved closer to the hallway.
"Check the basement," the deep voice ordered.
Ethan's stomach dropped.
He glanced at the breaker box, then at the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The light flickered again, buzzing faintly.
He didn't have time to think.
He moved.
He darted across the basement toward the far corner, where the floor dipped slightly and the concrete was cracked. He'd noticed it before — a hairline fracture that had slowly widened over the years. The house inspector had called it "settling" and told him it wasn't urgent.
He crouched behind a stack of boxes just as the basement door creaked open above.
Light spilled down the stairs.
Boots thudded on the wooden steps.
Ethan held his breath.
"Cole?" the deep voice called. "You down here?"
Silence.
The man descended slowly, each step deliberate. The bulb flickered again, casting his shadow long and distorted across the wall.
Ethan pressed himself tighter against the boxes, his fingers digging into the cardboard. His phone felt like a brick in his pocket. He didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe.
The man reached the bottom of the stairs.
He was big. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a shaved head. He wore a leather jacket and heavy boots. A tattoo snaked up his neck, disappearing under his collar. His eyes swept the basement, sharp and practiced.
He wasn't some random thug.
He was a professional.
The man walked slowly across the concrete floor, checking behind shelves and stacks of junk. He kicked the rolled-up mattress aside. He peered behind the support beams.
He was getting closer.
Ethan's muscles screamed from the tension of staying still. His lungs burned. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure the man could hear it.
The man took another step.
The floor groaned.
The light flickered.
The crack in the concrete beneath Ethan's feet widened with a faint, crumbling sound.
He didn't even have time to look down.
The floor gave way.
The world dropped out from under him.
He fell.
The boxes went with him, tumbling into the darkness. Dust exploded around him. His shoulder slammed into something hard. His head snapped back. His phone flew from his pocket.
He tried to scream, but the air was ripped from his lungs.
Then there was nothing.
No light.
No sound.
No basement.
Just falling.
Endless, impossible falling.
He hit the ground hard enough to see stars.
For a long moment, he lay there, stunned, staring up at a sky that wasn't his.
It wasn't the cracked ceiling of his basement.
It wasn't the familiar pattern of beams and pipes.
It was… red.
A dark, bruised red, streaked with black clouds that twisted slowly like smoke. The air was thick and heavy, carrying a smell that made his stomach churn — rot, metal, and something chemical and sharp.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision.
He was lying on asphalt.
Not concrete.
Asphalt.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing as pain flared through his ribs and shoulder. His clothes were coated in dust and grime. His palms were scraped raw.
He looked around.
The world was wrong.
He was in the middle of a street, but it was nothing like the quiet suburban neighborhood he lived in. This place looked like a war zone. Burned-out cars lined the road, their windows shattered, their frames twisted and blackened. Buildings loomed on either side — office blocks, apartment complexes, storefronts — all of them broken, their windows smashed, their walls cracked and scorched.
Trash and debris littered the ground. A traffic light hung at an angle, its lights dead. A billboard in the distance had collapsed, its metal frame twisted like a broken skeleton.
There were no people.
No voices.
No distant hum of traffic.
Just wind.
And the smell of death.
Ethan's heart hammered in his chest.
This wasn't possible.
He'd been in his basement.
He'd fallen through a cracked floor.
He should be in a crawlspace, or a foundation cavity, or a hospital bed with a concussion.
Not… here.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
"Okay," he whispered. His voice sounded small in the empty street. "Okay. This is… this is a dream. Or a hallucination. Or I'm dead. Or—"
A soft chime echoed in his ears.
He froze.
Something flickered at the edge of his vision.
He turned his head.
A small, translucent square hovered in the air in front of him, about an arm's length away. It was faint, like a reflection on glass, but it was there — a glowing interface, floating in midair.
He stared at it, his breath caught in his throat.
The square expanded, lines and shapes forming inside it. It resolved into a top-down view of the area around him — a simplified map of streets and buildings, drawn in clean, minimal lines.
At the center of the map was a small white arrow.
Him.
Around the arrow, scattered across the map, were dots.
Tiny, colored dots.
Some were red.
Some were blue.
One, far off, was yellow.
He blinked.
The interface sharpened.
[MINI-MAP ONLINE]
The text appeared at the top of the square, crisp and clear.
Ethan stared.
His brain, already overloaded, tried to process this new layer of insanity.
A mini-map.
Like in a video game.
In his vision.
He lifted a hand slowly, half-expecting his fingers to pass through it. The square remained where it was, hovering just at the edge of his focus. When he tried to look directly at it, it shifted slightly, always staying just off-center, as if it were anchored to his perception rather than the world.
He swallowed.
"Okay," he whispered. "Sure. Why not. Floating UI. That's… normal."
A sound broke the silence.
A low, wet, dragging sound.
Like something heavy being pulled across asphalt.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
He turned his head slowly.
At the far end of the street, something moved.
A figure staggered out from behind a burned-out car. Its clothes were torn and filthy. Its skin was gray, mottled with dark patches. Its head hung at an unnatural angle, and its arms dangled loosely at its sides.
It took another step.
Its foot dragged.
Its jaw hung open.
Its eyes were cloudy and pale.
Ethan's breath caught.
No.
No way.
The figure turned toward him.
Its lips peeled back in a soundless snarl.
It began to shamble in his direction.
On the mini-map, a red dot appeared at the edge of the screen and started moving toward the white arrow.
Ethan's mind went blank for a second.
Then everything hit him at once.
The ruined city.
The red sky.
The smell of rot.
The floating mini-map.
The thing walking toward him.
Zombie.
The word slammed into his brain with the weight of a freight train.
He scrambled to his feet, his legs unsteady. His ribs protested, but adrenaline drowned out the pain.
The zombie's movements were slow, but not as slow as in movies. Its steps were uneven, but it didn't stumble blindly. Its head tracked him, its cloudy eyes locked onto his position.
It was close enough now that he could hear it breathing — a wet, rattling sound.
On the mini-map, the red dot moved steadily closer.
Ethan took a step back.
His heel hit something.
He glanced down.
A length of metal pipe lay on the ground, half-buried under debris. It was about three feet long, rusted at the ends but solid.
A blue dot pulsed faintly on the mini-map, right where the pipe was.
Useful item.
His hand moved before his brain caught up.
He grabbed the pipe.
The weight of it was reassuring. Real. Solid.
The zombie let out a low, gurgling growl and picked up speed, its uneven steps turning into a lurching, hungry advance.
Ethan's heart pounded so hard it hurt.
He'd never been in a real fight before. Not like this. Not with something that wanted to tear him apart and eat him.
But there was nowhere to run.
The street behind him was blocked by a collapsed building. The cars on either side formed a narrow corridor. The zombie was between him and the open intersection.
He tightened his grip on the pipe.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Don't think. Just move."
The zombie lunged.
He swung.
The pipe connected with the side of its head with a sickening crack. The impact jolted up his arms, numbing his fingers. The zombie's skull caved in slightly, but it didn't go down. It staggered, its head snapping to the side, then turned back toward him with a wet, snarling sound.
Too slow.
Too weak.
He swung again, this time aiming for the temple.
The pipe smashed into bone. The zombie's eye burst. It collapsed to its knees, then fell face-first onto the asphalt.
Silence.
Ethan stood there, chest heaving, staring at the corpse.
His hands shook.
His stomach churned.
He had just killed something.
Something that used to be human.
He swallowed hard, bile burning the back of his throat.
A soft chime sounded.
He flinched.
The mini-map flickered, and a small notification appeared at the bottom of the interface.
[+10 EXP]
He stared at it.
"Experience points," he whispered. "You've got to be kidding me."
He didn't have time to process it.
More sounds echoed down the street.
More dragging footsteps.
More low, hungry growls.
He looked up.
At the far end of the street, two more figures emerged from behind a wrecked bus. Another stumbled out of a doorway. Another crawled over the hood of a car.
On the mini-map, more red dots appeared.
One.
Two.
Five.
Seven.
All moving toward him.
His grip tightened on the pipe.
He couldn't fight that many.
Not out in the open.
He scanned the street, his eyes flicking between the real world and the mini-map. The interface showed the layout of the nearby buildings — rectangles and lines, simplified but accurate. There was an alley to his left, narrow but clear of red dots. A blue dot pulsed faintly deeper inside.
Useful item.
He ran.
He sprinted into the alley, his shoes slipping on loose gravel. The walls on either side were close enough that he could touch them with outstretched arms. Trash cans lay overturned. A dumpster sat crookedly against the back wall.
The blue dot pulsed near a side door.
He reached it and yanked it open.
The interior was dark, the air stale and cold. Shelves loomed in the shadows, lined with boxes and dusty containers. It looked like the back room of a small store.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as his lungs burned.
The growls outside grew louder, then faded slightly as the zombies shuffled past the alley entrance.
He exhaled slowly.
The mini-map showed the red dots moving along the main street, some pausing near the alley, then continuing on. The blue dot was just a few steps away, inside the room.
He moved toward it.
His foot bumped into something.
He looked down.
A backpack lay on the floor, half-open, its contents spilled out — a flashlight, a half-empty water bottle, a folded jacket, a small first-aid kit.
The blue dot pulsed directly over it.
He crouched and picked up the backpack. The straps were worn but intact. He checked the water bottle — stale, but drinkable. The flashlight flickered to life when he pressed the button. The first-aid kit still had bandages and antiseptic.
He slung the backpack over his shoulder.
"Okay," he murmured. "Okay. This is… something."
He took a sip of water, the cool liquid easing the dryness in his throat. His hands still shook, but the immediate panic had dulled into a sharp, focused fear.
He wasn't safe.
Not even close.
But he wasn't completely helpless anymore.
He checked the mini-map again.
The red dots were moving away, but slowly. They weren't fast, but they were persistent. If he made too much noise, they'd be back.
His gaze drifted to the edge of the map.
There, far beyond the cluster of red dots, was a single yellow dot.
It pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat.
Different from the blue dots.
Different from everything else.
Treasure.
High-value loot.
Or something worse.
He should stay put. Find a place to hide. Wait for… what, exactly? Rescue? A reset? Waking up?
He didn't know.
But he did know one thing: sitting in the dark and hoping the nightmare ended was exactly how he'd lived his life up until now.
Look where that had gotten him.
Broke.
Hunted.
Driven into his own basement by men who wanted to break his legs over a debt he couldn't pay.
Here, at least, he had something.
A weapon.
A backpack.
A mini-map.
And a glowing yellow promise of something better.
He tightened his grip on the pipe.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Let's see what you are."
He slipped back out into the alley, moving carefully, keeping his footsteps light. The mini-map guided him — a subtle, constant presence at the edge of his vision. He followed side streets and back alleys, avoiding clusters of red dots, skirting around groups of zombies that wandered aimlessly through intersections.
The city felt endless.
Block after block of ruin and silence.
Sometimes he saw bodies — not moving, not growling, just lying where they'd fallen. Some were half-eaten. Some were burned. Some were little more than skeletons in tattered clothes.
He tried not to look too closely.
The yellow dot grew closer.
It was inside a tall office building with shattered windows and a collapsed awning. The front doors were broken, glass scattered across the sidewalk. The lobby beyond was dark, lit only by the dim red glow filtering through the clouds.
He stepped inside.
The air was cooler here, and the smell of rot was less intense. Dust coated the floor. A reception desk sat crookedly in the center of the lobby, its computer smashed, its drawers hanging open.
The yellow dot pulsed above him, somewhere on an upper floor.
He found the stairwell and began to climb.
His legs ached. His ribs throbbed. Sweat trickled down his back. But he kept going, one step at a time, the mini-map guiding him upward.
Second floor.
Third.
Fourth.
The building groaned occasionally, settling under its own weight. A few times he had to step over fallen beams or squeeze past collapsed sections of wall. The flashlight helped, but he used it sparingly, not wanting to draw attention through broken windows.
Finally, he reached the floor where the yellow dot hovered.
The hallway was half-collapsed, one side open to the outside world where the wall had crumbled away. Wind blew in, carrying dust and ash. Offices lined the corridor, their doors hanging open or ripped off entirely.
The yellow dot pulsed at the far end, inside a corner office.
He approached slowly, pipe in hand.
The door to the office was closed.
He listened.
Silence.
He turned the handle and pushed.
The door creaked open.
The office was a mess — overturned chairs, papers scattered everywhere, a filing cabinet on its side. The far wall was cracked, but intact. A large desk sat near the window, its surface covered in dust.
The yellow dot hovered above the desk.
He walked around it and looked down.
A metal case sat on the floor, half-hidden under a fallen shelf.
His heart sped up.
He knelt and pulled it out.
It was heavy.
Very heavy.
His fingers trembled as he flipped the latches.
The lid opened with a soft metallic click.
Inside, nestled in foam, was a gold bar.
Not a coin.
Not jewelry.
A full, solid bar of gold.
It gleamed even in the dim light, its surface smooth and flawless.
Ethan stared at it, his breath caught in his throat.
He'd never seen that much money in one place before. Not in person. Not in his entire life.
He reached out and lifted it.
It was cold and dense, heavier than it looked.
His mind raced.
If this was real—
If he could bring this back—
He could pay off everything.
The credit cards.
The medical debt.
The loan sharks currently tearing apart his living room.
He could start over.
He could breathe.
He could live.
A low, wet growl broke the moment.
He froze.
The sound came from the hallway.
Slow.
Hungry.
Close.
He set the gold bar back in the case and grabbed the pipe, moving to the side of the door. His heart hammered. His palms were slick with sweat.
The growl came again, louder.
Something scraped against the wall.
On the mini-map, a red dot appeared just outside the office.
The door creaked.
A hand — gray, twisted, with broken nails — curled around the edge of the door and pushed it open.
The zombie that stepped inside was different from the others.
Its limbs were longer, its spine arched. Its skin was stretched tight over its bones, and its jaw hung wider than it should, as if the muscles had torn. Its eyes glowed faintly, a sickly yellow.
It sniffed the air, head twitching.
Ethan held his breath.
The zombie turned toward the desk.
Toward the gold.
Toward him.
It hissed, lips peeling back to reveal jagged teeth.
It lunged.
He swung the pipe with everything he had.
The impact rattled his bones. The pipe smashed into the side of the zombie's head, but its skull was thicker, reinforced. It staggered but didn't fall. It clawed at him, its fingers raking across his arm. Pain flared, hot and sharp.
He stumbled back, nearly tripping over the metal case.
The zombie lunged again, faster this time.
He dodged, barely, feeling the rush of air as its claws missed his throat by inches. It slammed into the desk, sending papers flying.
He swung again, aiming for the temple.
The pipe connected with a crunch. The zombie's head snapped to the side, and it dropped to one knee, snarling.
Not enough.
Not strong enough.
He glanced at the window.
The glass was cracked but mostly intact. Beyond it, the ruined city stretched out under the red sky.
The zombie lunged again.
He didn't think.
He moved.
He sidestepped, grabbed the back of its torn shirt, and used its own momentum to hurl it toward the window.
The glass shattered.
The zombie tumbled through, its scream cut off as it fell.
He staggered to the edge and looked down.
Far below, the body hit the roof of a car with a distant, wet crunch.
He exhaled shakily.
His arm burned where the claws had raked him. Blood soaked into his sleeve. His ribs ached. His head throbbed.
But he was alive.
He turned back to the desk.
The gold bar sat in the open case, gleaming.
He picked it up again.
It felt heavier now.
More real.
He tucked it under his arm and grabbed the case with his free hand. The mini-map showed no immediate red dots nearby, but he knew that wouldn't last. The sound of breaking glass would draw attention.
He needed to get out.
He stepped back into the hallway, moving quickly but carefully. The stairwell was still intact. He descended as fast as his aching legs would allow, the gold bar digging into his side.
By the time he reached the lobby, his lungs were burning.
He stepped out onto the street.
The wind hit him, carrying the smell of rot and ash.
The mini-map flickered.
For a moment, the entire interface glitched — lines distorting, colors smearing. A faint humming sound filled his ears, growing louder and louder.
He staggered, clutching his head.
The world warped.
The red sky twisted.
The buildings blurred.
The asphalt beneath his feet rippled like water.
The humming became a roar.
He felt himself falling again.
Not physically.
Not like before.
This was different.
Like being pulled through a tunnel made of light and sound and pressure.
He tried to scream, but his voice was swallowed by the noise.
Then—
Silence.
He hit the ground.
Hard.
Concrete.
Cold.
Familiar.
He lay there for a moment, gasping, his heart racing, his mind spinning.
The smell of rot was gone.
The air was still dusty, but it was the dust of old wood and concrete, not burned metal and corpses.
He opened his eyes.
The basement ceiling stared back at him.
The exposed beams.
The hanging bulb.
The breaker box on the far wall.
He was back.
He was in his basement.
He rolled onto his side, wincing as pain flared through his ribs and arm. His clothes were still dirty, still torn. His arm still bled.
And in his hands—
The gold bar.
He stared at it.
It was real.
Solid.
Heavy.
Not a hallucination.
Not a dream.
He laughed once, a short, disbelieving sound.
Then he heard voices.
"Where the hell did he go?" one of the men upstairs shouted.
"Basement's empty," another replied. "There's a hole in the floor, but it doesn't go anywhere. Just dirt and rock."
Ethan froze.
They were still here.
Still in his house.
Still looking for him.
He clutched the gold bar tighter.
A soft chime sounded in his ears.
The mini-map flickered into existence again, hovering at the edge of his vision.
Even here.
Even in the real world.
A small notification appeared at the top of the interface.
[WORLD SYNCHRONIZATION: STAGE 1]
Ethan stared at it, his heart pounding.
He was broke.
Hunted.
Bleeding.
But he was holding a gold bar worth more than everything he owed.
And somewhere above him, men who thought they owned his life were tearing apart his house, looking for a man who had just fallen into another world and come back with treasure.
For the first time in a very long time, Ethan didn't feel completely powerless.
He felt something else.
Something sharp.
Something dangerous.
Opportunity.