Hey guys, thank you for reading! What do you think—should I keep going with this story, or are you like "nah, this ain't it"?
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The bathroom was a cocoon of white vapor, the world outside the glass door blurred into nothing. The steady hiss of water was the only sound, like static in his ears. Ryan stood under the shower, the heat beating down on his neck and shoulders, rolling down his spine in slow, lazy streams.
His muscles were loose. His lungs felt clear. The warmth soaked into his bones.
Why does this feel… wrong?
He leaned his forehead against the tiled wall, eyes half-lidded.
This should hurt.
He glanced down at his body.
No bruises.
No soreness.
No fatigue.
Playing, what, fourteen matches a week? he thought. FIFA better not hear about this. Let's not give them any more ideas.
Steam clung to his face as he stepped out of the water, wiping condensation from the mirror with his palm. His reflection stared back.
Look at that. Not a single dark circle. Skin's glowing, you handsome bastard, he told his reflection.
That useless piece of crap. I totally got the "Day One Bug" experience, straight from the universe's delivery date.
Guess those gaming companies weren't the pioneers of shipping broken products after all.
He pressed a fist to his chest.
So if I'm at full HP and my stamina bar is topped up… why do I feel this void right here?
For a moment, the silence was heavy—almost loud. The steam felt colder. His own heartbeat felt… distant.
Something's missing.
—
A frantic bang on the door shattered the silence. "Ryan! It's been an hour! What are you doing?!"
"YEAH, YEAH! Just let me put my clothes on!" he yelled back, finally turning off the water.
He stepped out. The cold tiles shocked his bare feet. He pulled his shirt over his damp head.
Huh… he thought, stopping mid-way, his hand going back to his chest. Could it be… my pride?
Didn't think I had any of that left after years in corporate Algeria.
He opened the door and nearly collided with his father, who was waiting with his arms crossed.
"So, our bride finally emerges," his father said. "What took so long? Were you wondering about your groom?"
Ryan sidestepped him, heading for his room. "Nah. Just wondering if I was gonna get the No Man's Sky experience."
"The what?"
"Don't worry about it. Just hoping for a future patch."
He found his mother in her bedroom, sorting laundry. He held up the hair dryer.
"Dry it for me, Dobby," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"
"Please, your honor? A moment of your time?" He didn't wait for an answer. He sat on the floor at her feet, between her legs, and placed the hair dryer in her hand.
She laughed and switched it on. "You're ridiculous." She gave him a light, playful swat on the head with the hair dryer. "You and your big mouth."
He just grinned, settling in and enjoying the warmth. "Yeah, like that… perfect."
He let the comfortable silence hang for a moment, then tried to sound philosophical. "You know, like the great poet said… 'Give an ugl—'"
He cut himself off, realizing his mistake.
Shit. Billie Eilish is like twelve right now.
(Author Note: Well, technically Billie Eilish is like 10 years old right now in 2011… but I like the confidence.)
He cleared his throat and finished awkwardly, "...Give a man some confidence, and he thinks he can rule the world.' My point is, Dad's getting bold. You need to re-establish dominance."
His mother sighed dramatically, but he could see the gears turning in her head. She pointed the hairdryer at him.
"The options are this: you shut up, or I stop this. Having to hear both of you at the same time is too much. I don't want a migraine."
He mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. As the hum of the hairdryer filled the silence, his mind got to work.
Okay. 2011. Bitcoin is still dirt cheap. The Algeria economy is still okay… what was the euro? Like 120 dinars? Vehicles are still being imported, the ban is years away.
A slow, real smile spread across his face. Unlike the useless crap, this was tangible. This was power.
This is the true ace.
Even gold is super cheap.
His eyes drifted to his mother's jewelry box on her dresser.
"Mom," he said, his voice casual. "It's been too long since Dad bought you any jewelry. Don't you have that big wedding in the summer? Auntie Nadia's daughter?"
His mother paused the dryer. "Hmm. Everyone's already seen my set. Something new… wouldn't hurt." She resumed drying, a little more energetically. "That's a good idea, actually."
He felt her mood lift. This was his chance.
"You know," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "About that money you told me you were keeping for me… from my birthdays and Eid… can I have it?"
The hairdryer stopped. She tugged a little roughly on a knot in his hair. "What money?"
I knew it wouldn't work, but nice try. He sighed dramatically. "Forget I asked. It's fine."
The dryer whirred back to life.
Eh, doesn't matter, he thought, the grand plan solidifying in his mind. Sweet financial freedom is waiting for me.
—
Later, stuffed from a good lunch, he lay sprawled on the living room sofa. His younger sister, Leila, walked past.
"Leila," he commanded, not opening his eyes. "Come give me a massage."
She stopped and stared at him. "What? Do you think you're Sultan Suleiman or something?"
He cracked one eye open, a smug smile on his face. "You don't know what chance you're missing. In ten years, I could have a whole staff doing this for me. And maybe for you, too. Depending on your attitude."
"Yeah," Leila retorted, hands on her hips. "And in ten years, I'll be doing a concert with Justin Bieber!"
Ryan sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Alright, fine. I'll buy you those cookies you like from the corner store." It was easier than explaining futures markets.
"Deal!"
A minute later, he was lying on his stomach on the floor while Leila, using the sofa for balance, carefully walked on his back with her bare feet.
"Oof… yeah… right there," Ryan grunted, his voice muffled by the carpet. Okay, this part of the rebirth perk is definitely S-tier.
After a few minutes, Leila hopped off. "Okay, I'm tired."
"Hey, continue! Why'd you stop? I need this," he complained.
"Why?!" she exclaimed. "Are you going to war? The whole day, all you did was eat and sleep! You didn't do a thing!"
Ryan didn't answer. He just lay there, his face pressed into the carpet. Her words echoed.
Going to war.
His eyes lost focus.
The living room faded.
The air turned cold.
The scent of grass—wet, heavy, real—filled his lungs.
A buzzing roar of a crowd thundered in his ears, surrounding him like an ocean.
Floodlights burned from above, blinding white against a black sky.
And in front of him—
A blur of motion.
A monster in human form.
The striker devoured the field with each stride, raw power rippling through every step.
Every footfall was a drumbeat.
Every breath was a warning.
His eyes locked on Ryan—not with hatred. But with purpose.
A freight train of muscle and destiny.
And he—
He was the wall meant to stop it.
With this body.
With this fear.
A slow, weary breath escaped him.
"Yeah," he said, his voice quiet and distant. "You can say I'm going to war."
He pushed himself up from the floor and stretched, his back cracking in a satisfying way.
"Alright," he said to the empty room. "Let's test how far I can go."
And let's see if I can find any fun bugs, he thought, a slow, mischievous smirk spreading across his face.