The smell of sizzling meat and the comforting hum of laughter filled the air as Frank flipped another burger on the grill. Life had a simple rhythm he appreciated—weekend BBQs, cold beer in hand, Cynthia laughing with friends a few feet away, the sound of ice clinking in glasses. He was in his element, the smoky scent of grilling meat and the warm summer breeze. He took a long pull from his beer, savoring the familiar taste. Life was good. Simple, just the way he liked it.

Suddenly, the sky darkened.

"Hey, do you think it’s gonna rain?" someone called from the other side of the yard, eyeing the churning clouds overhead.

Frank squinted at the sky, shrugging. “Maybe just a passing storm.”

But the sky had different plans. A jagged streak of lightning split the heavens with a deafening crack. The hairs on Frank's arms stood on end as the air itself seemed to buzz with electricity. The storm hit hard and fast, like nature had flipped a switch.

"Everyone inside!" Cynthia’s voice cut through the rumble of thunder.

And then it happened—a sudden, blinding flash.

A bolt of lightning struck the ground just feet from where he stood, sending everyone scattering. Frank stumbled back, his ears ringing, vision blurred. The world around him spun in chaotic slow motion—his friends’ voices distant, almost muffled. Cynthia was screaming, but the words didn't reach him.

Another flash. This one struck him directly.

For a moment, everything froze. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt—a burning, searing sensation ripping through his chest, as though the world itself was peeling him apart. His limbs went numb, the sensation of falling taking over as his mind slipped away, drowning in darkness.

When Frank opened his eyes again, he was greeted by an icy wind biting at his bare skin. His breath came out in ragged puffs of steam, and he shivered uncontrollably. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around himself, but something was wrong—very wrong. The warm, summery air of his backyard was gone, replaced by cold snow and towering pines. He was lying on the frozen ground, covered in nothing but a simple loincloth.

“What the hell…” Frank muttered, sitting up slowly, his teeth chattering. His head throbbed, a dull pain that pulsed behind his eyes.

The world around him was... familiar, but not in the comforting way he would’ve hoped. Tall, snow-covered trees surrounded him, and in the distance, jagged mountains loomed, their peaks lost in thick fog. It felt almost like a dream, like a distant memory clawing its way back to the surface.

But this wasn’t a dream. His skin prickled in the cold, the stubble on his face sharp and rough. He ran a hand over his head and realized his once longer hair was now buzzed short, a far cry from how he had looked just hours ago—or at least what felt like hours. How long has it been?

“Cynthia…” The name slipped from his lips, soft and mournful, her face flashing in his mind. He could see her in the backyard, could hear her laughter, but it all felt distant, like the echo of a life he no longer belonged to. He reached up to his chest where the lightning had struck, half-expecting to find some burn or scar. But there was nothing. Only the freezing cold and the growing weight of confusion.

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Frank forced himself to his feet, wobbling at first, but steadying as his surroundings became clearer. He rubbed his arms, trying to shake the chill. His feet sank into the snow, cold and wet, but that wasn't his biggest concern.

As he scanned the landscape, fragments of memory began to surface—vague at first, but growing stronger with every passing second. He stumbled forward, instinctively heading toward a narrow trail he didn’t even remember noticing. Each step sent a dull ache through his legs, but he couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t let the cold freeze him in place. But how? His pulse quickened as a sense of recognition swept over him.

“I know this place…” His voice cracked in the empty air. Ivarstead.

"No... it can’t be…" he whispered, backing up, his eyes darting around. He had seen this view before, in countless hours spent on his screen, exploring, questing, and surviving. But that was a game. A world he visited through a controller, not… here.

His breath quickened as the truth crept in. "Skyrim?" The word felt strange on his tongue, absurd even. But the more he looked around, the more undeniable it became. The dense forests outside of Ivarstead, the frosty air... Everything was as he remembered it, down to the sound of the distant waterfall rushing over the cliffs.

"It couldn’t be…" Frank ran a hand through his buzzed hair again, his mind racing. He closed his eyes, willing himself to wake up from this dream. But when he opened them again, the snow still clung to his legs, and the cold was real.

“Cynthia…” Her name was a whisper, barely escaping his chapped lips. The memory of her smile, her laugh, flooded his mind.

And then, just as his heart was pounding with disbelief, something appeared before his eyes. A flicker of light. No—more than light. A translucent screen popped up in front of him, familiar and alien all at once.

“What the hell?” His voice was hoarse, his breath coming out in harsh pants.

Magicka. Health. Stamina.

Three bars, floating just above his line of sight, as clear as any interface from the game.

"Oh, no..." Frank’s voice trembled, a mix of awe and terror. His hands moved as if out of instinct, swiping through the air, and the screen responded. An inventory window opened, showing an embarrassingly empty list—no weapons, no armor, nothing but the loincloth he was wearing.

"This... this isn’t happening." He stared at the screen, his mind reeling. "It’s just a game. I’m... in a game?"

But the chill of the air and the ache in his muscles told him otherwise. This wasn’t a dream, and this wasn’t some vivid hallucination. Somehow, impossibly, he had been pulled into the world of Skyrim. And now, here he stood, in nothing but rags, with no idea how—or why.

Taking a deep breath, Frank pushed down the rising panic. He needed to think. If this really was Skyrim, he knew what he had to do to survive. But knowing and doing were two very different things.

"Okay, Frank," he muttered to himself, "you’ve spent thousands of hours in this world. You’ve got this." His voice wavered, the cold sapping his confidence.

In the distance, the outline of Ivarstead’s buildings peeked through the trees. Shelter. Food. Warmth. But it wasn’t as simple as just walking into town. This was real now. And he had no idea what dangers awaited him.

With a deep breath and one last glance at the HUD floating before him, Frank started moving.