Roberto pushed through the glass door of the café with the morning swagger that suggested he’d already lived an entire day before sunrise. He was born dramatic. Even the soft jingle of the door sounded like it was applauding him.

  It was still early, the hour where the world yawned instead of hurried. The café was half full: a couple of sleepy office workers clutching their cappuccinos like life preservers, an old man stirring sugar into his macchiato with monk-like patience, and a young couple sharing a croissant in suspiciously synchronized bites.

  Behind the counter, Isabel glanced up with mild horror. Then the patented sibling eye-roll so powerful it should’ve been registered as a natural disaster.

  “Bro, per favore,” she groaned, switching between exasperation and affection with the ease of someone raised to survive Roberto. “Getting breakfast from me again? When you finally get a job?”

  Roberto’s hands flew to his chest, wounded. “Isabel! Madonna mia, you cut me before the coffee even touches my lips.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Translation: Try harder.

  He leaned on the counter, palms splayed, grin crooked, voice dropping into that guilty-little-brother charm he deployed like artillery. “I have a job offer, sai? My adorable bella Charlie, she promised she can hire me.”

  Isabel blinked. Then sighed. “That poor girl,” she muttered under her breath, already reaching for the espresso portafilter with an air of resignation.

  Roberto straightened, affronted. “Ehi! No, no, you cannot pity her! She is fantastica! A queen of parties. La festa? A few days ago? It was—” he kissed his fingertips, flinging the gesture dramatically into the air— “perfetta. Even the lights danced.”

  Isabel snorted. “Lights don’t dance, stupido.”

  “With Charlie? Everything dances,” he said proudly, tapping the counter for emphasis.

  And Isabel, despite herself, smiled.

  Roberto strolled toward his car with the self-assured grace of a man entering a duel he was already winning. He didn’t need to look at the machine to know it was ready.

  He slid inside, tapped the wheel twice like greeting an old friend, and the engine purred awake. “Aaaah… perfetto. Let’s take the scenic route, sì?”

  And he did.

  The morning traffic was light—miracolo!—so he let the drive unfold like a lazy waltz, only going over a hundred. No rush, no chaos. Just music humming from the speakers, a cool breeze through the cracked window, and Roberto drumming his fingers on the wheel like every red light was an invitation to make a dance between AI cars.

  When the towering silhouette of the Rimebreak skyscraper rose ahead, gleaming like some futuristic cathedral, he slowed just enough to flash the little access card Charlie’s assistant had given him. The security scanner blinked green.

  “Visto? They recognize greatness,” he said to absolutely no one, winking at the sensor.

  The barrier lifted. He dipped downward into the underground parking, spiraling through clean steel and concrete until he found a spot near the elevators.

  Roberto stepped out of the car, straightened his jacket—wrinkled, but charmingly so—and headed for the elevator that led into the building proper. He glanced up at the small security camera above the doors.

  “Buongiorno, signorina camera,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat with a flourish. “Try to catch my good angle, eh?”

  The elevator dinged, and up he went.

  When the doors slid open at the main lobby, he stepped out into enthusiastic noise, clacking heels, chattering employees, coffee cups sloshing, the rhythm of a workplace that actually felt alive.

  Roberto strutted to the front desk, where a junior secretary in a neat blouse glanced up. “Ciao!” he said with a smile that could power a small town. “I am here for a job offer. Roberto’s the name.”

  She blinked, checked her computer, and then pointed toward a hallway plastered with helpful signs. “HR handles all hiring. It is on the elevator button, big HR letters. Your room is 11.”

  Roberto gave a theatrical shrug. “Va bene. Lead me to bureaucracy.”

  Another elevator ride later, he entered HR.

  The air changed instantly.

  Gray suits. Gray desks. Gray walls. Charlie’s stern posters. Cheery greetings delivered with the dead-eyed energy of flight attendants in a storm. Everything smelled faintly of toner and cheap perfume.

  Roberto stepped into HR like a splash of color entering a grayscale photo. The rows of gray suits barely looked up, except one woman near the front, who gave him a half-hearted wave without lifting more than a wrist.

  Her expression was the embodiment of I have seen everything, and none of it impressed me.

  “Welcome to Rimebreak,” she droned, voice flat. “Who invited you?”

  Roberto blinked. “Uh… scusa—I thought you accepted people?”

  She let out the longest, most soul-crushed sigh known to corporate humanity. “You’re one of those. Name?”

  His shoulders drooped in theatrical defeat. His charm, la potenza di Roberto, bounced right off her. “Costa. Roberto Costa.”

  She clicked something, squinted, clicked again. “You’re in the system, but blank. Some intern must’ve screwed up filing your info. No matter.” She attempted a smile; it failed on takeoff. “What is your experience in our field other than Rimelion? Tell me about a time a raid or guild event didn’t go as planned. What happened? What was your role, and what did you learn from it?”

  Roberto stared at her. “…Uh. Raid? Ah! Sì! Recently, we raided that maison, and mamma mia, it was glorious!” His hands flew everywhere. “I rode this beast—”

  She cut him off without a single blink. “What game was that?”

  “Uh…” Roberto blinked twice. “No game? I don’t really play games…?”

  She breathed in, long-suffering. Corporate-level despair. “Look, Roberto. What was your previous experience? What is your job?”

  “Tüber driver,” he said proudly. “Reason I want to work here. It doesn’t pay well, ma I love fast cars.”

  “So you have… no experience in gaming.” She pushed her keyboard aside and clicked something on her holo-screen. “That is… not acceptable.”

  For a moment, Roberto’s shoulders dipped. His smile faltered, just a flicker, but it was there. Charlie bella promised… cosa sea succedendo? Then he straightened and gave her a hopeful grin. “Really? I learn fast. Prometto, I can learn.”

  She shook her head, sympathy-free. “We have no shortage of, sorry for the word, grunts. What the Queen is looking for,” she gestured at the wall, where Charlie stared down from a hyper-realistic poster like a boss about to fire half the planet, “is elites. Or people with the potential to become elite.”

  “That’s me,” Roberto winked. “I’m special. Sì?”

  She exhaled. “I thank you for the interest, but you are not our ideal candidate. I have no idea how you even made it past the first screening. Doors are there.”

  She’d already pulled out her holo, mentally done with him.

  Roberto reached into his pocket and held up his badge. “So I… have to return this?”

  She rolled her eyes upward and froze mid-rotation. “Is that—VIP pass?!”

  She snatched it from his hand as if it might detonate. Her eyes narrowed at him with the suspicion normally reserved for racers disguised as UPS drivers. “Who… may I ask who gave you this?”

  “Oh, Charlie, my bella,” Roberto laughed as he rose from the chair. “Thank you for the interview, signorina. You were charming.”

  “Wait—wait.” She practically leapt to her feet. “Sit. Down.”

  He sat, puzzled.

  She turned the badge over in her fingers as if she expected it to glow. “Roberto, this… this means you don’t need to talk to me to be hired. You had already been hired. For reasons…” she swallowed, “…far above my pay grade. If I may ask… who put you in the system?”

  “Oh, that cute assistant of Charlie? Lola?” Roberto tapped his temple, trying to recall. “Sì, I think Lola.”

  The woman paled.

  “I… see. No wonder. She probably deemed the details not… uh… important and left the rest to us.”

  She sat slowly, very slowly, glancing sideways at Charlie’s poster like it might judge her for being rude earlier. “Alright,” she said, pulling up Roberto’s blank profile. “Let’s get you properly into the system then.”

  Roberto whistled his way up the stairwell like it was a personal triumph. “Eh, who needs the gym when you have stairs, sì?” He wasn’t even out of breath, mostly, and the upbeat rhythm of his footsteps echoed off the concrete like a marching band that got lost but stayed enthusiastic.

  He pushed open the door to the training room.

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

  A few rows of seats were already arranged in front of a projector screen, and a man in a too-neat suit stood at the front, hands clasped, eyes bright with that I-love-presentations hunger.

  “Ah! Our last one, come in!”

  Roberto muttered something under his breath, always last, sempre, and took a seat next to a guy wearing shorts and a hoodie, who looked like he just rolled out of bed and decided corporate orientation was the best way to spend his morning.

  Before Roberto could say a single charming word, the presenter launched in:

  “As you may know,” the man said, puffing up importantly, “Rimelion is a real world, so your decisions there will matter far more than you think. When you go there, the world is as real as ours. Everything we do has consequences. Don’t be fooled by the game system.”

  He gestured dramatically to a poster on the wall, Charlie smiling and winking. Somehow, despite the cheerful pose, her smirk looked like it could end economies.

  “As you know, our Queen is an elf. On Earth. She has merged her body, so you can consider that proof. I will now go over your sheets and help you pick—”

  Roberto tuned out.

  Slowly.

  Beautifully.

  With the grace of a man who had mastered the art of not listening to nerds talk about stats.

  His brain drifted:

  Yes, yes, consequences… but when do I get to go vroom?

  Race options? Eh, choose whatever looks the best.

  Stats? Bah. If Charlie wants me strong, I will become strong.

  If she wants me handsome… sono già perfetto.

  Slides passed. Rules passed. A miniature lecture about “racial synergies” nearly killed him.

  At the end of the session, the presenter handed out holo-pads filled with corporate structure and rules. Roberto signed without looking.

  Just like he ignored the HR contract. If Charlie bella ever wanted to screw me over, he smirked internally, she could steal my cuore. Easier than paperwork.

  After another eternity the instructor finally handed each person a fresh holo with their character creation interface.

  “Remember,” he said, cheerful now, “you can pick anything. The Queen’s orders are clear, you are free to explore as you desire.”

  Roberto raised his hand.

  “Just tell me,” he said, leaning forward, “who handles the drinks the best… and likes fast cars. Uh, mounts.”

  The man blinked, startled… then brightened like someone finally asked a question he loved.

  “What a question! Hmm, with their constitution boosts…” he mumbled, lost in thought. “But culturally not that acceptable… malus to intelligence… and then also malus to strength…” He wandered through the data in his head for a full minute.

  At last, he nodded.

  “Rfocs. Almost nobody picks them because of the penalties, and their skin is deep brown with purple streaks. But—”

  “My question?” Roberto reminded gently.

  The man beamed.

  “Their constitution bonus is insane. Helps them drink like champions, our historian told me yesterday about one Rfoc who drank as much as two dwarves combined and won. Also, I saw on the forums that one of the fastest mounts in the game was found by an Rfoc player.”

  Roberto’s grin was instant and full wattage. “Perfetto. Sign me in.”

  He selected “Rfoc” on the holo, didn’t bother changing any appearance sliders, default was fine, he’d grow into it, and slapped the holo shut with satisfaction.

  Fast mounts. Strong drinks.

  La vita perfetta.

  Roberto opened his eyes to sunlight and for a moment he thought someone had changed the saturation settings on the world.

  Then he realized he had changed.

  He was taller. Not by much, but enough that the ground felt a fraction farther away. His hands, holy mother of espresso, were exactly as the suit-man had described: a deep, earthy brown, streaked with curving lines of violet, like someone had painted lightning through his skin.

  “Madonna… bello,” he murmured, turning his hand over. It wasn’t frightening. Just new. Different. Wild.

  And he liked the wild.

  He looked around.

  He was standing at the bottom of a dirt pit. A real pit. Wooden crates stacked around the rim like someone had been mid-delivery.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  A voice answered immediately. “Ah! Another!”

  Roberto climbed up, feet already used to this extra weight, this new height. When he reached the top, he saw her.

  A woman, Rfoc like him, stood waiting. Her skin mirrored his, deep brown with elegant swirls of purple, but her clothing… mamma mia.

  Layered leather straps, beads, and cloth wraps crossed her torso and shoulders, leaving most of the large purple streaks exposed, glowing faintly under the sun like natural tattoos. Her hair was braided tight, adorned with tiny silver rings. Her smile was bright and warm.

  “Oh! Una bella signorina! A beauty!” Roberto laughed, spreading his arms as if welcoming good fortune itself. And he meant it; she was stunning, strong, confident. The unusual skin tone didn’t faze him at all; it suited her.

  She dipped her head politely. “Thank you. Yes… this is where the gods decided you should enter our realm.” Her voice bubbled with excitement. “Our elders think it’s the best thing that could happen. You outsiders make excellent drinking partners.”

  She laughed at her own joke, and Roberto instantly joined in.

  “Perfetto! Drinking is my specialty,” he grinned. “So, signorina… how do we do this?”

  She gave him a look. Up and down. Assessing. “Do you fear pain?”

  Roberto blinked. “Depends on the pain?” He remembered the instructor’s advice about realism settings. He’d set his to one hundred.

  Her grin widened. “Favorite weapon?”

  He shrugged. “I shoot, sure, but I can’t use a bow. When I was younger, we used axes with my pa to cut wood…” He rubbed his chin. “So maybe something like that?”

  “Perfect.” She turned, pulled a crate open, and rummaged inside.

  “This,” she said proudly, lifting a compact crossbow with one hand, “is a repeat crossbow. Only ten bolts. Reloading is annoying, and it’s not as good as a bow, but…” she glanced at his bare arms.

  Roberto looked down. Yep, bare-chested. The only thing he wore was a skirt-like hide wrap from waist to knees. No armor. No shirt. No shoes.

  “…we’re not as strong,” she finished with a grin. “So we use what we can, right?”

  She handed him the crossbow.

  It was tiny, one-handed, sleek, with a wooden grip polished smooth by previous owners. A metal slide mechanism sat across the top, ready to feed bolt after bolt with a satisfying click. Then she handed him a bundle of bolts. A lot of them. And a single, short one-handed axe

  “Now,” she said, stepping back to give him space, “we believe in trial by combat. You can’t die here, at least not for long, so our elders decided you should fight until you can’t stand.”

  She pointed behind her to a massive wooden gate carved with swirling patterns. “You’ll be in pit sixty-four. The world fragment will generate enemies for you to fight.” Her eyes sparkled… excited for him, or for the show. “Ready?” she asked.

  Roberto grinned, lifting his new crossbow like a toy he absolutely should not be trusted with.

  “Sempre pronto, signorina.”

  She handed him one last thing; twnty squat glass bottles filled with a swirling amber and red liquid. Her smirk said chaos incoming.

  “Red ones are for after fights, the others… for courage. Don’t drink it all at once. ”

  Roberto pressed a hand to his heart. “Signorina, I am insulted. I am a professional.”

  He was absolutely going to drink it all at once.

  He slipped the bottles, bolts, and axe into his inventory, mamma mia, that felt weird and cool at the same time, and headed toward pit sixty-four. The corridor was carved into reddish stone, flickering torches casting long shadows. He expected… something. A ceremony, a gatekeeper, cheering, a mystical vibe, maybe a drum circle.

  Instead?

  A single glowing system message hovered in front of him:

  [Attention! ENTER PIT 64 TO BEGIN TRIAL]

  [Attention! DEFEAT ALL MONSTERS]

  He sighed. “Eh, I can do that.”

  Before stepping inside, Roberto pulled out one bottle. “Just a little,” he promised himself.

  He took a sip.

  Strong. Warm. Burned a bit. So he drank the whole bottle anyway.

  [Attention! You have entered Intoxicated State 1]

  [Pain tolerance increased by 40%]

  Roberto laughed so loud it echoed. “Charlie must love it here!”

  He stepped into the pit. A circular arena about ten meters wide. Nothing else.

  Then… a ripple in the air. A pop like compressed air being released. A creature snapped into existence two meters away.

  It was… nothing from Earth. Six legs like a panther, but jointed wrong. Blue-black fur. Mandibles. Too many teeth. Not enough sense of personal space.

  It screamed and lunged.

  Roberto barely had time to raise the repeat crossbow before the creature slammed into him like an angry motorcycle. He staggered, bare feet skidding in the sand, the breath punched right out of him.

  He shouted something incomprehensible and pulled the trigger on instinct.

  Thunk-thunk-thunk!

  Three bolts fired in rapid succession, one grazing its shoulder, the others sticking shallow into its hide. The beast shrieked, turned, and leapt again.

  Roberto yelped and threw himself sideways. The alcohol helped, sort of. His instincts were loose, floaty, relaxed. His limbs felt delayed. But he wasn’t panicking. The hits didn’t hurt as much as they should have.

  “Well, that’s the forty percent!” he wheezed, grinning despite himself.

  The creature slashed at him. Claws skimmed his chest, scoring lines of burning pain. Roberto hissed, stumbled, fired again. The crossbow clicked uselessly.

  “No no no! Not now! Stronzo weapon!”

  He dropped it and fumbled for the axe just as the creature pounced. Its weight crashed into him, driving him to the dirt. Mandibles snapped inches from his face, close enough that he could smell something foul and wrong.

  Roberto shoved an arm under its throat and swung blindly with the axe.

  Crack!

  The axe connected with something solid. The creature reeled back, stunned. Roberto scrambled to his feet, breathing hard, adrenaline pounding through the alcohol haze.

  Pain flared across his ribs, back, and arms; hot, stinging, but manageable.

  The monster lunged again. This time Roberto sidestepped, brought the axe down in a clumsy arc, and hit its flank. It screamed, twisting around, tail whipping across his face hard enough to make his vision blur.

  “Ow! Cazzo!”

  He swung again. Miss. Another swing. He clipped its leg. It staggered, favoring the injured limb. Roberto, sweaty, bleeding, and very drunk, couldn’t help but grin.

  “One more!”

  He charged this time, closing distance before it could recover. He slammed his shoulder into its body, knocking it off balance, then buried the axe into the side of its neck with both hands and all his weight.

  The creature collapsed in a shuddering heap.

  Silence.

  Roberto stood there panting, covered in sand and sweat, cuts stinging all over his body. Blood trickled down his arm. His wrist throbbed. His ribs felt bruised.

  He checked his settings, squinting at the floating interface.

  “One hundred percent... mamma mia. Charlie really is insane.” He shrugged. “My back pain at home is still worse.”

  He wiped the sweat from his brow, retrieved his crossbow, downed a healing potion that tasted like medicinal honey, and prepared for whatever came next.

  Roberto dragged himself out of the pit sixty-four hours later, crawling over the edge like a man returning from war… or from a very enthusiastic pub crawl. Sand clung to him. Sweat dripped. Faint glowing streaks of purple that hadn’t been there before pulsed.

  He stared at them.

  “Oooh… bello. Level four already,” he murmured, patting one glowing line on his ribs as if it were a new tattoo he didn’t remember getting.

  All around him, other pits rattled with noise; players yelling, cursing, fighting for their lives against creatures that made Roberto’s first opponent look polite. A spear flew out of one pit. Someone screamed in another. A man with a bruised face begged the system to reconsider his realism settings.

  Roberto ignored all of it.

  He dusted himself off and marched over to the woman from earlier, who was leaning on a crate, arms crossed, watching him approach with a knowing smirk.

  “Hello, signorina,” he said, flashing his best grin. “I didn’t get your name.”

  She lifted her chin, purple streaks shimmering on her skin. “You need to earn the right to hear it.” Her gaze slid across the new lines on his arms and chest. “But I see you were busy fighting. Hawwa. How was it? And why did you stop?”

  “Roberto!” he declared proudly, tapping his chest. “And I stopped because, uh…” he held up an empty bottle and a quiver full of nothing. “…I’m out of booze and bolts.”

  Hawwa burst into laughter.

  “Of course! You’re already one of us.” She sounded far too proud, as if she’d personally forged him out of alcohol and questionable decisions.

  Roberto was about to say something charming, and probably ill-advised, when a blur shot across the pits.

  A tearing wind slammed into him hard enough that he had to brace his legs or fall over. Sand whipped up in a wave. His hair flew back.

  “What—cazzo!—was that?!”

  He turned just in time to see it: a creature shaped like a bird-kangaroo hybrid, towering and glistening, its feathers shimmering like a heat mirage, its legs built for impossible speed. It bounded across the arena grounds, each step a thunderclap, each stride faster than a motorcycle tearing down a racetrack.

  Majestic didn’t even cover it.

  Hawwa smiled softly, almost reverently. “That? Ah… one of the messengers.”

  Roberto’s eyes widened, then lit up with determination. “Can I ride one?!”

  Hawwa lifted a bottle, his bottle, apparently, and took a long drink before answering with a dreamy sigh. “Only the elite can.” Her gaze followed the creature longingly. “One day… maybe even we can…”

  Roberto nodded solemnly, gripping the axe at his belt. “Yes… one day.”

  When he stepped out of the capsule back in Earth’s Rimebreak building, he felt lighter. Energized. Buzzed. But fulfilled in a way work was never supposed to feel.

  He waved goodbye to a few employees, slapped a vending machine like it was an old friend, and strolled toward the exit humming to himself.

  “The fighting… the drinking… che meraviglia. And it doesn’t even feel like a job.” He lifted his chin proudly, grinning at the elevator doors as they opened.

  “I knew Charlie would help me out.”