The phone cord tangled around Eugene’s fingers as he cradled the receiver against his ear. The patterned hum of the dial tone echoed faintly as he replayed the conversation that had just ended.
“Sorry, man. Something came up. Next week, for sure,” Matt’s voice had said, tinny and apologetic.
Eugene sighed. That was the third cancellation this month.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glanced at the table in the corner of his tiny living room. A hexagonal grid sprawled across its surface, scattered with painted miniatures frozen mid-charge or mid-incantation. Next to them sat his DM binder, meticulously organized, and the thick, spiral-bound rulebook he had almost memorized.
It wasn’t just a game to Eugene. It was the game. His players relied on him to craft intricate worlds, to breathe life into heroes and villains alike, to weave storylines that left them laughing, arguing, or gasping in awe. Yet, lately, it felt like no one else cared.
“Next week, for sure,” Eugene muttered under his breath, mimicking Matt’s tone.
He hung up the phone, the receiver clicking into place. For a moment, he sat there in the quiet, the distant sound of his upstairs neighbor’s TV barely audible.
It wasn’t that Eugene minded solitude. He thrived on it, in fact, with his books stacked high and the local library’s return slips tucked neatly as bookmarks. Jung, Wolfe, Le Guin—they all had a place on his cluttered shelves, nestled among well-worn VHS tapes of fantasy epics and cult classics. But tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight, Eugene had planned to sit at the head of the table, clutching his twenty-sided die, commanding attention like the dungeon masters he idolized.
Now, Friday night stretched ahead of him, void and dull.
He tugged at the hem of his Figeraldo’s Video polo shirt, still slightly wrinkled from his earlier shift. The idea of going back there, even for a rental, made his skin itch. He needed something to distract himself, something new.
Eugene grabbed his coat and keys. “Blockbuster it is,” he muttered, stepping out into the cool evening air.
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The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as Eugene pushed through the glass doors of Blockbuster. He wasn’t proud of being here; Figeraldo’s prided itself on its homey charm, a place where the staff actually cared about movies, unlike this corporate chain with its endless rows of plastic cases. Still, Eugene figured he could allow himself this one indiscretion.
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He wandered the aisles, trailing his fingers along the spines of DVDs. Big-budget action movies sat cheek by jowl with rom-coms, horror flicks, and straight-to-video oddities. Nothing jumped out at him yet, but the browsing was half the fun.
“Hey, babe, how about you give me your number?”
The voice came from the far side of the store, where a group of teenagers stood by the comedy section. Eugene turned his head slightly, catching sight of the source: a man in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered and scruffy, leering at two high school girls.
The girls exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes. “Hard pass,” one of them said, her tone dripping with disdain.
“Come on,” the man persisted, his grin widening. “Don’t play hard to get.”
Eugene froze, his stomach twisting. He hated confrontation. More than that, he hated men like this one—loud, entitled, the kind of guy who thought the world owed him attention.
One of the girls turned on her heel, her friend close behind. “Creep,” she muttered under her breath as they walked away.
Eugene snickered, barely more than a puff of air through his nose. He couldn’t help it. The man’s expression—equal parts confusion and wounded pride—was ridiculous.
“What’re you laughing at?”
The man’s gaze snapped to Eugene, who instantly regretted his tiny act of defiance. He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.
“You think that’s funny?” the man demanded, stepping closer. His voice was sharp now, cutting through the ambient noise of the store. “You got something to say?”
“N-no,” Eugene stammered, taking a step back. “I—I didn’t mean—”
Before he could finish, the man’s fist shot out, catching him square in the nose.
Pain exploded across Eugene’s face as he stumbled backward, his vision swimming. He hit the floor hard, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. Around him, the world was a blur of fluorescent light and muffled gasps.
The man loomed over him, his fists clenched, his face twisted with anger. Eugene struggled to focus, to move, but his body felt heavy, distant.
And then, it happened.
A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading outward like the first rays of dawn. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought he might be having a heart attack.
But it wasn’t pain he felt—it was something else, something vast and overwhelming.
Light poured from his mouth and eyes, brilliant and blinding. The man staggered back, shielding his face, while the rest of the store erupted into chaos.
Eugene didn’t scream. He didn’t even feel afraid. The light consumed him, filled him, until he was nothing but brightness and heat and power.
And then, with a deafening crack, he was gone.
The Blockbuster fell silent, save for the hum of the lights and the faint whimper of the man who had struck him.
Eugene had vanished, leaving nothing behind but a faint scorch mark on the carpet and the lingering scent of ozone.