The courtroom lights felt cold and stark against Arthur Peterson's skin. He sat at the defendant's table, his fingers laced tightly, knuckles white. Across the aisle, his ex-wife, Amanda, sat with her lawyer, avoiding his gaze, her face a blank mask. When the judge's voice droned on about the terms of their divorce, it felt distant, almost unreal, like it was happening to someone else.

Half of his money, his house, even the boat he'd saved for years to buy—all gone. Amanda had been his life, his childhood sweetheart. He'd spent his youth building a future with her, picturing them growing old together like a scene from a romance movie. But now, with a pen stroke and a bang of the gavel, it was over. She took her fair share, and he was left with the short end of the stick.

As he exited the courthouse, the cold autumn wind cut through him like a knife. He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter, but the chill wasn't just from the weather. It was the emptiness inside, the feeling that everything he'd ever worked for had just slipped through his fingers. He'd had a plan, a life—now all he had was a few crumpled bills and a pocketful of memories that hurt too much to keep.

The neon lights of a liquor store caught his eye as he walked down the street, his footsteps heavy. He hadn't had a drink in years—not since he'd promised Amanda he'd turn things around. But now, that promise seemed empty, broken just like everything else. With a bitter sigh, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The store was dimly lit, with shelves stocked with bottles of every shape and color. Arthur went straight to the whiskey section, his eyes scanning the labels. Cheap, expensive—it didn't matter. Tonight, he wanted something strong enough to make him forget.

Just as he reached for a bottle, he heard a sudden commotion near the front counter. He turned his head to see a man in a dark hoodie, face partially hidden, pointing a gun at the store owner, who stood frozen, hands raised. The air seemed to thicken, his senses sharpening. He'd seen situations like this before and knew the signs, the tension, the fear that charged the room.

Instinct told him to turn away, to pretend he hadn't seen. He wasn't that man anymore—the one who used to dive headfirst into danger. He was just Arthur Peterson, a man barely holding his life together. But his body didn't seem to get the message. Before he knew it, he was moving toward the counter, his hands clenched into fists.

"Hey, don't do this," he said, voice calm but firm. "Put the gun down. No one has to get hurt." It wasn't about the words, he knew—it was about confidence, making the guy hesitate.

The robber's hand twitched on the gun, his eyes narrowing. "Back off, man! This ain't your business!"

Arthur's jaw tightened. He'd heard that line before—back when he'd worked in security. His instincts told him not to back down. He took a slow step forward, raising his hands. The robber's grip on the gun was shaky, his finger tense on the trigger. He was young, maybe the same age as his son might've been, if… things had turned out differently. The kid was scared out of his mind.

"It's not worth it. You can still walk out of here," Arthur said, his voice steady, though his own pulse pounded in his ears. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands raised, hoping to calm the boy down.

"Back off!" the robber snapped, his voice cracking. He took a step back, glancing nervously between Arthur and the store owner, his grip tightening on the gun. "I—don't come any closer, man. I mean it."

Arthur paused, assessing the situation, trying to figure out how to defuse it. But just then, the robber's finger slipped. In his panic, his grip spasmed, pulling the trigger.

The shot rang out, sharp and deafening. Arthur felt the impact before he registered the sound—a blast of white-hot pain blooming in his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. The shock of it sent him reeling back, stumbling against a shelf before crumpling to the ground, his hand instinctively clutching the wound as warmth spread beneath his fingers.

The store went silent. The robber stared at him in horror, his mouth open, eyes wide with terror. "I—I didn't mean to…" he whispered, taking a step back, then another, before he turned and bolted out the door.

The world around Arthur began to blur, the sounds growing muffled as he lay on the cold tile floor. He could hear the store owner's frantic calls for help, and the pounding of footsteps, but they all felt distant, as if he were slipping away, falling into darkness. His vision dimmed, the lights above him fading. And for a fleeting moment, he thought of Amanda, of what might've been if things had turned out differently.

His thoughts began to scatter, fragile as autumn leaves caught in the wind. With each breath, the pain in his chest softened, giving way to a strange, enveloping peace. He felt himself drifting, floating beyond the weight of his body.

Suddenly, a new sensation stirred deep within him—like something pressing on his mind, familiar yet unrecognizable. It was as though an unseen presence was reaching out to him, feeling through his thoughts, sifting through his fading memories.

[Analyzing…]

[Matching soul found.]

[Initializing…]

[Error: Host is non-responsive. Beginning soul-binding initialization. Processing core intentions.]

The words weren't spoken, but they resounded in his mind, soft yet urgent, accompanied by a faint glow in the darkness. Arthur was barely aware of it, more absorbed in the fragments of his life slipping through his fingers—the faces of friends, the warmth of old memories, the ache of regrets he'd never resolved. The system sifted through it all, parsing his emotions as it sought to understand him.

[Core Intent: Unfulfilled Purpose Detected. Binding in Progress.] 

[Error: Host Heartbeat Unstable. Immediate clarification required: State your wish.]

Arthur barely registered the voice, his mind too hazy to comprehend it fully. 'A wish?' What did he even want anymore? His life had collapsed, his dreams left in ruins. He mumbled, half to himself, "I just… I wanted a second chance… something meaningful…"

The system captured his intent, attempting to interpret his scattered, drifting thoughts.

[Analyzing Core Desire: 'Second Chance'—Purpose Validation Required…]

Images flashed before Arthur's eyes—memories from the job he'd once had, times he'd spent in hotels as a security guard, watching guests pass through. He remembered a sense of calm, of purpose, when he'd worked with people, making their stay safer, knowing he was part of something larger, even if only for a night.

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His murmur grew louder, words slipping from his lips. "A place where people come and go… a home for travelers…"

[Detected Intent: 'Create a refuge for those who wander.' Cross-referencing with host history. Detected skillset: management, hospitality, coordination. Calculating optimal integration.]

He started reminiscing about his time working as a security guard, the time he'd spent learning from observing his co-workers. 'If only I'd stuck to that job… who knows, maybe another me in another universe became the manager of a five-star hotel… haha…'

[Environment confirmation: Multiverse.]

[Initializing role: Manager of a Multiversal Hotel.]

He didn't fully understand his own words, the murmurs spilling out unbidden as memories faded and new images surfaced—thoughts of places he'd never been, of travelers from worlds he could barely imagine. "A hotel for… all kinds… from anywhere…"

The system accepted this, piecing together his scattered thoughts as a fundamental wish to create a place of rest and safety for anyone who needed it.

[Confirmed Purpose: Multiversal Hotel Management. Initializing Core Skills: 'Management,' 'Hospitality,' 'Coordination,' 'Multiverse Navigation.' Skill Level Assignment: Beginner. Skills will grow with experience. Further specialization unlocked through training.]

A faint warmth spread through his mind, almost as if the system were comforting him, giving him a new sense of direction. Yet Arthur remained unaware that each phrase, each half-formed wish, was being interpreted, woven into the foundation of a new life.

As his consciousness dimmed, one last memory flickered in his mind: the familiar, comforting image of a hotel lobby—polished floors, soft lighting, and the steady, rhythmic hum of a world filled with travelers. He'd felt a quiet purpose there, the sense of helping people find a brief respite from their journeys.

[Wish Confirmed. Binding Complete. Role Assigned: Multiversal Manager.]

With a soft hum, the system finished its binding, and Arthur's thoughts faded completely, leaving only the promise of something new, a place beyond pain and regret.

0~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~0

A dull ache pulsed through Arthur's chest as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. He blinked his vision clearing to reveal dim, flickering lights overhead and walls stained with patches of peeling paint. He was lying on a faded, lumpy couch, and the musty scent of old carpet filled his nostrils. The dull ache in his chest wasn't the kind of pain he expected after a gunshot; it felt too full, too alive, like a slow-burning ember that wouldn't cool. He rubbed at it absently, half-expecting blood on his fingertips.

With effort, he pushed himself up, wincing at the stiffness in his limbs. Confused, he looked around, expecting to see the sterile white of a hospital room, maybe a nurse or doctor nearby. But the room he was in was nothing like a hospital. It looked more like an outdated hotel lobby—though a particularly shabby one.

Rows of mismatched chairs lined the walls, and a dusty reception desk sat in one corner, a tarnished bell placed on top. The wallpaper was a tired floral print that had likely seen better days, and the carpet beneath his feet was threadbare, showing patches of worn-out fabric. He rubbed his eyes, convinced this must be a dream, a strange side effect of blood loss, or maybe… maybe he hadn't survived at all.

"Hello?" he called, his voice sounding strange in the empty space. There was no reply, only the faint hum of an unseen ventilation system. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he felt a strange disorientation—as if he had lost something but couldn't remember what. Memories of the robbery flickered in his mind, the feeling of cold tile beneath him as his life ebbed away. But here he was, standing, breathing, confused yet alive.

The lobby remained eerily silent as Arthur ran a hand through his hair, his fingers snagging on strands that felt unfamiliar. He frowned, his mind still clouded by fog, struggling to focus. Everything felt wrong—the room, the quiet, even the weight of his own body. He pushed the feeling aside, trying to think rationally.

"Right. This… this has to be a dream. I was shot," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm supposed to be in a hospital, not… wherever this is."

His mind grasped for something familiar, something real, but all he could focus on was the weight in his chest like he'd left something behind. For a moment, he considered that this was some afterlife—he was dead, and this shabby hotel was his eternal resting place. But the idea was absurd; he wasn't religious, he didn't believe in any of that. Yet the strange, empty feeling inside him lingered, gnawing at him like a half-forgotten memory he couldn't shake.

He walked to a dusty mirror hanging on the lobby wall, hesitant to look, and froze. The reflection staring back wasn't him. The face he saw was younger and sharper. "No," he whispered, the denial thick in his throat. "This… this isn't me." The face staring back felt like a mask, a sick parody. He swallowed hard, the sight unnerving like something alien had wrapped itself around him. His fingers trembled as he touched his white hair, golden eyes that looked like they belonged to someone else entirely, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

This has to be a dream, he thought, feeling the edge of hysteria prickling his thoughts. He pressed a hand against his chest, hoping to feel the bullet wound, some sign that this was all just a nightmare, that he'd wake up any moment. But there was nothing. No pain, no scar. Just an empty ache deep inside.

"Wake up," he said to himself, slapping his cheeks. "Come on, wake up. This can't be happening. I… I can't be someone else."

He tried to cling to the idea that he was still himself, still Arthur Peterson, but as he looked around at the strange, unwelcoming hotel, that certainty began to unravel. His anger flared, hot and desperate, as he slammed his fist onto the counter, rattling the old bell on top.

"This isn't fair!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty lobby. "I didn't ask for this. I just wanted my life back… I didn't… I didn't want any of this!"

The impact of his fist shot pain up his arm, grounding him in the present. He grabbed the tarnished bell and hurled it across the room, the sound echoing like a defiant cry into the emptiness.

The weight of his own words crushed him, leaving him breathless as he sank onto a nearby chair, burying his head in his hands. Memories of the divorce, the robbery, and the feeling of Amanda's absence surged back, mingling with the pain of loss he could barely articulate. This wasn't just losing a job or a house; it was losing everything—even himself.

As he sat there, time passed faster than the beat of his heart, and anger slowly dulled, replaced by an overwhelming sorrow. He felt as if he were drifting, caught between worlds, no longer belonging to any of them. It felt surreal, like some cruel joke. He thought of Amanda, of his life, and a bitter laugh escaped his lips.

"Please," he murmured, glancing up as if he expected some invisible presence to answer him. "Let me go back. I don't need anything else. I just… I just want my life back."

But the silence was his only reply. He closed his eyes, willing the sensation of floating to stop, willing himself to feel grounded again. Bargaining with whatever force had brought him here, he whispered promises to be better, to make amends, to be anything if he could only go back to what was familiar. But deep down, he felt a hollow certainty growing, a truth he couldn't ignore.

Arthur opened his eyes, staring at the strange reflection once more. His golden eyes seemed to glimmer, looking back at him with a calm he didn't feel. This new body felt like a betrayal, a painful reminder that he was no longer the man he'd once been. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning white, and took a shaky breath.

"Maybe… maybe there's a reason," he muttered, forcing himself to consider the unthinkable. This hotel, this new body, the strange thoughts that drifted through his mind—they all seemed connected, like pieces of a puzzle he was meant to solve. As much as he wanted to deny it, as much as he wanted to rage against it, he could feel something stirring within him, an invitation of sorts.

Perhaps this was what he'd wished for in those final moments—a second chance, a purpose. The thought both frightened and comforted him. Reluctantly, he let go of the counter and took a deep breath, feeling the ache in his chest lessen ever so slightly.

"Fine," he said quietly, It hurt to look at that stranger in the mirror and admit he was real. But there was no one else here to argue, and the pain in his chest wouldn't let him deny it anymore. Maybe it was fate, some twisted second chance, his voice steadying. "If this is real, then I'll figure it out. I'll… try. But this place," he glanced around the shabby lobby, "isn't it too shabby… who in their right mind would book this hotel."

For the first time since he'd woken, he felt the faintest echo of a whisper, distant yet firm, as if the hotel itself were waiting. Or watching. But he felt a strange pull toward the golden letter sitting on the dusty counter.