—2 years ago—

  Brad lay sprawled across his bed, one arm draped over his chest, the low hum of his gaming PC filling the room like background noise he no longer heard. The monitor glowed a dull blue beside him, frozen on a game selection screen he’d been staring at for nearly three hours. He’d read review after review, skimmed forums, watched snippets of gameplay—only to arrive at the same conclusion every time.

  Predictable. All of it.

  It felt like he’d reached some terminal point in life, like an AI that had consumed enough data to accurately forecast every possible outcome. New games, new jobs, new routines were different skins on the same loop. The mystery was gone. The surprise, too.

  As a kid, he’d loved wandering toy stores and game shops, wide-eyed at the endless possibilities stacked on shelves. As an adult, he worked in one. He didn’t see wonder anymore—just end-caps, inventory rotations, break rooms that smelled like burnt coffee, and a warehouse out back filled with grizzled men telling the same half-true stories on repeat. The fact that he even knew the term end-cap felt like proof that something vital had died along the way.

  Brad stared at the ceiling.

  He thought about walking to the corner store. He didn’t need anything, but the ritual itself had value. There was fresh air, movement, noise, something to break the stasis. He checked the time on his phone.

  Too early.

  Too many people still out there, milling around with purpose. He could already imagine it: stepping outside, feeling eyes on him, strangers silently asking the same unspoken question—Who’s this loser?

  He exhaled slowly.

  Inside him, something restless stirred. A pressure. A heat. No distraction ever seemed to burn it off completely. Games dulled it. Sleeping muted it. But it never went away.

  KNOCK. KNOCK.

  Brad’s heart jumped hard enough to hurt.

  He slid off the bed and padded toward the door, every step cautious, measured. He leaned forward and peered through the peephole.

  Aloha shirt.

  Of course it was.

  That asshole.

  Just stay quiet. He has no way of knowing you’re home.

  His eyes flicked to the living room. Lights on.

  Damn it.

  Maybe he’ll assume you left them on. Maybe he’ll go away.

  KNOCK. KNOCK.

  “Open up!” the old man called cheerfully. “I know you’re in there! This is DESTINY knocking!”

  Laughter followed, far too pleased with itself.

  Brad pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  The old man had been showing up for a week now, appearing at his apartment at random hours like a bad NPC with a broken dialogue loop. Brad had considered calling the police, but the thought of paperwork, questions, and explaining his own life to strangers exhausted him more than the harassment itself. One glance was all the police would need: the filthy undershirt, the frayed pajama pants. They’d be asking who the real problem was.

  Something inside him finally boiled over.

  Fine. He’d end this.

  Brad yanked the door open.

  The old man blinked, genuinely surprised, then broke into a grin.

  “There you are, Bradley.”

  Brad stared at him. Flip-flops. Aloha shirt. Panama hat. Sun-weathered skin. Old as dirt and about as threatening as a lawn gnome.

  “Who the hell are you?” Brad demanded.

  The man stuck out his hand enthusiastically. “Tony. Tony Baha.”

  Brad glanced at the offered hand. Let it hang there.

  “You’ve been harassing me all week,” Brad said flatly. “What do you want?”

  Tony tilted his head, momentarily thoughtful. “Oh right. I’m here to train you.”

  Brad blinked.

  “…Train me?”

  “Yep. I’m here to turn your soft ass into a real man.” Tony’s eyes flicked over him, assessing. “Though I’ll admit—I expected you to be a little harder. Your grandfather made it sound like you had some grit.”

  Brad felt something twist in his gut.

  “My grandfather?” he snapped. “He’s been missing for over a decade. You’re lying.”

  He reached for the door, ready to slam it shut.

  Tony caught it easily, still smiling. He winked.

  “Here,” he said, slipping a card into Brad’s hand. “Come find me when you want more out of life.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Before Brad could respond, Tony stepped back, already turning away.

  Brad shut the door and stared down at the card.

  Tony Baha’s School of Kicking Ass and Taking Names

  Brad shook his head slowly.

  “…Is that old crackpot serious?”

  The question lingered in the quiet apartment, unanswered, but for the first time in a long while, the fire in his chest burned a little hotter.

  —

  Brad sat hunched at his desk, the glow of his monitor washing his face in pale light. Browser tabs were open to forums he claimed to hate. There were threads full of bad takes, recycled cynicism, and people arguing just to argue. He scrolled anyway, thumb twitching on the mouse wheel, absorbing the noise.

  He wasn’t sure why he did it.

  Maybe it was habit.

  Maybe it was self-harm.

  Maybe it was just the easiest way to feel something.

  With a sigh, he minimized the browser and opened his chat app. Familiar names blinked to life, a digital room he knew too well.

  BradIsCool: sup everyone

  Replies came almost instantly.

  JohnS: Ay Brad

  Dexter: You wanna play a game or ten?

  Rebbbbby: What took you so long?

  Brad leaned back in his chair, fingers hovering before typing.

  BradIsCool: Some old man showed up at my door. Wanted me to join a karate dojo or something.

  Rebbbbby: lol that’s dumb

  JohnS: That stuff doesn’t even work. People just use guns.

  Dexter: Weirdos wrestling in pajamas.

  Brad snorted softly.

  BradIsCool: He said destiny was knocking.

  There was a beat. Then the knives came out.

  JohnS: Destiny is fake.

  Rebbbbby: 100% fake. Real life isn’t a story, it’s just life.

  JohnS: No such thing as cosmic justice.

  Dexter: Losers like us are just losers. There’s no version where we win. That’s giga cope.

  Brad stared at the words longer than he meant to. Then asked a question he’d been thinking about for too long.

  BradIsCool: You guys think if we changed, life could be different?

  The typing bubbles appeared almost eagerly.

  JohnS: Absolutely not. You’re born a winner or a loser.

  Rebbbbby: All the cool kids from high school? They’re the leaders now. Always were.

  JohnS: In real life, villains and sociopaths win. That’s obvious.

  Brad’s jaw tightened.

  BradIsCool: Yeah but…say I trained instead of gaming. Worked out. Tried harder. Would I still be the same?

  Responses came fast.

  Dexter: You’d just be a loser who works out.

  JohnS: Normal people can always tell when a loser is trying to level up.

  Dexter: And they hate it. It’s embarrassing to watch.

  Rebbbbby: You already have friends who accept you, Brad. Why would you leave?

  Something cold settled in his chest.

  Then a new name appeared.

  [BarrettDonovan has entered the chat]

  Brad blinked.

  BarrettDonovan: Only way things change is if you change. Don’t listen to these weenies.

  The response was immediate.

  [Rebbbbby has banned BarrettDonovan]

  Dexter: good riddance

  JohnS: lol what kind of try-hard name is that?

  Rebbbbby: Stay with us, Brad. We’re the only ones you need.

  Brad leaned back in his chair, the hum of his computer suddenly loud in the quiet room.

  The fire in his chest flared again.

  He didn’t type anything.

  For the first time, he wasn’t sure whether this place was shelter…

  …or a cage.

  —Maku—

  Maku moved along the perimeter of the fortifications, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp as he took everything in. For all the fear hanging in the air, there was something deeply familiar about this—almost comforting. Lines. Layers. Choke points. Improvised defenses scraped together under pressure.

  He’d spent years building cities, armies, entire empires out of numbers and grids. Watching villagers stack logs and dig trenches felt like stepping into one of those games, except this time he couldn’t just ‘save game’ before the big battle and reload. This was for keeps.

  Two crude walls ringed the clearing, uneven but serviceable, with a wide ditch carved between them. It wouldn’t stop the spiders for long, but it forced them to climb, to funnel, to hesitate. Every extra second mattered.

  At the bottom of the ditch, they’d packed dry tinder and brush. Maku wasn’t sure fire would do much against creatures like these, but it might soften them up—or at least slow them down.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Still…he didn’t like their odds.

  These people weren’t fighters. Most had never raised a weapon in anger. Only a handful possessed ranged attacks, and even fewer had the composure to use them under pressure. This wasn’t an army, it was a frightened crowd pretending to be one.

  Maku walked the length of the makeshift wall, boots crunching against packed earth. Calling it a wall felt generous. Barrett’s cave defenses had been tighter than this.

  Once more, he thought of the big man and wished he were standing beside him. Hopeless or not, he’d make it a good fight.

  Across the water, the sound reached him first.

  Clicking. Scraping. A wet, relentless rhythm.

  The spiders were close now. He could see them. Their dark shapes swarming along the far bank, hauling stones. Their movements were purposeful. Inevitable.

  He still had an out.

  A mana plate could lift him from the ground, carry him across the water. Maybe he could reach the far shore, swim the rest. It was risky, but survivable.

  He hated the thought.

  He’d promised Barrett he’d defend Team Donovan. But defend didn’t necessarily mean die, did it? Would Barrett really expect him to throw his life away here?

  This was why he’d avoided groups when he first arrived. No attachments. No impossible decisions.

  A piercing screech cut through his thoughts.

  Maku snapped his head up.

  At the end of the spider bridge—where stone met shore—it stood.

  The massive spider.

  The one that had taken Barrett.

  Its body loomed against the treeline, blades of red gleaming along its black carapace as it let out another shrill cry. In response, the forest behind it seemed to erupt. Hundreds of spiders poured forward, their pace doubling, then doubling again.

  Where Maku had once thought he had days…

  Now he had hours.

  Shouts rippled through the clearing.

  “There! Look—over there!”

  “What is that thing?”

  A rasping laugh answered them.

  “The payment for our sins.”

  Maku turned to see an old woman standing near the wall, her eyes bright with something between terror and triumph.

  “Ronda!” Wexel barked, moving quickly to grab her arm. “Get her out of here. You’re ruining morale!”

  The woman laughed as she was pulled away, the sound sharp and unhinged. “At last,” she cried, “the scales will balance. We will pay for what we’ve done!”

  Maku caught Wexel by the sleeve, lowering his voice. “What is she talking about?”

  Wexel scowled. “Nonsense. Old wounds. It doesn’t matter.”

  Maku’s eyebrow twitched upward.

  Before Wexel could say more, another man nearby spoke, voice tight. “She means Rebby. What we did to that poor girl.”

  Wexel’s jaw clenched. “Enough. That tragedy has nothing to do with this.” He turned sharply, pointing at a nearby boy. “You—go. Gather everyone. Tell them the fight starts now.”

  The boy nodded and sprinted off.

  Maku looked back toward the bridge.

  The massive spider paced near the shore, its many eyes fixed on the island, patient and certain.

  Maku still hadn’t decided how far he was willing to go.

  But time, he knew, was about to decide for him.