Chapter Three

  The first thing I notice is how unbelievably heavy the cold is.

  It’s not the kind that creeps in through a busted window at three a.m. or leaks out of a hospital air conditioner, it’s purer, denser, as if someone poured dry ice into my skeleton and forgot to defrost. The next thing is that I’m not standing on anything. Or maybe I am, but the floor is so seamless it’s like being suspended in a dentist’s afterlife.

  I try to blink, but the world stays the same: pure, undiluted white in every direction. No up, no down, no sense of scale. The ground (if you can even call it that) isn’t marble or tile or plastic. It’s more like the showroom floor for a product that will never exist, some forbidden conceptual surface that refuses to admit the possibility of dirt, history, or human error.

  I bend down and touch it. No texture, no heat. My fingers leave no print. For a second, I wonder if I’m actually here or if my consciousness has been paper-clipped to the virtual equivalent of a blank Word doc. I look at my hands, half-expecting to see them turn into digital confetti, but they’re here—pale, shaking, as always.

  My heart is doing its best hummingbird impression. I take a slow, shallow breath, and a weird echo vibrates through my ribs. The white is everywhere. There’s nothing to focus on, no edge, not even a horizon. It’s like I’m trapped inside the world’s most existential softbox, doomed to be forever perfectly, evenly illuminated.

  Then the noise comes, a heavy, meat-and-potatoes kind of noise, the sound of something big shifting its weight with the slow confidence of an NFL lineman. I turn. And that’s when I see him.

  He paces maybe ten feet away, or a hundred, who can say, spatial relationships are a suggestion here, moving with the easy sway of a man who has never once considered the possibility of tripping over his own feet. He’s massive, not in the gym selfie way but in the way of high-speed train collisions and tectonic plates. The kind of body that exists only to prove to physics that it’s not trying hard enough.

  His face is handsome in a way that should be illegal. He has cheekbones so sharp they might cut through lesser faces, a jawline designed by committee, dark hair cropped close to the scalp. His biceps are the size of my self-loathing. He’s Asian, I think Korean or maybe mixed with something Samoan, given the scale of the bones, but there’s a California ease to the way he rolls his shoulders, like he’s warming up for a casual flag football scrimmage with the gods.

  He catches me looking and grins. It’s not a mean grin, but there’s a confidence in it that I can only describe as “has never lost at anything, even once.” He holds my gaze, then does a little double-point, the finger guns of frat brothers everywhere.

  “Sup, my dude,” he says.

  His voice is low, warm, just the tiniest bit scratchy, like he’s been up too late telling stories around a bonfire. He rocks back on his heels, hands in pockets, and looks me over with an expression that’s equal parts “Are you lost?” and “Do you need help crossing the street?”

  “Hi,” I say, feeling small and useless next to this godlike man.

  He walks over, and the white platform, maybe a hundred feet across, now that I can triangulate with a second human, registers his weight only in the way the air bends around his mass. There’s no echo. No footfall sound. The only evidence that he’s moving is that he gets closer.

  He stops a few feet away. Up close, he’s even bigger. Maybe six-six, two-hundred-and-sixty pounds, with hands like organic hammers. I shrink under his gaze, every instinct screaming that this is the kind of guy who, in any other timeline, would have picked me up by my ankles and hung me from the gym rafters for fun.

  Instead, he sticks out a hand. “I’m Tyson,” he says. “Tyson Brooks.”

  I shake his hand. He squeezes gently, and my fingers audibly crack. He lets go and gives a self-effacing shrug, as if to say, “Sorry, these things have a mind of their own.”

  “Evan,” I say. “Carter.”

  He nods. “From the southwest?”

  “Uh. Phoenix. Grew up there. How’d you—?”

  “Something in your vowels, man. You’ve got that, like, SPF 4000 undertone.” He grins wider. “San Diego, myself.”

  This is all happening very fast. I try to remember what the System said about the “pair slot” thing, but my brain is busy cataloging every possible way this could be a prank, a dream, or the final shiver before brain death. Maybe this is what it’s like to die in an elevator, and my last synaptic firing is inventing a friendlier, buffer version of myself as a coping mechanism.

  Tyson seems to read my mind. Or maybe my face just does all the heavy lifting.

  “You good, man?” he says, leaning in. “You look like you just saw your own autopsy.”

  I manage a half-smile, which, given the context, is probably the bravest thing I’ll do all day. “Just… a lot to process. Not every day you wake up in a white void with a stranger.”

  He points at me, pleased. “Right? Freaky as hell. I was at home, watching the Padres game, eating, like, half a Costco rotisserie. Next thing I know, I’m here, in my shorts and a T-shirt, with no shoes and no clue.”

  I look down. Sure enough, I’m wearing exactly what I wore to work: navy polo, jeans, the battered Vans with the right toe blown out. Except… there’s no phone, no wallet. Even my keys are gone, which means somewhere in another universe, my car is going to get towed and I’ll never be able to pay the impound fees.

  I glance back at Tyson. He’s still watching me, but not in a predatory way. If anything, he looks excited. Curious.

  “Does this, uh,” I say, gesturing at the void, “ring any bells for you? Do you, like, know what’s going on?”

  He shakes his head. “Dude, no. I mean, I watch The Games, like everyone. Saw those two die, wild stuff. But this?” He sweeps his arms wide. “I figured you’d get a week of training. A montage, at least. Not just—bam.” He claps his hands, the sound shockingly loud in the emptiness. “Here you are.”

  I shudder, a delayed aftershock of whatever process brought me here. “Do you think… we’re dead?”

  He cocks his head. “You think this is heaven, or, like, a holding cell?”

  I look around again. The longer I stand here, the more I hate it. Not because it’s scary, but because it’s so aggressively neutral. There’s no texture, no scent, not even a temperature. It’s like being erased, pixel by pixel.

  “I don’t think we’re dead,” I say. “If we were, I’d expect at least a little light at the end of the tunnel, not just… endless fluorescent nothing.”

  He laughs. It’s a real laugh, loud and honest. “Fluorescent nothing, that’s good. You’re funny, man.”

  No one has ever accused me of that before, at least not without sarcasm. I don’t know what to do with the compliment, so I ignore it.

  We stand there in silence, just two grown men marinating in ambiguity. My heart rate finally starts to slow. I risk a look at Tyson, and he’s pacing, rolling his neck and flexing his hands. I realize, with a little envy, that he’s entirely comfortable in his own skin. I have never once had that experience. Not even when I’m alone.

  “So,” I say, “were you a football guy? In school, I mean.”

  He stops and smiles, sheepish. “Yeah. How’d you guess?”

  “Your shoulders are wider than most door frames.”

  He flexes, mock-heroic. “Left tackle, then D-line in college. Now, I’m an athletic recruiter. A good one. Leaves a lot of time to eat rotisserie chickens.”

  I almost laugh. “You look… well, you look like you belong here.”

  He raises a brow. “And you?”

  “I look like the guy who runs the spreadsheets and maybe gets eaten first.”

  He holds up his hands. “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. If The Games taught us anything, it’s that the brainy ones last longer than the meatheads.” He leans in. “No offense.”

  “None taken. I’ve been called worse. Mostly by guys who look like you.”

  He winces, genuine. “That sucks. Bullies?”

  I shrug. “Just life, I guess.”

  He looks at me for a second, thoughtful. “Well, if we’re stuck together, that ends now. You and me? Partners. I don’t let people get picked on.”

  The earnestness in his voice is almost embarrassing. I don’t know how to respond, so I nod, then realize that’s not enough.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Really.”

  He nods back, solemn for a moment. Then, just like that, the mood breaks. He hops from foot to foot, shadowboxing at the empty air.

  “You think they’ll drop us into the Arena soon? Or is there, like, a warmup round?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t even know where to begin.

  Instead, I feel it, a wave of dizziness, like the world is about to shift again. The white around us starts to pulse, subtly at first, then brighter, as if the entire space is ramping up for a reveal.

  Tyson sees it too. He grins at me. “Here we go, little dude. Time for the fun part.”

  Little dude.

  I should hate it, but I don’t. If anything, it’s comforting, like being assigned a role in a play I never auditioned for. I could do worse than Tyson Brooks as my co-star.

  He slaps me on the back, gentle but still enough to nearly send me sprawling.

  “Stick with me, Carter,” he says. “I’ll keep you alive.”

  For the first time since I got here, I almost believe it. Because, well, I am going to die here. If I’m truly in the games, that’s just a given. Not that I want to think about that.

  The light intensifies. There’s a crackle at the edge of my vision, like an old TV warming up. Then, all at once, a blue overlay blinks into existence, not with a smooth cinematic fade but like a pop-up ad slamming your browser at 4 a.m. It’s everywhere: over the ground, over Tyson’s face, over the inside of my eyelids. The light is so sharp it hurts to look at, but the words drill themselves in anyway.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  INDUCTION: PAIR SLOT REPLACEMENT CONFIRMED

  AVAILABLE SLOTS: 2

  The message floats right in my field of vision, no matter where I look. I try to blink it away. It remains, uncaring, clinical, not even a hint of personality. Then, a split second later, the text updates:

  WELCOME, REALMWALKERS.

  DO NOT PANIC.

  I snort. My body does the exact opposite. My breathing doubles in speed, chest tightening like someone wrapped my ribs in piano wire. I glance at Tyson for support, but he’s busy trying to high-five the overlay. He swings, misses, laughs, and mutters, “Nice.”

  The overlay doesn’t wait for us to finish freaking out. Another line appears:

  THE GAMES : SYSTEM OVERVIEW

  DESIGNATION: PLANETARY QUALIFICATION TRIAL

  PURPOSE: RESOURCE RECLAMATION

  ELIGIBILITY METHOD: COMPETITIVE SURVIVAL ACROSS PAIRED ARENAS

  FAILURE CONDITION: EXTINCTION

  The words are a hammer, every phrase a new blunt force trauma to my sense of reality. There is no preamble. No “Congratulations!” or “You’ve been selected!” Just the facts, as if everyone here already knows the stakes and just needs to be reminded not to slack off.

  I swallow hard. “Planetary Qualification Trial?” I say, the words trembling as they leave my mouth, even though I know exactly what’s at stake. “Is this, like, a job interview for existence?”

  Tyson grins. “Dude, it’s like American Gladiators, but if you lose, you get vaporized. Sick.”

  I stare at him. He’s either the bravest man I’ve ever met or he’s not processing any of this. Maybe both.

  The overlay erases itself and is instantly replaced by a new one:

  CURRENT WORLD RANKINGS:

  SHADOWBORN WORLDS: 4,218,900

  EARTH (HUMANS): 3,804,120

  ELVEN WORLD: 3,112,770

  ORC WORLD: 2,087,450

  Tyson whistles. “We’re still in second place, bro. Not bad for a bunch of meat sacks.”

  I can’t think of anything to say to that. I’m too busy picturing what a “Shadowborn” is, and whether they eat people or just rip them in half for fun. Over the past year since the arenas appeared all over the world, and the earth Realmwalkers were taken, humanity has been whispering and guessing at what exactly our competitors look like. We have ideas about orcs and elves, but shadowborn? All we can do is keep wondering.

  The overlay shifts, the font growing a size and somehow getting meaner:

  SYSTEM PRIZE CLARIFICATION

  FINAL RANKING CONSEQUENCES — NON-NEGOTIABLE

  FIRST PLACE: 100% PLANETARY LIFE PRESERVED. NO TERMINATION PROTOCOLS ENACTED. CIVILIZATION REMAINS FULLY INTACT. INFRASTRUCTURE, POPULATION CENTERS, AND CULTURAL SYSTEMS REMAIN UNDISTURBED. CONTINUED SYSTEM MONITORING REMAINS OPTIONAL AT SYSTEM DISCRETION.

  SECOND PLACE: 50% OF PLANETARY POPULATION TERMINATED. TERMINATION APPLIED ACROSS ALL SPECIES ACCORDING TO SYSTEM SELECTION CRITERIA. REMAINING LIFE PRESERVED.

  THIRD PLACE: 75% OF PLANETARY POPULATION TERMINATED. MAJORITY OF INTELLIGENT LIFE REMOVED. PLANETARY ENVIRONMENT FULLY REVERTED TO UNMANAGED NATURAL STATE. SURVIVORS RELEASED INTO RESTORED WILDERNESS CONDITIONS.

  FOURTH PLACE: 100% PLANETARY POPULATION TERMINATED. COMPLETE BIOLOGICAL PURGE ENACTED. ALL SPECIES REMOVED. ARTIFICIAL STRUCTURES ERASED. PLANETARY RESET ENFORCED. WORLD CATALOGED AS UNWORTHY.

  The white space seems to close in a little, like the platform itself is shrinking. I read the “SECOND PLACE” line again and again, trying to make sense of the percentages. My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth. Second place is certainly better than fourth, but everyone knows that we’re shooting for first.

  Tyson reads aloud, “So, like, if we mess up, that’s half the people on Earth just… gone.” He looks at me. “No pressure, man.”

  I try to laugh. It comes out as a squeak.

  The overlay wipes clean again, before picking back up:

  SYSTEM CLOSING NOTICE:

  WORTH IS NOT MORAL.

  WORTH IS NOT INTENT.

  WORTH IS PERFORMANCE.

  CONTINUE COMPETING.

  I taste bile. I want to argue with the screen, to say something about justice or mercy or “hey, can I speak to your manager?” But the overlay doesn’t care.

  The next slide:

  SYSTEM TIME DISPLACEMENT NOTICE

  TEMPORAL DIFFERENTIAL APPLIED.

  ARENA TIME ≠ ORIGIN WORLD TIME.

  UPON ARENA CYCLE COMPLETION, ACTIVE REALMWALKERS WILL BE FORCIBLY RETURNED.

  ORIGIN WORLD IMPACT: MINIMAL TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT DETECTED (ABSENCE DURATION MAY VARY).

  SYSTEM CLARIFICATION: REST IS POSSIBLE.

  ESCAPE IS NOT.

  Tyson reads over my shoulder, even though the overlay is literally in our eyeballs. “So we get to come back home between rounds like the other Realmwalkers. Nice!”

  I’m not honestly thinking about that. I’m still caught on “Escape is not.” I have never in my life wanted to escape more than I do right now.

  Another blink and the words shift:

  SYSTEM LIFE CONDITION NOTICE

  MORTALITY SYNCHRONIZATION ENABLED.

  DEATH IN ARENA = DEATH IN ORIGIN WORLD.

  CRITICAL FAILURE STATES ARE PERMANENT.

  REVIVAL MECHANICS: UNAVAILABLE.

  SYSTEM ADVISORY: THIS ENVIRONMENT IS NOT A SIMULATION.

  The words land in my gut with the finality of a bullet. I clutch my arms tight, fingers digging into my biceps.

  Tyson turns, expression suddenly serious. “I can’t believe dying here means we’re really dead. That’s crazy!”

  I nod. My jaw is clenched so hard my teeth might shatter.

  He puts a giant hand on my shoulder, warm and grounding. “Damn. No do-overs.”

  For a second, he doesn’t let go. Then he softens his grip, grins, and says, “Guess we better not die, huh?”

  The overlay does its last trick:

  SYSTEM INVENTORY ASSIGNMENT

  PERSONAL STORAGE UNLOCKED, CAPACITY: 40 SLOTS

  ITEM TYPE CONSOLIDATION: ENABLE

  STORAGE RULES: IDENTICAL ITEMS STACK INTO A SINGLE SLOT. DAMAGED OR ALTERED ITEMS MAY NOT STACK.

  LIVING ENTITIES: PROHIBITED.

  ACCESS METHOD: MENTAL COMMAND OR SYSTEM PROMPT.

  The words hang for a long time before fading away.

  I exhale. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath since this started. My knees wobble. I sit down hard, right on the flawless white floor, and brace myself with both hands.

  Tyson kneels beside me. “You okay, man?”

  I nod, or try to. “Yeah. Just… the world’s shittiest orientation packet, you know?”

  He laughs. “Could be worse. At least we didn’t get matching uniforms.” He gestures at our regular clothes, then his own bare feet. “Though I wouldn’t mind some shoes. I’m not dying barefoot. My grandma would never let me hear the end of it.”

  I want to say something brave or funny, but I can’t. Not with the knowledge that the next step we take is toward an extinction lottery.

  “Hey,” Tyson says, softer now, “seriously. You don’t have to do this alone. I got you, Carter. I mean it.”

  His sincerity is somehow more terrifying than the System overlays. But I nod. “Thanks. That… helps.”

  He stands up, offers a hand, and hauls me to my feet with zero effort. He moves his hand to rest on my back and leaves it there, even when the blue overlay vanishes and the white void starts to brighten again.

  “Guess we’re up next,” he says.

  The platform hums, a vibration that shakes the bones without moving the body. I look around, half-expecting another info-dump, but this time there’s only the sound of my own heart, and Tyson’s hand, steady on my back.

  Whatever comes next, at least I know I’ll have company in hell.

  The floor hums like a phone on vibrate, and then a little hatch opens up between us. I nearly jump out of my skin, but Tyson just says, “Hey, snacks!” with unearned optimism.

  From the opening, a dispenser rises, moving with the same hydraulic smoothness as an expensive office chair. On top: two squat metal cups, each filled to the brim with a colorless liquid. The cups are industrial, like something you’d see in a science fiction gulag. There’s condensation beading on the outside, which makes no sense in the vacuum of the white void, but I guess reality takes a back seat here.

  A new overlay appears, right on cue:

  STEP 1: DRINK

  I don’t even hesitate. Some ancient, code-enslaved part of my brain knows better than to mess with direct instructions. I grab the cup, bring it to my lips, and swallow half before I can think twice.

  It’s ice-cold and tastes like metal, disinfectant, and existential regret. The burn isn’t alcoholic, but it’s real, the kind that clears your sinuses and, possibly, your soul. My stomach flips, then knots, then slowly settles as the drink percolates through my insides. I hold my breath, waiting for the poison effect, the memory wipe, the whatever. Nothing happens. Yet.

  Tyson picks up his own cup, twirls it between his fingers like he’s at a frat party, and sniffs the top. “Smells like old pool water,” he says, unimpressed. He takes a cautious sip, swishes it around in his mouth, and grimaces. “Damn. Tastes like the time I lost a bet and had to drink a protein shake made with metal and chemicals.”

  I nearly gag as I drink the rest of the cup, but he just laughs and takes another sip. He makes a face like he just ate a live hornet, then sets the cup back down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ten out of ten, would not drink again.”

  I stare at him, shocked at his casual disregard for the gravity of the situation.

  “We’re supposed to do what they tell us,” I say. “I mean, that’s the whole point. They made it pretty clear—”

  He interrupts, “Yeah, but it’s not like they’re gonna vaporize us for having taste buds, bro. Relax. I’ve never been a rules guy, and I’m still here.”

  I want to argue, but the overlay jumps to the next slide:

  STEP 2: TRACE CIRCLE ON FLOOR.

  A glowing outline appears at my feet, perfect and unbroken, maybe three feet across. The light is so sharp it cuts through the featureless white, creating the first sense of dimension since we got here.

  Without thinking, I drop to my knees and press a trembling finger to one part of the circle. The line pulses gently under my touch. My hands shake so badly I almost lose the thread, but I force myself to go slow, following the line exactly as shown.

  Halfway through, I risk a glance at Tyson. He’s standing, arms crossed, watching me with an amused but not unkind smile. His circle glows just as brightly, but he doesn’t move to touch it.

  “You’re not going to do it?” I ask, incredulous.

  He shakes his head. “Look, man, this is all part of their fun. Make us do embarrassing shit, see if we’ll dance for them. I’m not playing. Besides, I bet it doesn’t even matter.”

  I try to argue, but my words trip over themselves and get stuck in my throat.

  I finish the circle. The outline flashes, then vanishes. I feel a little dizzy, but otherwise unharmed.

  Tyson shrugs, flexes his arms behind his head, and rocks on his heels. “See? Nothing happened. You want to live your life coloring inside the lines, that’s cool. But I came here to win, not to look like a jackass.”

  I don’t have time to respond before the next overlay appears:

  STEP 3: PERFORM ALIGNMENT JIG

  A diagram unfurls above us, animated in jittery, frame-skipped detail: two stick figures side by side, hopping from one foot to the other, arms outstretched, then spinning in place before ending with a weird salute. It is unmistakably a dance. A terrible one.

  Every molecule in my body wants to rebel, but I already know how this goes. I stand up, heart thudding, and follow the instructions as best I can. Hop left, hop right, spin, salute. I’m awkward, off-beat, almost tragic. My body was not built for coordinated movement, and now it’s betraying me on a cosmic stage.

  Tyson watches, arms still folded, not even pretending to participate. “Dude, you know this is all televised, right? Someone out there is getting off on this.”

  I ignore him. The System made it very clear what happens to people who fail. I am not going to be that guy, not if I can help it.

  I finish the jig, ending in the prescribed pose. My face is red and my breathing ragged. The overlay flickers.

  NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED

  The air changes. The hum beneath the platform gets louder, building from a gentle purr to a bone-shaking thrum. The light around us vibrates, oscillating between white and blue so quickly I feel nauseous.

  I glance at Tyson, panic rising. “Just do it, please. Just do the thing. I don’t want to see what happens if—”

  He interrupts, voice casual. “Bro, I’m not doing it. You look ridiculous, and I guarantee you it’s pointless. They want us to feel small, so we’ll fight harder when it matters. I’ll do what needs doing when we’re in the Arena. Not before.”

  The overlay pulses again:

  PAIR ASSIGNMENT CONFIRMED:

  EVAN CARTER + TYSON BROOKS

  A beat.

  INDUCTION INCOMPLETE

  The word incomplete lands in my gut like a fist. I know, instantly and with total certainty, that we have failed some invisible test.

  Before I can protest, the platform dissolves beneath our feet.

  Gravity vanishes. The white shatters. For an instant, I’m tumbling through nothing, the world reduced to a scream and a memory of blue letters seared into my retinas.

  And then—

  And then I’m gone.

  But somewhere in the static, just before the light eats me completely, I hear Tyson’s voice, “Chill, Carter! I got you, bro!”

  The words follow me into oblivion, a promise or a curse or maybe both.

  I wonder, as I spin out into darkness, if following the rules is enough to save anyone, or if, in the end, it’s just a different way to lose.