Dante was like every other working man—nothing about him stood out as special. He had a group of friends from work: Logan, Lucy, and Fae. But even with them, he felt like a background character in his own life, always just outside the circle, the quiet one who hovered at the edge of conversations. He could talk when he needed to, but every conversation felt like a rerun—work, relationships, movies. He barely knew them beyond the surface. Still, they sometimes invited him out, and he always said yes, as if out of habit.
This Friday was a carbon copy of so many before it. Dante slouched behind his desk, tapping a pencil against an abandoned mug as numbers blurred on his spreadsheet. The sterile hum of the office lights made the world feel even grayer. By four o'clock, he could already feel the weight of routine—he knew Logan would come by, knew the invitation to Charlie's would follow. It was as predictable as the sun rising. Part of him bristled at it, but he'd never say no.
He wondered, is this it for everyone? Was turning 23 the start of a slow slide into monotony—same job, same routine, forever? Maybe that's why people built families, he thought, to distract themselves from the dull ache of the ordinary.
"Dante!" Logan's voice boomed from down the hall, breaking Dante's daydream. Logan strode toward him, his tie loosened, a lopsided grin on his face. "What're you doing tonight? You know me and the girls were thinking of going to Ch—"
Dante cut him off, forcing a crooked smile. "To Charlie's. Like always." He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at his shoes.
"You know it." Logan's eyes sparkled with a challenge, his easy confidence infectious. He clapped Dante on the shoulder, almost knocking the air out of him. "Come on, man, it'll be fun. I don't remember the last time you actually enjoyed yourself."
"Just for a bit," Dante muttered, trying to sound casual but his voice barely above a whisper.
They arrived at the pub—a dimly lit, wood-paneled place that smelled of old beer and fried food. Lucy and Fae were already at a high table, laughing at something only they understood. Lucy's laughter was sharp and bright, her long legs crossed with practiced elegance. Fae, smaller and more reserved, twirled a straw in her drink, eyes flicking shyly to Dante before darting back to Logan. Logan, for his part, basked in the attention. He was tall, smart, and impossible not to like—he had that rare talent for making everyone feel like they belonged, as if you were the most interesting person in the room, even if only for a moment.
Lucy lifted her arms high and waved as soon as they walked in. "Oh my god! You guys made it!" She bounded over and pulled Dante into a quick, warm hug—her perfume a burst of citrus and something floral. "And you got him to come out! Logan, you miracle worker." She winked at Logan, then dragged the group toward their table. "It's been so long! Let's get this Friday night started!"
Fae offered a small smile to Dante, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "So, how have you been? You've been working a lot lately, haven't you?" Her voice was gentle, almost hesitant. "My boss keeps saying you practically live at the office." (Her boss was Dante's brother; that's how he'd gotten his job. Sometimes, Fae still looked at him like she was expecting an older sibling's approval.)
Dante shrugged, tracing a circle on the table with his fingertip. "Yeah, you know. Same old. Just checking the books, staring at numbers until my eyes glaze over. I don't really do much—I just love clocking overtime, apparently." His laugh was short and self-deprecating.
The pub's low lighting and battered leather booths gave everything a soft, golden glow. Even on a Friday night, the crowd kept their voices at a low hum. Here, you could talk without shouting, or just fade into the background—Dante's specialty.
They ordered greasy appetizers and cheap beer, sharing stories that never seemed to change. By midnight, Dante found himself checking his watch, rehearsing his silent exit. The warmth of the pub pressed in on him, and he felt the urge to slip away before anyone noticed.
As Dante slid off his stool, the floor seemed to vanish beneath him. He barely had time to gasp before everything—the pub, the noise, the warmth—was snatched away. He was falling, tumbling through endless black. The air whipped at his clothes, his hair, then—even that sensation faded, replaced by weightless, silent drift.
He floated in the void, arms flailing for balance, heart pounding in his chest. Panic clawed at his thoughts. Did I die? Did I have a heart attack and drop dead at the bar? Is this purgatory? Suddenly, something vast and ancient stirred below him—a single, immense eye snapping open in the darkness.
It was deep blue, filling the void beneath him—a swirling sea within the iris, bottomless and cold. All else was emptiness. The eye had a reptilian quality, the pupil a black vertical slit. It watched him, unblinking, with an intelligence that felt both alien and ancient.
The void trembled. Dante's bones vibrated with the sound, his teeth chattering. A voice thundered inside his mind—low, ancient, implacable: "Live, at all costs. Ascend, at all costs."
And then, as suddenly as it began, everything faded. Darkness folded in on itself. Dante's eyes snapped open to a new world.
The bar was gone. Dante lay sprawled on cool grass, dew dampening his clothes. The sky above was impossibly wide, streaked with orange and violet. Around him, groaning and blinking in confusion, were Logan, Lucy, Fae, and the rest of the pub's patrons—scattered like castaways on a green sea.
Logan was the first on his feet, brushing mud from his shirt. He moved to Fae, offering a steady hand. "Are you alright?" he asked, voice pitched low, eyes scanning the strange landscape for threats.
Fae hugged her knees, breath shallow. "What was that? Where are we? Where's the bar?" Her eyes darted from face to face, desperate for answers.
Logan knelt beside her, squeezing her shoulder. "I don't know," he admitted, his bravado slipping for a moment, "but we need to stick together. Just… stay close."
Lucy dusted grass stains from her jeans, her usual poise rattled. "Did you guys see the woman?" she asked, voice wavering but trying to sound in control.
Fae blinked, confusion deepening. "Woman?" she echoed. "I saw a man—a pointy-eared man. He said something about searching for meaning… and a new life." Her voice trembled. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking slightly. "What does it all mean?" she whispered, over and over, as if the repetition might anchor her.
Logan crouched in front of her, gently taking her shoulders. "Fae. Look at me. I know this is all insane—none of us know what's going on, but we have to keep it together. We can't fall apart now." His tone was softer than usual, a hint of fear beneath the words.
Fae met his gaze, drawing a shaky breath. Slowly, she steadied herself.
Dante, feeling strangely detached, processed the differences—a woman for Lucy, an elf for Fae. He turned to Lucy, voice quiet but urgent. "What did the woman say to you?"
Lucy bit her lip, brow furrowed. "She was hard to hear—her voice was barely more than a whisper. She said 'go forth, my child' and… 'find the others.' Who are the others? Others of what?" She glanced at Logan, voice rising. "Did you see her? Are you an 'other'?"
Logan shook his head, jaw tight. "I saw nothing," he said, voice flat. He stared out at the strange horizon, fists clenched. "One second I was in the bar with you guys, next… I'm here."
As the group tried to piece things together, a blue rectangle flickered into existence before Dante's eyes—a hologram, crisp and surreal against the grassy landscape. It read 'Congratulations' in bold letters, and beneath it, 'Continue'. Dante blinked, glancing around. No one else seemed to see it—until a man in the distance shouted, "Anyone else see this screen thingy?" That's when he realized: everyone had their own, invisible to the others.
Dante swallowed and reached for the 'Continue' option. His finger passed through the light, and the screen exploded outward, transforming into a larger, more elaborate display. At the top, in ornate lettering: 'Pick your class'.
Pick a class? Dante's mind reeled. He scrolled through the options—cleric, berserker, hunter, necromancer, and more—each name accompanied by shimmering icons and cryptic descriptions. None of them felt right, not at first. He kept scrolling, caught between disbelief and a strange, buzzing hope.
Every so often, someone nearby would gasp or yelp as they burst into radiant light. People's clothes morphed—jeans and t-shirts replaced by gleaming armor or flowing robes. Dante watched, spellbound, the world tilting further from anything he'd known.
He lingered over the options—'Mage' (classic, always powerful in games), 'Warrior', 'Hunter', even 'Blacksmith'. There were work professions too, all medieval, all fantastical—nothing as dull as accounting. He felt strangely exposed, as if the system could see right through him.
As always, Dante drifted toward the safe choice. He'd always played it safe—safe school, safe neighborhood, safe job. His thumb hovered, then tapped 'Hunter'.
A burst of golden light swept over him. Dante shielded his eyes, heart pounding. When he looked down again, his office clothes were gone—replaced by supple leather armor, a bow slung over his shoulder. The world felt sharper, more real than ever before.