The room was still.
The glow from the interface bathed Hugo's cluttered desk in cold blue, throwing long, soft shadows across the mess.
He stared at the message floating there, his expression unreadable.
[Randalf the Lich Monarch is requesting permission to enter.]
The words pulsed gently, a slow rhythm like a heartbeat.
It was definitely the most absurd thing he had seen today.
And somehow, the more he looked at it, the less absurd it felt.
"…Requesting permission to enter where, exactly?" he muttered, voice rough from disuse.
The text didn't respond, just flickered faintly — almost alive.
He let out a low exhale through his nose. "Right. Of course. We have a talking interfaces now. Perfectly normal."
For a few seconds, he just sat there, half expecting it to disappear the way ads sometimes blinked out after pretending you'd won a free vacation. But instead, new lines rippled across the air.
[Grant] [Deny]
"Great, choices." he said, tone flat.
The interface hovered, waiting.
"Oh sure," he continued, leaning back in his bed, "mysterious Lich Monarch wants to 'enter.' Yep, doesn't sound sketchy at all."
The interface remained still, persistent and unbothered.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
'Whatever, What's the worst that could happen anyway?' he thought, and immediately regretted thinking it.
He looked at the glowing options again. His thumb hovered between them, the faint blue light reflecting off his nail.
If life had taught him anything, it was that every choice came with consequences he didn't ask for.
Maybe that was reason enough not to overthink this one.
"Fine," he muttered, and tapped [Grant].
The light flickered once — sharp and clean, like the blink of an eye — then vanished. The room fell back into half-darkness, leaving behind only the faint buzz of the mini-fridge and the tick of the old wall clock.
Nothing happened.
He waited.
"...Okay?" he said slowly. "Guess that's it, then."
He calmly looked around. Same flickering desk lamp, same cracked wall paint, same faint smell of damp carpet.
Whatever cosmic thing he'd apparently just "granted," it hadn't left much of an impression.
"Perfect," he murmured. "Even the universe trolls me now."
He flopped backward onto his bed. The springs groaned under his weight, the blanket half falling to the floor. He covered his face with one hand and exhaled into the quiet.
"Maybe I'll dream of not existing," he muttered, voice muffled.
He let his eyes close.
For a second, he almost believed the day might end like that — quietly disappointing, like most of his days did.
Then the ground trembled.
At first it was soft, like a shiver running through the floorboards. His lamp rattled faintly, the cans on his desk giving a quiet metallic clink. The sound deepened, became a low, resonant vibration that rolled through the room and into his bones.
He froze, heart suddenly awake and pounding.
Then came the dull boom — distant, heavy, like something slamming into earth nearby.
His brain caught up a moment later.
'A Gate.'
He pushed himself upright, grabbed his phone, and moved. Muscle memory kicked in faster than logic. If it was a breach, he needed to get outside — away from the basement.
The stairs groaned as he took them two at a time. The living room was quiet, dim except for the amber glow of a streetlight leaking through the blinds. No alarms blaring from emergency speakers. No emergency broadcast was happening. Not even the faint hum of patrol drones overhead.
Just silence.
He stood still for a moment, listening. Nothing but the faint buzz of a fly somewhere near the window.
Cautiously, he peeled back the curtain.
The street outside was calm. Too calm for a breach. Houses lined neatly in rows, cars parked, no lights flickering, no rifts glowing in the sky. The stars blinked innocently overhead, and for a second, he wondered if maybe he'd imagined the tremor.
'Am i losing my mind already?'
He let the curtain fall back in place and rubbed the back of his neck. That's when he felt it — a subtle tug in his chest, not pain exactly, but a pull. Like static caught under his skin, faint but insistent, drawing downward.
He hesitated. Logic told him to ignore it. Logic also told him that the universe had clearly stopped listening to logic a while ago.
"Okay," he murmured, "just gonna… check the creepy, definitely-not-safe direction of the mysterious psychic pull."
He slipped on his sandals and headed for the back door.
The day had quickly gone by and it was now night time. The air hit him first — cool and damp, carrying the heavy, earthy smell of soil after a hot day. The world outside was calm, crickets singing softly beyond the fence.
His mother's tomato patch stretched across half the yard, neat rows of soil and wire cages. She'd poured what little free time she had into it, calling it therapy.
He stepped onto the grass, eyes adjusting to the low moonlight. Everything looked fine at first.
Unmoved and ordinary.
Then—
Munch.
The sound was small but distinct.
He froze.
Munch. Munch.
A pause followed, then another bite, wetter, louder. MUNCH.
He gripped the nearest object within reach — a loose wooden plank leaning against the fence —and held it like a bat. "Hello?" he called out, instantly regretting it.
Silence stretched, heavy and absolute.
Then, another slow, deliberate munch.
He took a cautious step forward, his sandals whispering against the damp soil. The moonlight glinted off the tomatoes — several were half-eaten, juice dripping from jagged bites, their scent thick in the humid air.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
He crouched low, heart thudding. The sound came again, closer this time, behind one of the middle rows. Something shifted in the dirt, small and round, half-buried in the shadows.
The faint glimmer of metal caught his eye — a shimmer of gold?
He squinted.
For a split second, his brain refused to process what he was seeing.
It looked like… a raccoon.
If a raccoon had raided a wizard's wardrobe.
The creature was short, plump, and covered in dark fur streaked faintly with blue under the moonlight. Its paws were small, dexterous — and currently busy shoving another tomato into its mouth. The robe it wore gleamed faintly, gold silk embroidered with tiny, pulsing runes that glowed with each movement.
It chewed noisily, eyes half-closed in sheer bliss. Juice ran down its chin, dripping onto the soil. It swallowed, sighed, and reached for another.
Hugo just stared, not able to process the scene that was currently playing.
For a long moment, the scene held — man with plank, creature with tomato — two beings equally confused by the other's existence.
Then the creature froze, mid-bite. Slowly, it turned its head. Two bright yellow eyes locked onto his.
They both blinked. Once, then twice.
And then the creature smiled.
"Oh! Is that you, Master?" it said brightly, in a voice that was rich, articulate — the kind of voice that belonged in a lecture hall, not in a tomato patch. Its tone carried an odd blend of refinement and warmth, only slightly muffled by pulp. "Splendid timing indeed! Do forgive my… ah, culinary enthusiasm. These crimson orbs are divine!"
Hugo blinked. Once. Then again.
"...What."
The creature dabbed its mouth delicately with one paw, as though at a dinner party. "I assure you, I shall cease momentarily," it said. "One must restore one's ectoplasmic balance after such a taxing summoning, yes indeed. Quite standard procedure."
It nodded to itself, apparently satisfied with its explanation — as if this fully justified stealing someone's vegetables.
Hugo just stood there in the quiet night, gripping the plank a little tighter, his brain trying to decide whether to laugh, run, or wake himself up.