Knock, knock.
"Is anyone there…? Excuse me, could you open the door?"
The dry sound echoed through the small room.
A young man in a wheelchair slowly approached, dragging his hands along the rims. His expression… a mix of exhaustion and annoyance.
"What do you want?" he asked, opening the door just enough to see who stood outside.
At the entrance was an officer, his uniform perfectly in place.
"The neighbors reported loud noises and banging. May I come in to inspect?"
The young man sighed.
"…Go ahead, as you wish."
He rolled back, leaving space for the officer to step inside.
The officer entered, immediately frowning.
A sharp stench struck him: rotting food, dampness, old trash.
Dirty plates, bags piled like mountains, scraps stuck to the table.
It was… a disaster.
Does anyone really live like this? he thought.
His eyes slid toward the tenant. Pale skin, deep circles under his eyes, a dull gaze. Hair so long it hid his eyes, revealing only pale, full lips. His thin, fragile frame was dressed in black shorts and a tight shirt that made his frailty obvious, as if he might collapse at any moment.
The young man looked straight at him. At that instant, Drake felt something strange—a spark, as though he had met him before.
The boy's eyes seemed to show contempt… but also a void. Something in that look unsettled him.
He noticed the bony torso, the dirty clothes, the disheveled appearance—more like someone shut inside a den than an ordinary boy. And yet, instead of disgust, Drake felt an impulse: the need to help him.
He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with his own feelings.
"You should be more careful next time," he said, trying not to stare, though his eyes kept drifting back to that tired, hollow face. He didn't understand why he was saying more than he should, or why he felt compelled to help a stranger living in such filth.
He pulled a small card from his pocket.
"If you want… come by here in a few days. I can help you clean. This place isn't safe for you. And if you ever have a problem… call me."
He placed the card in his hand. The young man gave a dry laugh as he shut the door.
"They all look at me the same…" he muttered, wheeling himself inside. "Not surprising… this place looks like a pigsty."
But… it wasn't his fault.
If only he could walk… if only he could do something…
He let out another bitter laugh.
"Bah… whatever. Better lie down… and play for a while. Yeah… a good game."
His hands searched the shelf until they found a dusty box.
"Let's see…" he whispered. "What shall we play today…?"
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Good thing I bought this… even if it's old."
He vaguely remembered someone had given it to him—someone who insisted he play it. But he couldn't recall who. Nor why he had never played it before. His head began to ache.
He searched online. Nothing. Not a single image. Not a single review.
Strange… but whatever. I bought it years ago, at a used game shop… long before…
He stopped, eyes dimming.
…before I ended up like this.
The game no longer existed on the market. A forgotten relic.
Nowadays, everyone played in virtual reality. Impossible for someone like him.
Even if he could afford the technology… his body wouldn't withstand it.
But it wasn't just him.
Since the Catastrophe, people didn't play the same anymore.
It all began when strange creatures appeared in caves and jungles.
The land changed… the animals… and the viruses.
A simple dog could mutate into a four-meter wolf, capable of tearing a car apart.
Nations tried to fight. Bullets, chemicals… nothing worked. The creatures adapted too fast.
Then humans began to develop abilities.
But those abilities came at a price: those who awakened them… were transported to other worlds.
Most… never returned.
In just a few years, more than 80% of humanity perished.
Until the first Conqueror appeared.
Like in old myths, a man returned stronger than anyone.
And with him… came calm.
But it didn't last.
Those who came back from other worlds had power enough to destroy nations. Many… used it.
Human ambition never died. It only changed shape.
Isak let those thoughts fade. He switched on the console.
"Well… let's leave that for later. Today… let's play."
He raised his hand, as if greeting a packed stadium.
"But first… let's start the stream!" he said energetically.
For someone like him, this was the only way to earn money steadily: his game reaction channel.
He played old titles, reviewed them, showed his progress, and shared trivia.
Over time, it became so natural that he couldn't play without being connected to the platform.
There, in front of thousands of viewers—though none ever saw his face—he felt… appreciated.
Of course, there were the annoying ones. Once, he nearly smashed his computer because of a troll in the chat.
He took a deep breath and smiled at the camera.
"Good evening, dear viewers. Tonight I bring you… The End of the Old Era. Let's begin!"
Even if he faked it a little for the camera, deep down he enjoyed it. It was the only time he felt like he was playing "with someone."
The screen lit up. The game began in what looked like a deep dungeon… though more than a dungeon, it was a damp, dark cave.
One week later…
"Phew… finally made it to the main stage," he leaned back against the chair.
He thought it would take him a week to get here…
He glanced at the progress counter: 50%.
"Only half!? Ah… I want to die…"
It was fun, yes… but his head throbbed.
He had died so many times that he felt he might faint.
"Well… better continue after a short break…"
He turned toward the small fridge beside his bed.
Pulled out a cold beer and smiled at the first sip.
"Ah… this is life…" he said with pleasure.
But when he reached for a second one… something terrible happened.
He opened the fridge… and it was empty.
"…No. No way."
This couldn't be happening.
He fell to his knees.
"My… life… is over."
He stood angrily, slammed the fridge door several times with his hand.
Took a deep breath.
"Better… calm down. I just have to order delivery."
He placed the order. One hour later—still nothing.
"Why are they taking so long?" he complained aloud.
Finally, the doorbell rang.
"At last!"
He checked the bag. Everything seemed right, sealed.
But when he tasted the first can…
"What… is… this?" he froze. "Water?! Damn water!"
His voice echoed in the room.
"Bastards! How dare they?"
He opened his mouth, ready to scream at the world.
"Why can't I order decent beer without getting robbed?! One star! Just one!"
He sighed.
"No other choice… I'll have to go out."
He pulled on a mask, a hat, and a hoodie.
With that improvised disguise, he left home, not knowing that night… nothing would be "normal."
"Mmm… I think I'm ready," he muttered, checking his reflection in the shop window, adjusting the hood.
"What's missing…? Ah, right…"
A mischievous smile crossed his lips.
"Almost forgot… silly me."
He opened the small compartment on his wheelchair and there it was: his trusty Mossberg 500 Slugster.
An old shotgun, but sturdy.
It had belonged first to his grandfather, then his brother… and now, it was his.
"Never leave home without it…" he whispered, wiping the barrel clean with a cloth. "Can't wait to try it out."
He loaded ten shells into his pocket.
"No… better make it fifteen."
At the store:
"Let's see… new drink or the usual?" he pondered in front of the glass refrigerator.
The new one was stronger… but the usual, Rorozoma, had never failed him.
"If something old works… don't change it," he grinned. "That's the Rorozoma motto."
He grabbed two boxes, whistling as he paid.
"Yes… yes… I just have to make it home and I'll drink in peace. What could possibly go wrong…?"
Three streets later:
A thunderous crash shook the ground.
He turned his head just in time to see a truck overturn, crushing everything in its path.
Chunks of metal and glass flew inches from his face.
He calmly wiped himself with the same cloth he had used on the Mossberg.
"Close one… better leave before something happens like last time."
He checked his phone:
"Three more minutes and I'm home… no problem…"
But then—
Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!
He stopped.
"…What the hell was that?"
In the distance, in the middle of the street, a pack of mutant dogs appeared.
Their bodies were a grotesque mix of exposed muscles and bone plates, eyes glowing like embers.
Not common… but possible.
Normal dogs could mutate suddenly.
That's why the government injected control doses into household pets, and stray ones were sent to special kennels.
"Tsk… just my luck."
Well… no matter.
A shiver ran down his spine, but he smiled.
"Good thing I brought the shotgun. Perfect chance to test it…"
He knew it was legal to eliminate mutant animals; there was even a reward.
Drool dripped at the corner of his lips.
"Hehe… let's go."
He gripped the Mossberg firmly, loaded, and aimed.
"Die, sons of bitches! Hahahaha!"
The first shot blew through the skull of the nearest one.
Puch! —the dull sound of bone and flesh shattering.
Puch! —another fell, skull split like a ripe fruit.
"Diiiiie!" he roared, euphoric.
The smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air.
He stomped on the soft flesh of those still moving, crushing what remained.
One by one, he tore off their ears as trophies, stuffing them into a bag.
"This… this is the sign of my victory…" he panted, saliva dripping as he spoke. "I'll turn them in later for the bounty…"
When the last one fell, he smiled in satisfaction.
"Done… time to head home… yeah… yeah…"
He rolled along the sidewalk, whistling, happy.
Until something warm ran down his forehead.
"Huh?"
He touched his head…
"…Blood?"
There was no time to process.
The world turned black.
He fell from the chair… and everything ended.
White.
Not darkness.
White.
He opened his eyes, and all he saw was empty space—no floor, no walls… no body.
"What… what the hell…?" he tried to look at his hands, but there were none.
A distant ticking, like church bells, echoed in his head.
"Am I… in heaven? God… is that you? Has my earthly torture finally ended?"