He sighed, muttering to himself.
"I work three jobs just to get by in this damn city. When does my life get a little more meaningful — or at least more interesting than this?"
— Gaelstrom Eleric Rider
The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, broken only by the faint drone of traffic outside. His apartment smelled faintly of stale coffee and cheap instant noodles — a scent he was too used to notice anymore.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The plaster had started to peel again. He'd told himself he'd fix it weeks ago, but what was the point? Rent ate his paychecks, bills drained his energy, and every day felt exactly like the last.
He worked. He ate. He slept. Then he did it all again.
Somewhere along the line, he'd stopped dreaming.
His eyes drifted to the window, where the glow of distant skyscrapers cut through the haze of the city night. He wondered what the people up there were doing — probably sleeping in warm beds, unbothered, content.
"Must be nice," he muttered. "Having something to wake up for."
He pushed away the thought and looked around his cluttered apartment. The walls seemed to press in on him, suffocating in their dull sameness. Piles of clothes, old receipts, and empty cans formed little monuments to a life going nowhere.
And then he saw it — a crumpled sheet of paper lying half-buried beneath yesterday's takeout.
He frowned, reaching for it. The paper was thick, strangely smooth — almost cold to the touch.
"What the hell is this?" he murmured, smoothing out the creases.
The text was handwritten, each line drawn with precise, deliberate care. It didn't look printed; the ink shimmered faintly when the light caught it.
He skimmed the title and snorted.
The Instructions for the Passage Beyond.
"Oh, this is rich," he said with a hollow laugh. "Guess I've hit rock bottom if I'm buying crap like this."
He remembered the strange little shop tucked away in that forgotten alley earlier that day. The bell above the door hadn't even rung when he'd entered. The shelves had been lined with oddities — cracked mirrors, jars of dust, faded charms strung together with red thread. The man behind the counter had barely looked up. Just smiled when Gaelstrom placed a few bills down for the page.
He couldn't explain why he bought it. Maybe boredom. Maybe something deeper — something he didn't want to admit.
He'd told himself he didn't believe in magic, or destiny, or any of that nonsense. But a small, buried part of him — the part that still remembered what it felt like to hope — whispered what if.
He shook his head and read aloud, mocking his own foolishness.
"The Instructions for the Passage Beyond," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Lot of words for a whole lot of nonsense. I'll just call it I.P.B. for short."
He sighed. "Alright then, let's see what this ridiculous thing says."
Light a candle and speak your desire for meaning aloud beneath a full moon.
Offer a drop of your own blood upon the page.
Whisper these words three times:
"Let my will cross to another world, let my flesh cross to another world, let my desire for meaning be fulfilled."
When the flame turns blue, step forward — and do not look back.
Warning: The world that calls you may not be the one you seek.
He stared at the page for a long moment.
"The world that calls you may not be the one you seek," he repeated under his breath.
His gaze wandered to the window. The clouds were parting, unveiling the moon in all its pale, silver glory. The light spilled softly across his cluttered room — the one thing that didn't look ugly under its glow.
He chuckled to himself. "Creepy."
For a moment, he just stood there, the paper trembling slightly in his hand.
Any world would be better than this one. The thought came unbidden, bitter, and sharp. He'd spent his whole life waiting for something to change — waiting for the universe to notice him. But it never did.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. "With the economy the way it is, I might as well migrate to another planet."
Still, something about the words pulled at him — not logic, not belief, just curiosity.
And maybe… a hint of desperation.
He turned off the lights. The city glow outside faded to a dim outline through the blinds. He struck a match, and the candle flared to life, trembling in the stale air of the cramped room.
Its flame wavered, small but alive.
"Alright, I.P.B.," he muttered. "Let's see what you've got."
He hesitated before speaking. It felt stupid, childish even, but he did it anyway. He closed his eyes and whispered his wish — not for wealth, not fame, not power, but for meaning. Something to make his existence matter, even just a little.
The words came out rough at first, then steadier:
"Let my will cross to another world, let my flesh cross to another world, let my desire for meaning be fulfilled."
He said it again. Then again, quieter each time, as if afraid the walls might hear him.
Nothing happened.
Only the soft hiss of melting wax.
He exhaled, laughing bitterly. "Figures. A scam."
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the flickering flame. "Man, I'm so stupid. Who even falls for this crap? Am I really that desperate?"
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Then —
A thought struck him, sharp and cold.
"Wait a minute… where did I even get this needle?"
He looked down at his hand, still holding the thin, blood-stained point. "I don't own a sewing kit. Why would I? I don't even sew."
A chill ran down his spine. He scanned the room — the desk, the floor, his pockets — but when he looked back, the needle was gone.
Vanished.
No clatter, no trace, not even a glint of metal where it should've fallen.
The candle's flame quivered, shrinking into a thin, wavering thread of blue. Shadows along the walls stretched like liquid, bending toward him.
"Okay… that's not funny," he whispered, his voice barely steady.
The paper began to hum — a low, mechanical vibration that filled the air. The droplet of blood he'd left behind shimmered faintly, pulsing with light before seeping into the parchment as though being absorbed.
He touched it. The surface was smooth — dry. The cut on his finger was gone.
He stared. "What the hell…?"
The candle's flame deepened, twisting, becoming almost fluid — molten blue, like living lava.
"Is this… really happening?" he breathed, eyes wide. "A new world. A new beginning. A purpose. Meaning."
He laughed — half wonder, half fear. "Guess I finally got what I wished for."
He stepped forward.
"Goodbye, Earth," he said softly. "Hello, new world."
The moment his foot crossed the candlelight, the room exploded in a surge of blinding blue radiance. The air howled, tearing at him — first his will, then his flesh — until every desperate longing, every quiet prayer for purpose, was wrenched from him and answered.
And then—
Everything went dark.