The glowing screen hung in the air, casting a golden light that seemed to hum with its own energy.

WELCOME TO THE COSMIC MASTERY SYSTEM.

Please Begin Character Customization.

I blinked, my breath shaky as I stared at the words. This had to be a hallucination, some wild fever dream as my body bled out on the dingy carpet of my apartment. But the screen felt real. The smooth, otherworldly hum wasn’t just something I was hearing—it thrummed through my bones.

“Alright,” I muttered, forcing down the panic that threatened to swallow me whole. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

The letters shimmered and rearranged themselves, presenting the first choice:

SELECT YOUR RACE.

Below it, a list of options appeared, and I scrolled through them, wide-eyed.

Terran: Versatile and adaptive.

Kyr’vox: Hive-minded insectoids.

Plasmonic: Living plasma beings.

Auralisian: Luminous entities fueled by starlight.

I kept scrolling, my pulse quickening as I read through the possibilities. Each race sounded like it had been ripped straight out of a sci-fi RPG. And then I saw it:

Cyberian.

The description hit me like a lightning bolt: A cybernetically enhanced humanoid species, their bodies augmented with advanced tech for unparalleled efficiency.

The perks sold me immediately:

* Integrated Systems: +10% efficiency with tech weapons.

* Neural Uplink: Faster skill learning.

* Combat Modifications: Increased critical hit chance.

My gaze lingered on the words "cybernetically enhanced." I wasn’t sure what that would mean for my body, but if I was going to survive whatever this was, I’d need every edge I could get.

“Cyberian,” I said.

The text rippled, dissolving as the screen pulsed with light.

RACE SELECTED: CYBERIAN.

SELECT YOUR CLASS.

Another cascade of options unfurled:

Starblade: Cosmic melee warriors.

Voidstalker: Masters of stealth and shadows.

Solar Warden: Guardians powered by starlight.

Cyber Hunter: Tech-savvy marksmen specializing in precision and gadgets...

I stopped scrolling the moment I saw it. Cyber Hunter.

The description practically screamed my name: Tech-savvy marksmen who combine precision with advanced gadgets, turning the battlefield into a playground of destruction.

The perks were perfect:

* Targeting Precision: +5% critical hit chance with ranged weapons.

* Holo Distraction: Reduce enemy accuracy after deploying gadgets.

* Energy Optimization: Reduce the energy cost of all abilities.

It was a no-brainer. My entire life, I’d been good at thinking on my feet and adapting to the chaos around me. Cyber Hunter sounded like the perfect class for someone who didn’t need brute strength—just strategy and a bit of tech.

“Cyber Hunter,” I said firmly.

The screen acknowledged my choice with a flash of light.

CLASS SELECTED: CYBER HUNTER.

SELECT YOUR BACKGROUND.

A new list appeared, each background tied to a planet and loaded with unique perks.

Terra (Homeworld Survivor): Earth-like, adaptable.

Crytharix (Frostborn): A frozen tundra.

Exarion (Technocrat): A high-tech planet ruled by AI…

I hesitated, scrolling through names and descriptions until one stopped me cold:

Nexar Prime (Urban Inventor).

The description read like it was tailored for me: A sprawling mega-city world, home to constant innovation and brutal competition. Survival there requires ingenuity and quick thinking.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The perks were exactly what I needed:

* Tech Savvy: +10% efficiency with gadgets.

* Hacker’s Edge: Decrypt systems faster.

It was perfect.

“Nexar Prime,” I said.

The golden screen displayed my final choices:

RACE: Cyberian.

CLASS: Cyber Hunter.

BACKGROUND: Nexar Prime (Urban Inventor).

I exhaled, bracing for whatever came next. For a moment, everything was still. Then the screen dissolved into cascading light, and the walls of the cell trembled. A low, electric hum filled the air, vibrating through my body.

That’s when the pain hit.

It wasn’t sharp, like the gunshot—it was deeper, like every nerve in my body was being rewired. My vision blurred, my limbs stiffened, and then I was on the floor, convulsing.

I could feel it happening. Metal tendrils snaking through my veins, circuits fusing with muscle, my mind stretching to accommodate something bigger than itself.

My body became a battlefield, torn between agony and raw energy, until finally, the transformation stopped. I lay there, gasping, my mind buzzing with…something new.

Slowly, I pushed myself to my knees. My body felt lighter, faster, more precise. My vision was sharper, and as I flexed my fingers, I saw faint lines of circuitry glowing beneath my skin.

Before I could fully process what had happened, a voice echoed through the room, rich and mechanical:

“Customization complete. Welcome, Ethan Parker, Cyberian Cyber Hunter of Nexar Prime, to the Cosmic Mastery System.”

I stared into the glowing void, adrenaline pumping through me.

I was still flexing my fingers, marveling at the faint blue circuitry pulsing beneath my skin, when I heard it. A groan.

My head snapped up toward the top bunk. The mattress creaked, and fabric rustled as whoever was up there stirred.

“Ugh… where…” A deep, gravelly voice muttered, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “The hell?”

I shuffled back instinctively, pressing myself against the wall. My attention locked on the top bunk as a man swung his legs over the edge. For a second, I thought I might be hallucinating. He was huge—broad shoulders, military buzz cut streaked with gray, the kind of guy who could probably bench press me without breaking a sweat. But his expression wasn’t exactly reassuring. His eyes were wide, darting around the room with a mixture of confusion and rising panic.

He glanced down at his hands, and his jaw dropped. “What the…?”

I didn’t blame him for freaking out. His hands weren’t normal—they glinted faintly in the dim light, metallic and segmented like advanced prosthetics. His arms followed suit, cybernetic plating gleaming with precision-engineered joints.

He muttered a string of curses under his breath, flexing his fingers and staring at them like they might bite him.

“Uh… you okay up there?” I asked cautiously.

His head snapped down, his steel-gray eyes locking onto me like twin searchlights. For a second, he just stared, his brow furrowing. Then he dropped from the top bunk with a thud that shook the cell.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

“Ethan,” I said, raising my hands in what I hoped was a non-threatening gesture. “Ethan Parker. I woke up here, same as you.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move. “Where’s ‘here’?”

I hesitated. “Your guess is as good as mine. But judging by the high-tech décor and the fact that neither of us look… normal, I’m guessing it’s not Kansas.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he took a step back, holding his metallic arms out in front of him like they were some kind of alien artifact. “This—this isn’t right,” he muttered. “I saw a screen. It asked me all these questions. Race. Class. Background.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Same here.”

He looked up sharply. “You saw it too?”

“Yep.” I gestured to myself. “Cyberian. Cyber Hunter. Nexar Prime.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly. “Cyberian? Is that what this is?” He flexed his hands again, shaking his head. “Goddamn it. This is just like the crap my kid plays on his computer. That screen looked just like one of his games.”

That caught me off guard. “Your kid?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening for the first time. “My youngest. He’s into those… role-playing games. The ones with the stats and levels. I used to watch him sometimes. Thought it was all nonsense. Now…” He trailed off, staring at his arms.

“Well,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “It looks like we’re in one of those games now. Guess we’re both players.”

The man let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Lucky me. The name’s Milo, by the way. Milo Carver. Retired military, fifty years old, father of three, and apparently some kind of… space cyborg now.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Nice to meet you, Milo. Ethan Parker. Office worker, twenty-nine, no kids, and apparently not built for combat.”

Milo snorted, finally looking around the room. His sharp gaze lingered on the smooth, metallic walls, the shimmering air rippling faintly like a paused video feed. “This place,” he said, his voice low, “it looks like a prison.”

I swallowed hard. Now that he said it, the thought hit me like a punch to the gut. The bunks. The locked door. The sterile, suffocating atmosphere.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “It does.”

Milo crossed his arms, his metallic fingers tapping rhythmically against his bicep. “Alright. First things first. If this is a prison, we’re getting out.”

“Agreed,” I said quickly. “Any ideas on how?”

Milo looked at me, then at the door on the far side of the room. It was sleek and featureless, with no obvious handle or keypad. “We need information,” he said. “If this place runs on systems like that screen you mentioned, maybe we can hack into something. Or find someone who knows what the hell’s going on.”

I nodded, relief flooding through me. Having someone like Milo here—someone who seemed to know what he was doing—was more comforting than I cared to admit.

Then a loud click echoed through the room, followed by the low hum of machinery. Milo and I both froze, our eyes snapping to the door as it slid open with a mechanical hiss.

Beyond it was a corridor, dimly lit and stretching into the unknown.

“Well,” Milo said, his voice dry. “Looks like they just rolled out the red carpet.”

“Do we… go?” I asked.

He gave me a sharp look. “We don’t have a choice, kid. But stay close. If this really is a prison, it’s not just us in here.”

I nodded, my stomach churning as I followed him toward the open door.

Whatever was waiting for us out there, it couldn’t be worse than staying here.

Right?