The world hit the pause button.
Auroras ignited the sky—ribbons of green and purple twisting like some cosmic screensaver on overdrive. But this wasn’t the kind of beauty you’d frame on a postcard. It was the kind that wormed into your skull and whispered, *“Something’s wrong. Run.”*
The colors shifted too vividly, too deliberately, like the sky had an agenda. Not the fluffy clouds-and-rainbows kind, but the *"Here’s your receipt for reality’s collapse"* kind.
Then came the hum.
It rolled through the earth like the planet itself was clearing its throat. Low, steady, and bone-deep. Not loud, but impossible to ignore—like it had slipped past your ears and set up shop in your teeth. People froze mid-step, heads tilted toward the auroras, faces caught somewhere between awe and *Oh, this is bad.*
Nothing moved. No wind. No cars. Not even the birds. It was like the world held its breath, terrified of what came next. The auroras twisted on, their light bleeding into shadows, warping shapes until even reality started looking unreliable.
And then, the hum stopped.
The silence hit harder. That’s when you knew—whatever was coming wasn’t just bad. It was apocalypse-with-a-capital-A bad.
A crack tore through existence. Not a sound, but something deeper, like the universe itself had just split its pants. Across the horizon, fractures spiderwebbed through the air—jagged, swirling voids that looked like portals to every bad decision ever made.
And then the monsters came.
They spilled out like ancient nightmares clocking back in after eons of unpaid overtime. Shadows twisted into claws and fangs, glowing eyes lit up the dark, and somewhere in the chaos, you could swear you heard a dragon roar.
People screamed, but it felt distant—like even panic couldn’t keep up with the sheer scale of *what the hell*. Across the globe, humanity stood slack-jawed, staring into the kind of void that doesn’t just stare back—it starts taking notes.
Reality wasn’t just broken. It was gone.
This wasn’t the end of normal life.
This was the start of something worse.
Something *systematic.*
---
The pen spun in my fingers, a ninja star of mediocrity. My desk wasn’t just a workspace; it was a mausoleum for missed ambitions and the graveyard of enthusiasm. Across the room, the bald guy with the permanent scowl was doodling aimlessly on his notepad, probably sketching his retirement plan. Next to him, the wiry guy was tapping his foot like he was auditioning for a percussion solo, gnawing at his nails as though anxiety was on the menu today.
From the far side of the room, Claire caught my eye. Her lips quirked into that barely-there smirk, the kind that said she knew this was all ridiculous but was too polite to say so out loud. We didn’t need words to communicate—it was time for our favorite game: _How Long Until Gerald Implodes?_ Judging by the vein in his temple pulsating with the rhythm of his nonsensical tirade, I gave it ten minutes. Maybe five if someone felt brave enough to ask a question.
Beside Claire, the woman with the loose braid scribbled notes furiously, her pen moving so fast it might have qualified as cardio. Every so often, her eyes darted nervously to Gerald, soaking up every word like he was imparting some life-changing wisdom. _Rookie mistake,_ I thought. The twitchy, eager-to-please energy radiating off her was almost painful to watch, like someone trying way too hard to impress a boss who barely knew they existed.
“Scott!” Gerald’s bark ripped through my thoughts, sharp and commanding. “Are you even listening?”
“Absolutely,” I lied with a grin, letting the pen roll to a stop. “You were just getting to the part where we all quietly accept that these targets are completely unattainable, right?”
Claire’s smirk widened, and even Braid Girl paused mid-scribble to glance up nervously. Scowl Guy let out a low grunt, scratching the back of his head like this entire meeting was a personal offense. Meanwhile, Tapper’s foot picked up speed like it was trying to break the sound barrier. The room collectively braced for impact as Gerald’s glare darkened, his expression a mix of exasperation and barely restrained rage.
“Enough of your smart mouth,” Gerald snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. “If you spent half as much time working as you do making jokes—”
The lights flickered.
It started small, a faint hesitation in the overhead fluorescents, like they couldn’t decide if it was worth the effort to keep glowing. Then came the hum.
Low. Subtle. Almost soothing—if you ignored the part where it felt like it was crawling into your skull and unpacking its things. I glanced around the room. No one else seemed to notice, except Claire. Her brow furrowed, her smirk gone as her eyes shifted toward the flickering lights.
The hum deepened. The vibrations weren’t loud, but they were wrong, like a sound that didn’t belong in this world.
“Did you—” I started, but a sudden tremor silenced me. My desk shuddered beneath my hands as the pen rolled off the edge, clattering to the floor.
“Earthquake?” Claire whispered, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
“No,” Gerald barked, more irritated than alarmed. “Just shoddy construction. Stay seated!”
Because that’s the obvious solution to impending disaster—stay put and hope for the best. Brilliant plan, Gerald. Absolutely foolproof.
The tremor grew stronger, the hum louder. Tapper yelped as his coffee cup toppled over, its contents spreading across the desk in an unceremonious splash. From the back corner, Trevor—a stocky guy who radiated friendly dad energy—stood halfway from his chair.
“Everything okay up there?” he asked, his voice calm despite the chaos. It was reassuring, almost enough to make me believe things weren’t about to get much worse.
The answer came in the form of another tremor, this one violent enough to shake the entire office. My hands gripped the edge of my desk as the hum shifted, growing deeper, more resonant. The air itself felt heavy, pressing down on me with an almost physical weight. Claire’s wide-eyed glance met mine, and I could see it in her expression: _Something is very, very wrong._
For one long, terrifying moment, everything stopped. The hum vanished, leaving a silence so profound it felt like the world itself was holding its breath. Then the tremor returned, harder and louder, and for the first time, I realized just how fragile the ceiling tiles looked.
“Okay,” I muttered, my voice low and shaky. “That’s new.” Claire shot me a wide-eyed glance, her smirk replaced with genuine concern.
The hum stopped, leaving a vacuum of silence that somehow felt louder. Everyone sat frozen, eyes flickering between the dimming lights and the trembling floor, as though waiting for someone else to explain what just happened.
Trevor broke the silence first. “Well,” he said, his voice calm but warm, “if this is a prank, it’s elaborate. Ten out of ten for effort.” He leaned back in his chair, his steady demeanor an anchor amidst the growing unease. The corners of his mouth quirked upward like he was trying to keep things light—for everyone’s sake.
Claire snorted, her lips twitching toward a smile before pressing back into a tight line. “Pretty sure the office budget doesn’t cover supernatural pranks, Trevor.”
Braid Girl—still furiously scribbling—finally glanced up. Her pen stilled for the first time all meeting as she frowned toward Gerald, her face tight with uncertainty. “Are we... supposed to keep working?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Gerald’s clearing of the throat was loud enough to make half the room jump. “It’s nothing. Back to work,” he barked, though his tie-straightening betrayed his fraying nerves.
It wasn’t nothing. Not by a long shot.
The faintest crackle of static shimmered in the air, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. My brain offered a helpful observation: _This is the part in horror movies where something terrible happens._ I had a sneaking suspicion “nothing” was about to become a very big _something._
The air hung heavy with an unnatural stillness, like the universe was holding its breath. Even the usual office noises—shuffling papers, creaking chairs—seemed muted, as though sound itself had decided to sit this one out.
That’s when the sensation hit. Not quite pain, but the shadow of it—like a headache looming just out of reach. A faint glow flickered in my peripheral vision, too bright to ignore but vanishing every time I tried to focus. My stomach twisted. I wasn’t prone to hallucinations, but if today had decided I needed a new hobby, this was a hell of a start.
Then the notification hit.
**[Notification: --m Update in Progress. Err-- Det---ted.]**
Oh, good. My brain was buffering. Just what this day needed: a mental software patch.
I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the faint afterimage, but it lingered. Worse, there was more. For a split second, a jagged spiral glowed faintly in my vision—pulsing, alive, searing itself into my memory before vanishing like it had never been there.
“What the hell was that?” I muttered, glancing around. Everyone else looked confused, but no one seemed particularly panicked. Gerald was busy straightening his tie again, probably trying to wrangle his dignity. Claire had shifted to the window, her frown deepening as she stared at something outside.
“Did you see that?” I asked, hoping for some validation—preferably the sane kind.
“See what?” Claire asked, her gaze barely flicking toward me.
“Nothing,” I said, brushing it off. “Just my brain prepping for a total systems failure.”
Her brow furrowed. Before she could respond, the lights cut out completely.
Outside, the auroras returned with a vengeance, brighter and more vivid than ever. Their ribbons of green and purple twisted unnaturally, spilling eerie light into the room. Shadows stretched across the walls, distorting shapes and making the office feel... _wrong._
“Okay, this is officially weird,” Claire said, her voice low but steady.
“No kidding,” I replied, forcing my tone to stay light. “And I was just starting to enjoy Gerald’s TED Talk on productivity.”
Trevor chuckled quietly from his corner. “Pretty sure this wasn’t part of the agenda.”
The auroras shifted again, their light bleeding into the room in waves that didn’t follow any earthly logic. Shadows danced and stretched like living things, their movements unnerving in ways I couldn’t quite explain. My palms began to sweat.
Then came the hum. Deep, resonant, and too low to be natural. It started as a faint vibration underfoot but quickly grew louder, stronger, reverberating through my chest like a sound system cranked to max bass. I tightened my grip on the desk, my knuckles whitening.
The auroras outside twisted into jagged streaks, tearing through the sky like cosmic scars. The air itself seemed to ripple, shimmering as if reality had decided it was optional. A cold dread settled into my gut.
The hum deepened, and the lights in the room flickered one last time before dying for good. The darkness felt alive, pressing in from all sides. I caught a glimpse of Claire’s face in the faint aurora light—pale but resolute.
Then it happened.
A glowing notification popped into view, crisp and bright against the dim room. The words burned themselves into my brain with all the subtlety of a slap to the face:
**[Welcome to the Apocalypse. You’re now part of the System. Survival odds: laughable. Good luck, Ethan.]**
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Oh, great,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “As if my survival odds weren’t already laughable.”
Around the room, people’s gazes snapped toward invisible screens, their confusion palpable. The silence was broken only by Claire’s sharp intake of breath, the sound cutting through the eerie quiet.
“Mine says, ‘Welcome to the Apocalypse. Survival protocols activated. Proceed cautiously,’” she announced, her voice steady but tight.
“Of course yours is polite,” I replied, waving vaguely at the air. “Mine basically told me I’m screwed. Nice to know I’m special.”
Trevor, seated near the back, leaned forward with a bemused grin. “Mine says something about optimizing survival chances. It’s even got an action plan. Efficient apocalypse, I guess.”
“Figures you’d get an apocalypse handbook,” I said, shooting him a half-smile. “I bet it even comes with a ‘Best Snacks to Pack for the End of the World’ guide.”
“Not yet,” he said, with a mock-serious frown. “But if I find one, I’ll share. You know, for morale.”
Braid Girl, still hunched over her desk, looked up, her eyes darting nervously between Trevor and Gerald. She didn’t say anything, her pen trembling slightly in her grip. Across from her, the wiry guy was tapping his foot so fast it was a wonder his leg hadn’t detached.
Gerald growled, his patience fraying. “This is a distraction. Everyone stay focused!” He straightened his tie, his expression the picture of forced authority, and turned to the group. “This is just a... a drill. Nothing more.”
“Sure,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Because drills always come with ominous light shows and cryptic survival advice.”
The air was growing heavier by the second, a metallic tang thickening with every breath. The room trembled softly, objects rattling on desks as pens rolled off their edges. Distortions shimmered along the walls, warping the room like heat haze on asphalt.
Trevor tilted his head toward Claire. “Should we—?”
“We should move,” Claire said, standing and scanning the room. Her voice carried a calm urgency that made you want to listen. “Something’s wrong. This isn’t—”
A crash cut her off, the sound so loud and jarring that everyone froze.
“What was that?” someone whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said, standing slowly, my heart pounding in sync with the vibrations in the air. My brain screamed at me to stay put, but curiosity—or stupidity—won out. “But I’m guessing it’s not the vending machine restocking itself.”
“Scott, sit down!” Gerald barked, his voice cracking slightly. “This isn’t—”
Another crash. Louder this time, accompanied by a deep, guttural scraping noise that didn’t belong anywhere remotely normal. The kind of sound that set off every instinct to run. Fight-or-flight kicked in, and I was definitely lacking the stats for fight.
“Claire,” I said, stepping back, lowering my voice like whatever was out there could hear me. “I think it’s time we upgraded Gerald’s brilliant ‘stay seated’ plan.”
Her jaw tightened, her gaze flicking toward the breakroom door. “Agreed.”
Trevor stood, his normally steady expression darkening as his gaze followed hers. “If it’s not friendly,” he said lightly, “we could always offer Gerald as a distraction.”
“That’s your survival plan?” I asked. “Sacrificing the boss?”
Trevor gave me a slow grin. “It’s pragmatic.”
The air pressed down on us now, oppressive and suffocating. My nostrils burned from the metallic tang, and I could swear the walls rippled again. Even Braid Girl abandoned her frantic note-taking to stare wide-eyed at the breakroom door, her pen clutched tightly like it was her last line of defense.
A low, deliberate thud sounded from the direction of the breakroom. Heavy. Measured. My breath hitched as the scraping of claws against tile joined the noise, each sound driving my pulse higher. It was like the office itself had tilted, the walls closing in as if the building held its breath.
“Something’s moving,” I whispered. “And it’s not here to sell cookies.”
The thudding grew louder, the sound closer now. It resonated through the floor, the kind of weight you felt in your bones. Trevor moved closer to the center of the room, subtly placing himself between the noise and Braid Girl.
"Claire," I whispered, my grip tightening on the edge of my desk. "I think the breakroom just became the least relaxing place on earth."
Her gaze was locked on the door, her body taut with readiness. “We need to see what it is.”
“See what it is?” I repeated, incredulous. “How about we don’t?”
“Scott!” Gerald barked, his voice strained but still grasping for control. “Sit. Down. This is nothing.”
The third crash drowned him out, louder and wetter than before. The sound was punctuated by a faint skittering that crawled up my spine like cold fingers. My skin crawled, and for once, I didn’t have a sarcastic retort.
---
I followed Claire, albeit reluctantly, keeping just enough distance to use her as a human shield if necessary. She didn’t hesitate, her shoulders squared like she could intimidate whatever nightmare was waiting for us.
As we rounded the corner to the breakroom, the temperature dropped. It wasn’t just cold—it was the kind of chill that sunk into your bones, whispering _leave while you still can._
And then we saw it.
A portal shimmered in the center of the breakroom, a swirling oval of jagged blue light that seemed to eat the space around it. Reflections warped and twisted, the mundane furniture becoming grotesque shapes in the distorted glow. The air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on my lungs.
The System pinged.
**[Enemy: Lumic Beetle (Level 1, Common)]**
**HP:** 5/5
**Threat Level:** Negligible
**Description:** A fragile beetle with defensive abilities.
A glowing beetle the size of a football scuttled out of the portal, its body pulsating with an eerie green light. It stopped for a moment, the light growing brighter, and I could swear it was... watching us.
“Mine says ‘threat level negligible,’” Claire said, her voice calm but edged with unease.
“Define negligible,” I muttered. “Because that thing looks like it came straight out of a bad sci-fi movie.”
She glanced at me. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Not when I’m staring at an irradiated bug,” I shot back, taking a step closer to the door.
The Lumic Beetle clicked its mandibles, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence. It moved slowly at first, scuttling across the floor in jerky, unnatural motions. The portal pulsed behind it, casting shadows that danced erratically along the walls.
"Okay," I said, holding up my hands. "If this thing starts glowing any brighter, I’m calling it a bomb and running."
Claire ignored me, taking a cautious step forward. Her system notification was probably still calm and clinical, telling her everything was fine.
Mine? Not so much.
“Stay still,” she said quietly. “It’s not attacking.”
“Yet,” I muttered. “It’s not attacking yet.”
Then it moved.
The beetle lunged forward, its glowing body pulsing brighter as it moved with surprising speed. Claire scrambled back into the hallway, her expression shifting from calm to oh-no-we’re-screwed in record time.
“Hit it!” she shouted, her voice sharp.
“Hit it with what? Stern disapproval?” I snapped, my brain scrambling for ideas while my legs seemed rooted to the ground.
The fire extinguisher caught my eye, half-hidden near the counter, its bright red cylinder practically screaming, _use me_. I dove for it, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process. Graceful, as always. The beetle clicked its mandibles again, the sound like a countdown timer to something catastrophic.
“Just a Level 1!” Claire called from the hallway. “Hit it before it—”
“—does something incredibly terrifying? Love the plan, hate the execution,” I shot back, gripping the extinguisher like it was Excalibur and I was the world’s least qualified knight.
I swung the extinguisher with all the finesse of a drunk baseball player. It whooshed through the air, missing the beetle by a mile as the little monster darted sideways with a rapid click-click-click. Its glowing body left streaks in my vision like it was taunting me.
Of course. It’s a ninja beetle. Why wouldn’t it be?
“You missed,” Claire said, her tone unimpressed.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious! Got any more helpful tips, or is my failure inspiring enough?”
The beetle scuttled closer, its glow intensifying with each click of its legs. The distorted shadows it cast made it look twice as large, and I could swear it was aiming for my ankles. I hopped back, holding the extinguisher in front of me like a shield.
The beetle pulsed brighter, its glow intensifying until the entire room shimmered in eerie green light. Shadows danced wildly on the walls, stretching and twisting like something out of a nightmare.
Claire’s voice cut through the chaos. “It’s charging! Move back!”
“Sure thing,” I said, stumbling toward the counter. “Any other genius advice? Maybe how to refund my subscription to this apocalypse?”
The beetle’s body shuddered, emitting a high-pitched whine. Not good. Definitely not good. I dove behind the counter just as the light exploded in a blinding flash, the air vibrating with energy.
**[Environmental Effect: Defensive Flash. Mitigation: Avoid direct line of sight. Effect avoided. Great job using the kitchen counter, coward.]**
Peeking over the counter’s edge, I caught sight of the beetle. It was still there, its glow dimmed but alive. Great. It was like a firework that forgot to burn out.
“Claire?” I called, squinting through the afterimages. “You alive?”
“Still here!” she shouted back from the hallway. “But maybe try hitting it this time instead of hiding?”
“Oh, absolutely. Let me just consult my training manual on bug homicide.”
Spotting a chair toppled over nearby, I grabbed one of its legs, the wood feeling solid enough in my grip to serve as a makeshift club. The beetle scuttled in a slow, jerky motion, recovering from its light show. Perfect. It was stunned. Probably.
I lunged forward, chair leg swinging with all the pent-up frustration of a man who really, really hated bugs. The impact landed with a dull crack, chipping a faint piece of its glowing carapace.
**[Attack: Improvised Weapon (Chair Leg). Damage: -1 HP. Lumic Beetle HP: 4/5. Impressive! You hurt a bug the size of a shoe. Truly inspiring.]**
The beetle hissed—a high-pitched, mechanical sound that sent shivers down my spine. It scuttled back, its glowing body flickering like a glitchy neon sign. I grinned, adrenaline buzzing in my veins.
“One down, four to go,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow. “This is going great.”
The sarcasm was automatic, a reflex against the growing dread clawing at my stomach. Because as much as I hated to admit it, the glowing portal behind the beetle was still there, and I wasn’t sure it was finished spewing out surprises.
The beetle’s glow flared again, but this time, it wasn’t a defensive flash. It scuttled forward, its sharp mandibles snapping with unnerving precision. And, of course, it went straight for my ankle. Because why not?
Pain lanced up my leg as its bite landed. I stumbled back with a yelp, barely keeping my balance.
**[HP Update: -3 HP. Current: 27/30. Cause: Lumic Bite. Look at that! Even bugs don’t skip leg day.]**
“Oh, great,” I hissed, gritting my teeth and shaking my leg like that would do anything. “Claire! Any chance your threat level update includes a ‘how to kill this thing’ section?”
“Still just says ‘low,’” she called back. “Although it’s looking a little less low right now!”
“Helpful as ever,” I muttered, gripping the chair leg tighter.
The beetle lunged again, its glow pulsating erratically like it was revving up for something worse. Desperation—or maybe just sheer spite—kicked in. With a roar that was probably more panic than battle cry, I swung the chair leg with everything I had.
The improvised weapon slammed into the beetle’s glowing core with a satisfying crunch, sending cracks spiderwebbing across its carapace. The light dimmed dramatically, flickering like a dying bulb.
**[Critical Hit! Damage: -3 HP. Lumic Beetle HP: 1/5. Hey, you actually hit something important. Shocking.]**
The beetle let out a piercing hiss, scuttling backward like it had just discovered regret. I didn’t let up. Not that I had a real strategy—more like pure adrenaline and the vague hope that if I hit it enough times, it would eventually stay down.
It lunged again, but I vaulted over the counter, my movements more instinctive than deliberate. My foot caught the edge, and I nearly face-planted, but somehow, I managed to recover. It was almost graceful.
Almost.
**[Skill Comprehension: Parkour Basics. Comprehension Progress: 1%. Congratulations! You almost tripped but somehow made it look intentional.]**
“Progress,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, spinning back toward the beetle. It wasn’t glowing as brightly now, its movements sluggish and jerky. It was like watching a wind-up toy run out of steam. Time to finish this.
I lunged forward, stomping down with all the force I could muster. My boot met the glowing core with a satisfying crunch, the beetle shattering in a burst of faint green light. It twitched once, its legs curling inward, before finally going still. The glow faded entirely, leaving the room darker—and eerily quiet.
**[Damage Inflicted: -1 HP. Lumic Beetle Defeated. HP: 0/5. Bug-squashing champion of the apocalypse. Truly inspiring.]**
The System’s snark didn’t bother me this time. If anything, it felt earned.
Another ping followed almost immediately.
**[XP Gained: +1. Progress: 1/1 toward Level 2. You’ve graduated from "barely surviving" to "slightly less pathetic." Keep up the...mediocrity?]**
I froze, staring at the words. My chest heaved from exertion, my heart pounding in my ears, but my brain latched onto two critical facts: one, I’d somehow survived; and two, the System thought I was ready for a promotion.
**[Notification: Level Up. Level 2 Achieved. Stat Changes: All Primary Stats +1. Derived Stats Recalculated. And just like that, you’re 10% less useless. Well done.]**
Before I could process what that meant, a strange sensation swept through me—warm, electric, like an invisible current was rippling under my skin. My arms felt heavier, in a good way, as if they’d been reinforced with an extra layer of muscle. I clenched my fist experimentally, surprised at the faint tension in my forearm that hadn’t been there before. Was this... strength?
_Stat changes are real. Stat changes are real,_ I thought, my grip tightening involuntarily.
Then came a rush in my chest—a deep, almost comforting breath of air that didn’t feel labored for the first time in what seemed like forever. My lungs expanded effortlessly, and even the dull ache in my legs from all the dodging seemed to melt away.
_Endurance,_ I realized. _Guess I might not pass out after running three feet anymore._
I shifted on my feet and nearly stumbled. My body responded faster than I expected, too fast, the sudden sharpness in my movements catching me off guard. The world around me seemed... clearer. Edges were sharper, colors brighter, and the faint hum of the portal grew louder, as if my ears had been fine-tuned.
“Hey, System,” I said, voice half-wary, half-curious. “Is this going to come with a manual, or am I just supposed to wing it?”
No response. Of course not. The snarky AI could insult me in real time but couldn’t explain how to handle a post-level-up glow-up. Typical.
I blinked, the rush of sensations finally slowing to something manageable. My muscles still felt taut, my mind sharper, and even the air itself seemed easier to breathe. My eyes flicked toward the top corner of my vision, half-expecting some kind of menu to appear. Nothing. Just the same dark, dusty room.
“Okay, fine,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “I’ll figure it out myself. Stats screen, inventory, skills... anything? Please?” Still nothing. Great. This was starting to feel less like a game and more like being dropped into an exam you didn’t study for.
I stepped back, exhaling sharply. The beetle’s remains dissolved into faint motes of light, floating up and vanishing before my eyes. In their place was something small, glowing faintly on the ground. I bent down and picked it up, the smooth fragment cool and surprisingly heavy in my hand.
**[Loot Acquired: Lumic Core Fragment (Common), 2 Copper Coins. Wallet Updated: +2 Copper. Enough to buy half a candy bar. Maybe.]**
I stared at the notification, then at the fragment in my hand. It hummed faintly, like it was alive. Or maybe that was just my nerves talking. Either way, it felt... valuable. Important, somehow.
“Claire,” I called out, holding up the fragment as she crept cautiously into the room. “I think I just got paid for killing a bug. Is this what it feels like to be an exterminator?”
She didn’t answer immediately, her eyes darting between me and the still-flickering portal. “Congratulations,” she said finally, her tone dry. “You’re officially overqualified for pest control.”
I grinned, slipping the fragment into my pocket. My grin didn’t last long. The low hum was back, vibrating through the room like the deep, resonant note of some enormous tuning fork. I glanced at the portal. It shimmered and twisted, the light within churning like an agitated storm.
“Uh... Claire?” I said, taking an instinctive step back. “Does that thing look like it’s about to do something worse, or is it just me?”
Before she could answer, the shadows beyond the portal shifted. Something moved, dark and spindly, its silhouette barely visible through the swirling light. My stomach dropped. The faint chittering started again, soft but unmistakable, crawling up my spine like nails on a chalkboard.
Then the System pinged, its tone sharp and clinical this time, like a cold knife pressed against my neck.
**[Notification: Additional entities detected. Prepare yourself, hero. Or, you know, run.]**
_Hero,_ I thought, gripping the chair leg tighter. _Sure. Because nothing says “hero” like a guy barely scraping through level two._