At first, it felt like déjà vu.
The train platform was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Neon advertisements flickered above vending machines, casting artificial colors on the rain-slick concrete. Lyra Vale scrolled through her phone absently, waiting for her train. Her earbuds buzzed with a low hum, but no music played.
"ERROR 404: GAME NOT FOUND."
The message flashed across her lock screen.
She frowned. Tapped again. Nothing. Just that strange, pulsing text.
Her signal bar was full. Battery at 97%. Everything should have worked.
She rebooted it.
Still — ERROR 404: GAME NOT FOUND.
Weird.
Maybe a virus? She turned in place, about to ask the woman beside her if she was having the same issue—only to find the woman frozen in place. Mid-scroll. Eyes wide. Not blinking.
Lyra's breath hitched.
She looked around. A couple standing near the edge of the platform were unmoving, mouths parted in mid-conversation. Even the vending machine had stopped whirring. A can of soda was halfway out of the slot — suspended, as if the world had hit pause.
And then the lights began to flicker.
White-blue sparks zipped across the ceiling. The screens advertising toothpaste and cheap credit cards distorted — faces warping into static, mouths moving silently.
A low hum filled the air, vibrating in her bones.
The floor beneath her shimmered, lines of glowing code running across it like veins — 0s and 1s blinking rapidly.
This isn't normal.
This isn't real.
She took a step back.
And the voice came.
Right next to her ear — though no one was near.
"Welcome to Oblivion."
The whisper was neither male nor female, mechanical yet full of intent. Her body went still.
And then, she saw him.
Across the platform, through the screen of flickering light and glitching shadows, stood a boy.
Maybe seventeen. Pale skin. Black coat. And silver eyes that didn't blink.
They met her gaze like he'd been watching her for a long time. Like he knew something she didn't.
She opened her mouth. "Who are—?"
The platform shattered.
A high-pitched sound sliced through her skull. The world fractured into a kaleidoscope of broken mirrors, floating mid-air. She was weightless — rising into nothing. Glass. Light. Code. Screaming red lines.
She couldn't scream. Couldn't speak.
Her body dissolved.
She woke up gasping.
The air was cold and tasted artificial, like filtered oxygen. Her skin prickled against the hard surface beneath her. A soft hum vibrated the floor.
White. Everything was white.
Walls, floor, even the ceiling that felt impossibly high.
She sat up quickly, head spinning.
And then she heard it:
"You are Player 109. Welcome to the Game."
The voice came from everywhere. Calm. Controlled. Too perfect to be human.
Around her, others were waking. Some coughing. Some crying. No one speaking.
There were dozens of them, all wearing the same thing: a black jumpsuit with glowing red numbers printed across the chest and spine.
Lyra looked down.
109.
The number buzzed faintly, pulsing with light — like it was alive.
A boy across from her threw up. A girl whispered a prayer. No one had answers.
The voice returned:
"This is Phase I: Glitch in the System. Five games. No second chances."
"You have been selected. Voluntarily or not."
A pause.
"This is not a dream. You are not dead. But you will be — if you lose."
Lyra clenched her fists. Her mind screamed for logic, for a way out, for some crack in this nightmare. But there were no doors. No exit signs. No seams in the walls.
Until the walls vanished.
Not collapsed — vanished. Like someone pressed DELETE.
And beyond them was… nothing.
A dark void. And a glowing platform ahead, floating in the air. The first game was waiting. They all felt it. It wasn't just in the room. It was inside their minds — a pulse, a command.
Play. Or disappear.
The others hesitated. But Lyra stood. Her legs shook, but her eyes burned with something fierce.
Fear, yes. But more than that.
Survival.
"Let the game begin," the voice whispered.
And the platform pulled them in.