Christopher stared at the glowing confirmation screen with all the gravity of a man proposing marriage to a financial time bomb.
> *"Congratulations. You’ve been approved for a $7,500 limit."*
He slumped back in his chair and let out a groan that vibrated in his soul. “Yup,” he muttered. “That’s gonna haunt me in six months… assuming I’m still alive to get haunted.”
The screen faded as he clicked *Finish*, and with a quiet chime, his credit profile got just a little closer to **‘What the hell were you thinking?’** territory. He stood, stretched, and cracked his back like bubble wrap under a toddler's heel.
Then he called in sick. Again.
Jeff was less than thrilled.
"Chris, this is the third time this month—"
“I know,” Christopher said, injecting just the right level of raspy sickness into his voice. “But I’m feeling... *existentially compromised*. Could be contagious.”
A pause. Then a reluctant sigh from Jeff.
“…Fine. Take the day. But I *swear* if you’re streaming—”
“Would I *ever* do that?” Christopher replied innocently, already alt-tabbing to his spreadsheet. “I’m clearly in no condition to face a digital audience. Cough. Cough.”
Jeff hung up.
Christopher grinned.
---
The plan was almost ready. It had taken two weeks, three spreadsheets, a cursed Reddit thread, and an illegal number of group chat memes. But it was coming together.
He scrolled past the now color-coded **Isekai Loadout Master Sheet**, running quick diagnostics on the "high priority" tabs—Medical, Tools, Power Generation, Clothing. The list was long. Stupidly long. But every box checked brought him one step closer to *not dying horribly* on day one.
And then... his eyes slid to the bottom.
**Item #213: Beekeeping Starter Kit (Incl. Veil, Smoker, Hive Box, Bees x1).**
He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Hey Guide,” he said, tone casual but hopeful, “would bees be allowed in my storage? Like... if I wanted to bring a hive with me?”
The Guide answered instantly. Too instantly.
> **“Denied. Organic creatures are not eligible for spatial storage. Attempting to compress or translocate living systems of that complexity would result in immediate biological failure.”**
Christopher stared at the screen. “...So that’s a hard no on the bees.”
> “Correct. Bees will die. Horribly.”
He sighed like a man being told he couldn’t bring joy to the apocalypse.
“Dionysus is gonna be pissed.”
With a solemn click, he struck a dramatic line through the entry.
**~Beekeeping~**
*? Rejected by metaphysical TSA*
---
He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes scanning the now-shrinking list. The weight of it all pressed in—credit cards flirting with disaster, time slipping like water, and the low hum of an actual goddamn portal whispering through the edges of his HUD like a countdown he couldn’t silence.
This wasn’t prep anymore.
This was it.
His shot.
And failure? Wasn’t an option. Not for **Subject Zero**.
But first...
He flipped open the *Snacks & Sanity Items* tab and added a few vital entries:
- **1 Case Thin Mints** *(emergency only)*
- **3 Cases Iron Horse Root Beer**
- **Hot Sauce: “Scorpion Venom”** *(GlidingEagle insisted)*
Because if he was going to conquer another world?
He was doing it with flavor.
And maybe… a tactical spoon.
Then the idea hit him.
He paused. Fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Wait.”
> **Titanium. Spork.**
He typed it out with reverence. Bolded it. Starred it.
**Add to loadout: Tactical Titanium Spork of Destiny.**
Because in the end, no matter what kind of hell awaited him on the other side...
He was going to face it caffeinated, over-packed, mildly underqualified—
—and very, very well-fed.
He parked the car and shut off the engine. The world outside the windshield was quiet, but inside? Inside was *noise*. A low-frequency panic hum that hadn’t stopped since the HUD first lit up with **“Portal ETA: 6 days.”**
The garage door creaked open like it was bracing for impact.
Christopher stepped out, popped the trunk, and immediately began sorting through the chaos. Pelican cases. Plastic storage bins. Vacuum-sealed mushroom logs. A tactical roll of duct tape labeled “Hope.” It was less of a packing operation and more of an archaeological dig into a man’s mental state.
He moved fast, fueled by caffeine and rapidly fraying sanity.
The five-foot radius—the “activation zone” for his Beginner’s Burden Buffer—had already been taped out on the garage floor like a summoning circle for chaotic prepper energy. Everything had to fit within that zone when it was time to activate the card.
Every item. No exceptions.
He'd already filled most of it with smart-case clusters: food, first aid, tools, his sentimental hoodie folded with way too much care. It was becoming real now. Tangible. Looming.
But *nothing* made it *truly* real until the truck pulled up.
A long, flat shipping beast of a thing—more freight train than delivery van. It hissed to a stop at the end of the driveway, hydraulics groaning like a dying mech.
Christopher blinked as the side panel of the trailer lifted and a compact forklift detached itself from the back like a mechanical parasite. It was a mounted unit, bolted right into the frame. The driver—grizzled, uninterested, and absolutely done with everyone's shit—hopped down, unhooked the crate, and lowered it with mechanical grace.
**Anvil. 150 lbs. Cast Iron. Industrial Grade.**
It hit the concrete with a bone-deep *thunk*.
The forklift backed off. The driver barely glanced at him. “You Christopher?”
He nodded.
“You, uh… forging horses or starting a war?”
Christopher scratched his head, face blank. “I’m prepping for another dimension. Figure it’s one of those things you regret *not* having.”
The driver stared at him for three full seconds, then just grunted and reattached the forklift to the trailer.
Christopher didn’t wait for further judgment.
He hustled to the crate, popped the latches, and stared down at his newest, dumbest decision: a gleaming slab of iron that screamed “overkill” in every language. Getting it into position took every ounce of leverage, profanity, and creativity he could muster. He’d nearly brained himself twice and scraped the chalk line with his boot more times than he liked.
But when it finally clunked down inside the circle—just inside the edge—it was perfect.
He stood there, chest heaving, gloves hanging off one hand, sweat matting his hair to his forehead.
Around him: root beer, so many seeds, trauma kits, survival guides, chocolate, laptop, an entire pelican case full of toilet paper, and now… a medieval smithing anchor.
He exhaled.
“…This is either the greatest idea I’ve ever had, or the start of a very expensive obituary.”
The five-foot zone loomed like a portal’s last meal. He wasn’t just packing for survival anymore.
He was loading **intent**. Memory. Rage. Hope. And one really smug titanium spork.
And he wasn’t done.
Not by a long shot.
**Subject:** Uh… So, I’m Out.
**To:** Jeff <>
**From:** Christopher Sorenson <>
**Sent:** 3:12 AM
**Attachment:** [Resignation_Letter_Final_Maybe.docx]
---
Hey Jeff,
So.
This is probably the weirdest resignation email you’ll get this year—hopefully ever. I’ve rewritten this about six times, and every version has made me sound either like I’m having a breakdown, or like I’m about to go live in the woods and eat pinecones. (Spoiler: It’s neither. Probably.)
Here’s the truth: It’s not you. It’s not even the job. It’s me. I’ve hit a crossroads, and I have to take a leap. A *big* one. Like, "life-altering, career-ending, potentially cross-dimensional" kind of leap.
And I know that sounds insane. I get that. But for once in my life, I have to chase something that *feels* like it matters—even if it’s terrifying, stupid, and statistically inadvisable.
You’ve been a decent boss. No passive-aggressive Slack messages. Never made me come in on weekends. You even let me “call out sick” on days when we both knew I was just emotionally hungover from D&D.
So thank you.
You deserved more notice. You deserved a neater exit. But I’ve got a portal humming in my periphery and a five-foot circle full of gear that says I don’t have time to overthink this anymore.
Effective immediately: I resign.
No bridges burned. Just... faded into fog.
If I come back, I’ll bring you a souvenir.
(Probably not bees. The system won’t let me bring bees.)
Stay weird,
Chris
P.S. Tell Nonnie in Accounting her banana bread is literally the only reason I didn’t rage-quit months ago. She’s the real MVP.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel that already smelled like bad decisions and peppermint gum, then crouched beside the open pelican case labeled **“Essentials – Beverage Tier”**.
The root beer—three glorious cases of **Iron Horse Original**—sat like treasure inside. Condensation still clung to the bottles from the fridge, little droplets glistening in the overhead light like tiny cold promises.
He paused, narrowed his eyes, then said it aloud:
“Hey Guide… if my root beer is cold when I load it into spatial storage, will it *stay* cold?”
There was a beat of silence. Then:
> **“No.”**
Christopher blinked. “Wait—what? Why not?”
> **“Spatial compression strips ambient temperature data from physical objects. Storage prioritizes molecular integrity and item categorization—not thermal states.”**
He stared at the bottles like they’d personally betrayed him. “So what you’re saying is... I’m about to drink *lukewarm apocalypse root beer* for the rest of my life?”
> **“Correct. Unless you store a refrigeration device alongside it, or enchant the container with a persistent chill rune once local mana conditions permit.”**
He groaned. “God, that is *such* a fantasy RPG sentence.”
> **“Statistically accurate.”**
He stood slowly, arms akimbo, glaring at the root beer like it had offended his ancestors.
“I swear, if I survive my first dungeon and get out with one limb and a half-broken ego, only to celebrate with warm soda, I’m starting a rebellion.”
> **“Acknowledged. I will flag this grievance under 'Morale-Critical Consumables.'”**
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“Damn right you will.”
And with that, he slapped a **Mini Fridge Unit** into the checklist and moved on to the next item.
Because if he couldn’t bring bees?
He was at *least* bringing cold drinks.
The final delivery rolled up just past noon. It wasn't majestic. It wasn't dramatic. It was a fridge.
Mid-sized. Matte black. Energy-efficient. Already pre-cooled and stocked with root beer, electrolyte packets, chocolate, and two slices of emergency lasagna sealed in vacuum-packed guilt.
He plugged it into a portable solar battery just long enough to drop the internal temp and whispered, “Stay cold, my sweet fizzy children.” Then he wheeled it into the circle with surgical precision.
That was it.
The last item.
Christopher wiped his hands on his hoodie, stepped back, and surveyed the absolute *unit* of gear he'd assembled.
It was magnificent.
A donut—**no, a shrine**—of **Pelican cases**, all color-coded, foam-lined, and overloaded with his entire post-Earth survival strategy. Everything had been triple-checked, inventoried, then obsessively double-checked again. And right in the center—like the world’s weirdest cherry on top—sat the anvil. Silent. Heavy. Immovable.
Until now.
He grabbed his phone, stepped back, and snapped a photo.
Then opened Discord.
**TarnisPhoenix**:
?? *“Final loadout. For real.”*
The chat blew up instantly.
---
**Gilly**:
WAIT. THAT’S REAL?
You *actually* bought the anvil?!
**Sargrom**:
BRO YOU MADE A DONUT SHRINE TO CHAOS
I THOUGHT THIS WAS A BIT
I THOUGHT THIS WAS A BITTTT
**GlidingEagle**:
WHAT
THE
ACTUAL
F***
**DionysusNero**:
Are those *seed vaults*?
Did you buy a forge kit??
IS THAT A FRIDGE??
**BaliLali**:
I want to roast you but I’m lowkey impressed.
That’s the most organized manic episode I’ve ever seen.
---
Christopher was grinning like a man who’d just built a bunker out of spite and snacks. He stepped into frame, mounted the phone on a tripod, hit *record*, and climbed—grunting—on top of the anvil.
The cases surrounded him in perfect, circular symmetry. A chaotic ring of food, tools, clothing, meds, copper wire, and that fridge humming loyally beside the tactical spork bag.
He looked dead into the camera.
“Hey guys,” he said, standing tall atop 150 lbs of pure forging confidence. “For the record—this wasn’t a joke.”
A pause.
Then, voice steady:
“Guide? Can you confirm? It’s all inside the activation radius. Every case. Every item. Even the fridge. Triple-check it for me.”
The AI responded without hesitation.
> **“Confirmed. All stored gear is within the designated five-foot collection radius. Spatial compression protocols will activate upon card equip. Integration optimal.”**
He nodded once.
Then reached into his pocket and pulled out the card deck. Thin. Matte. Sleek. The Beginner’s Burden Buffer card pulsed faintly at the top—its humble little backpack icon practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Alright,” he muttered, exhaling. “No going back now.”
He pressed the card to his chest—right over the stack of slotted skills already embedded in his HUD—and activated it.
It clicked into place like a puzzle piece made of intent and poor financial decisions.
The moment it locked, the air *shuddered*.
A low pop echoed through the garage like the lid being pulled off reality.
Then—
**SHOOM.**
Every Pelican case.
The fridge.
The anvil.
*All of it.*
Sucked into nothing. Vanished into the card like a reverse explosion of preparedness. Silent. Total.
In less than three seconds, the garage was empty.
No mess. No gear. No fridge hum. Just a hollow chalk circle burned into the concrete floor like the aftermath of some minimalist summoning ritual.
Christopher stood alone, on bare concrete, blinking.
He looked at his chest.
The card glowed softly, now warm to the touch. Full.
“…Well,” he whispered, blinking at the now-spartan garage. “That escalated efficiently.”
His phone kept recording.
And somewhere, Discord kept screaming.
The garage was still.
Unnaturally still.
Like the air had forgotten how to move after watching an anvil vanish into a playing card.
Christopher stood in the center, phone in hand, staring at the concrete ring where two weeks of manic prep had just ceased to exist.
No more cases. No fridge. Not even a towel left behind.
Just him.
He tapped the screen, flipped the camera, and hit record.
His reflection blinked back at him, raw and tired and buzzed on adrenaline and root beer fumes.
He managed a smile—small, crooked, real.
“Alrighty guys…” he started, voice soft but steady. “Tomorrow morning is it.”
A pause. Just long enough for it to sink in.
“I’m having one last dinner tonight. Something ridiculous and spicy. Then I’m crashing hard. No alarms. No streaming. Just sleep.”
He took a breath, eyes flicking toward the faint shimmer in his HUD—the slow pulsing heartbeat of the portal countdown.
“And when I wake up... I’m off.”
Another beat. Then a little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah. I’m off. Finally.”
His voice softened as he finished:
“I’ll message you all when I go live. Promise.”
He gave a small wave to the camera, like it might reach through the screen and linger with them.
Then ended the recording.
He posted it without edits. No filters. No music. Just the truth.
Straight to his Discord.
To Twitter.
To TikTok.
To Instagram.
Wherever his people were.
Because this was it.
No more prep.
No more theorycrafting.
Tomorrow... he stepped through.
And the world was going to watch.
As the video finished uploading, Christopher opened his messages and thumbed through to **Sargrom**.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, then typed—deliberately, carefully, trying to strike that impossible balance between calm and *not freaking him out too much*.
**Christopher → Sargrom**
*Hey… you still have a spare key, right?*
*Tomorrow afternoon, stop by the house.*
*I signed the title of the Civic to you. Left it in the glove box with a bill of sale marked for $1.*
*Venmo me a buck so it looks official.*
*Don’t call. Don’t freak out.*
*Tomorrow it’s gonna make sense. I swear.*
He stared at the message.
Hovered.
Then hit *Send*.
It was done.
The last earthly tether. The last piece of responsibility... transferred.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and stepped out into the crisp evening air, locking the now eerily silent garage behind him.
---
Duc’s Pho House was glowing in the twilight, warm and golden like it always was—its neon sign buzzing gently against the dark. The scent of star anise, clove, and sizzling garlic hit him like a memory.
He stepped inside.
The bell above the door jingled. Lan looked up from behind the counter and immediately smiled, soft and knowing.
Duc was already shouting from the kitchen before Christopher even sat down.
“Chris! Long time, no trouble! You hungry or *hungry-hungry*?”
Christopher grinned, his voice warm.
“*Hungry-hungry*,” he said. “Make it hurt.”
Duc laughed. “Oh, *you want pain today?* I make the broth cry.”
And for a little while—just a little—everything felt normal.
Just a guy, in a booth, slurping pho with extra spice and extra love.
The last supper.
One last bowl before the world changed.
The broth hit the table like a final boss.
Deep red. Oily with menace. Floating with slices of rare beef and herbs barely surviving the molten heat. The surface shimmered like lacquered magma, and at the center floated a familiar crimson dollop of Duc’s signature chili oil—his lovingly misnamed concoction known as **“No Mercy.”**
Duc set it down gently, followed by a full **pitcher of ice water** and two extra napkins.
No words yet.
Just a man preparing another man to make *peace* with his gastrointestinal gods.
Christopher stared into the bowl like it held the future. Maybe it did.
Duc finally broke the silence, sliding into the opposite chair with a low grunt.
“You okay?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re... not your usual self.”
Christopher paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
Then gave a slow smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Just a long week. Coming to an end.”
Duc didn’t push. Just nodded.
But his eyes lingered a little longer than usual. Like he could sense something unspoken underneath the words—some weight that hadn’t been there before. He clapped Christopher on the shoulder with one meaty hand.
“Well, whatever it is,” he said, rising again, “you eat, you sweat, you cry a little—then you feel better. That’s the deal.”
Christopher nodded, voice soft. “Thanks, Duc.”
He picked up his chopsticks and leaned in.
The first bite hit like a cleansing flame. Heat and depth and pain and flavor—everything Duc’s pho had always been. Everything it would always remind him of.
And for a few minutes, there was only the broth, the burn, and the sound of a kitchen behind him that had always felt like home.
Christopher sat there, letting the steam wash over him, letting the pain of the broth keep him grounded. He stared into the bowl a long moment, then looked up as Duc passed by with a tray of drinks for another table.
“Duc…”
The older man paused, one eyebrow cocked.
Christopher set down his chopsticks. “Stupid question—and you can say no.”
Duc tilted his head. “You’re about to ask something emotional, huh?”
A small, sheepish smile. “Kinda.”
“I’m listening.”
Christopher inhaled slowly. Then let it out, steady.
“I’m… moving away. Tomorrow.”
Duc didn’t speak. Just stood there. Letting the weight of that settle.
“That’s why I’ve been so quiet,” Christopher continued, voice softer than before. “I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a flake. But it’s happening. And I’m gonna miss this place. A lot.”
His eyes dropped to the bowl in front of him. “The food. The chaos. The love-slash-mockery energy you and Lan have going. It got me through more nights than you know.”
He looked up again, voice a little rougher now.
“So... this is the stupid part: Can I have the *No Mercy* recipe? And the pho?”
Duc didn’t answer at first.
He just stared at Christopher for a long, unreadable moment.
Then he set down the tray and sat across from him, arms folded on the table like a judge deliberating a felony spice crime.
“You moving to open a rival pho place?” he asked flatly.
Christopher snorted. “No, I promise. No food truck. No TikTok recipes. This is strictly for survival meals and morale boosts in... really weird places.”
A beat.
Then Duc gave a long exhale, eyes narrowing. “You’re not dying, right?”
“No,” Christopher said honestly. “Just... going somewhere far. Can’t really explain it yet.”
Duc studied him. Then leaned back in his chair.
“You don’t ask for a man’s pho recipe unless you mean it,” he said gruffly. “That’s like asking for his Spotify password and his grandmother’s curse words.”
“I mean it,” Christopher said. “I won’t share it. Won’t ruin it. I just want to taste something familiar when I don’t have home anymore.”
Duc was quiet for another long moment.
Then he nodded. “Alright.”
Christopher blinked. “Wait—seriously?”
Duc stood with a grunt, walked to the back, and returned a minute later with a folded piece of aged paper, tucked into an envelope covered in tiny grease stains and doodled swear words in Vietnamese.
“Don’t burn the garlic,” Duc said, handing it over. “Or I’ll haunt your dreams.”
Christopher took it like it was made of gold. “Thank you.”
“You screw it up, it’s on you,” Duc added. “The broth’s easy, but the *No Mercy*? You need the right peppers. I make my own. You won’t find them in any store.”
Christopher’s grin was real now. “Then I guess I’ll be learning horticulture.”
“Damn right you will,” Duc said. “Now eat before it gets cold. And come back someday—unless you get eaten by a troll or something.”
Christopher paused.
Smirked.
“Yeah... that’s a real possibility, actually.”
He didn’t say goodbye.
When the check came, Christopher tucked a folded wad of hundreds into the black leather tray, enough to cover the pho, the memory, and probably the next five regulars. Lan glanced at it, blinked once, and made to say something.
He just gave her a quiet, tired smile.
Duc caught him at the door, a questioning look already forming on his face—but Christopher didn’t stop.
Didn’t explain.
Didn’t turn around.
He just walked out.
Let them get busy. Let the noise pick up. Let the moment pass without ceremony.
Because he sucked at goodbyes.
And this one?
He wasn’t sure he’d come back from.
---
That night, he didn’t stress. Didn’t overthink. Just walked in, locked the door behind him, downed a **Unisom**, and collapsed into the hammock like it was waiting to carry him across dimensions.
He slept.
Hard.
No dreams. No portal warnings. Just a blackout rest that wrapped him in the comfort of silence and wiped the slate clean.
---
**Morning.**
The sun broke through the blinds like it always did—bright and uncaring.
Christopher showered, dried off, and stood in front of the mirror. His reflection stared back: calm, buzzed with adrenaline, and unreasonably committed.
He pulled on his **overalls**—faded, worn, utility-packed.
Then over that: his **Death, Dice & Dungeons** hoodie.
The same one he'd worn through every major campaign. Every late-night stream. Every breakdown and every breakthrough.
He grabbed his phone.
Paused.
Then smirked.
He angled the camera, struck a casual pose in front of the full-length mirror, and snapped a single selfie.
Caption typed in seconds.
> **TarnisPhoenix**:
> *Today’s the day. Overalls. Hoodie. Quiver full of chaos. Portal pending. Catch y’all on stream.???? #LetsGetWeird*
He posted it to Discord without hesitation.
The reactions lit up instantly—emojis, chaos, people yelling in all caps.
But Christopher just smiled, tucked the phone into his vest pocket, and turned toward the door.
Today was it.
He was ready.
He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
He wasn’t a botanist.
He wasn’t a survivalist.
He wasn’t a hero.
He was just a guy with ADHD, a strong Wi-Fi signal, a crossbow he’d barely fired outside of a Ren Fest, and a deep, gnawing refusal to go down without trying.
That was it. That was all he had.
And somehow... that had to be enough.
He took one last walk through the apartment.
The place was quiet. Lived-in. Already starting to feel like a memory.
His fingers drifted across the old dice trays on the bookshelf, each one still dusted with fragments of glitter and nacho crumbs from sessions past. He brushed a thumb along the corner of a worn band poster—Little Big, faded but proud. He paused by the cracked second monitor he never got around to replacing. Still plugged in. Still working. Mostly.
He stood in the center of the room.
Exhaled.
Then opened his inventory.
The Beginner’s Burden Buffer interface unfolded before him—clean, spartan, without commentary. No flavor text. No sarcasm. No jokes.
Just rows and rows of gear.
Carefully categorized.
Color-coded.
Sorted by function, weight, and emergency priority.
Just as the Guide promised—**itemized down to the bolt**.
The list went on forever.
Tools. Seeds. Medical kits. Power converters. Freeze-dried meals. Tactical towels. Sentimental mementos. Over 100 crossbow bolts. Two extra bandoliers. A mini-forge. A case of Nutella. One titanium spork. And a fridge filled with root beer and leftover lasagna.
But it didn’t stop there.
Lodged between food packs and weapon kits were **ingots**—shiny, heavy bars of copper, aluminum, brass, tin, zinc, lead, and even a few bricks of homemade Nordic gold. All smelted by hand from scrap—because boredom, ADHD, and a devil forge in the garage were a dangerous combo. There was also a single **brick of tungsten** he bought online at 3AM because “one day it’ll be useful” seemed like reason enough.
The system had it all filed cleanly under:
> **[Metallurgical Assets – Portable Alloy Stockpile]**
And then… there was the steel.
So. Much. Steel.
He had *poured* old nuts, bolts, and random steel bits into half the containers just to fill air gaps. Fistfuls of scrap from garage bins, broken appliances, and curbside raids—all now labeled under:
> **[Structural Filler – Non-Essential / Recyclable]**
> *“Estimated weight: Excessive. Spatial compression engaged.”*
There was more **toilet paper** than he panic-bought during 2020. A full cubic meter of the stuff, sealed in vacuum bricks and labeled “Morale / Sanitation / Negotiable Currency.”
He stared at it all, wide-eyed, the corners of his mouth twitching in disbelief.
He’d packed so damn much.
Too much.
Exactly enough.
It wasn’t professional.
It wasn’t optimized.
But it was **his**.
Every choice, every dollar, every weird Reddit-fueled decision made in panic and stubborn logic—it was all there. Packed into one ridiculous little card.
And somehow, that stupid, overstuffed inventory...
**Made him feel ready.**
Or close enough.
---
> **[Ready for Transition?]**
> This action is irreversible.
> Your current loadout will be locked.
> Finalize and proceed?
Christopher reached up.
His finger hovered for just a moment above the holographic prompt—half hesitation, half disbelief that this was *actually* happening.
Then he tapped **Finalize** without ceremony.
No speech.
No heroic pose.
No whispered monologue for the nonexistent cameras.
Just a guy, standing in a half-empty apartment, staring at a floating window and quietly hoping his heirloom seeds didn’t explode in interdimensional transit.
And that he didn’t forget his towel.
---
The moment he pressed it, the air changed.
A **low hum** began to vibrate through the room—not loud, but *dense*. The kind of sound that pressed into your bones and rattled in your teeth. The lights flickered. His houseplants shivered. Something unseen skittered along the baseboards like static turned sentient.
Then the world creased.
It didn’t tear.
It *folded*.
Right in the middle of his living room floor, space bent inward like someone had pinched the fabric of reality between two fingers and twisted it into a spiral. It looked wrong—like a visual glitch in a perfectly rendered world.
A **ripple** shimmered across the room, like heat rolling off asphalt after a summer rain. Then came the *thrum*—deep, resonant, *alive*—a heartbeat that didn’t belong to anything visible.
Light began to leak from the crease. Not harsh, not blinding. **Moonlight refracted through crystal**, tinged with violet and deep ocean blue. Soft, but **impossible to look away from**.
The portal bloomed open.
Not like a door swinging wide—but like a **fracture unfurling** into something beautiful and terrifying. Its edges pulsed unevenly, alive with motion, with purpose. **Tendrils of glowing code** drifted along its boundary, shimmering like ink dropped into still water—fractal glyphs that bloomed and collapsed in dizzying succession.
The center wasn’t static.
It *moved*.
A swirling storm of color: purples, teals, streaks of molten gold, hints of emerald and obsidian weaving in and out of view. And between the chaos—**stars**. Tiny pinpricks of white and silver, glinting like distant beacons caught in a whirlpool of memory and math.
And behind it all?
**Depth.**
The kind of depth that **pulled**.
Like the aurora borealis wrapped around a black hole. Beautiful. Impossible. Hungry.
It made his skin crawl and his heart race.
---
His HUD blinked rapidly, recalibrating. Warning symbols danced at the corners of his vision, then flickered away as a message settled in the center:
> **[PORTAL STABLE. TRANSITION POINT SECURED.]**
> > Awaiting Subject Zero…
He took a step back.
Then forward.
Then just stared.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “It’s *literally* an anime portal.”
He wasn’t wrong.
It looked *exactly* like the kind of dimensional rift that yeeted underqualified protagonists out of bedrooms, alleyways, and bus stops with suspicious frequency. All it was missing was a talking animal sidekick and a scroll declaring his destiny in cursive.
He glanced around his apartment one last time.
The worn carpet. The dented minifridge. The posters, the dice trays, the gaming chair still tilted slightly to the left from one bad late-night lean. The kind of clutter only someone with untreated ADHD would know by heart.
It wasn’t clean.
But it was *home*.
He looked back at the portal.
It pulsed, waiting.
He adjusted the straps on his overstuffed pack. The **crossbow quiver** settled across his back with a soft clink. His hoodie’s sleeves were pushed to the elbows. His bandolier tugged at one shoulder. Every pouch, every buckle, every card slot double-checked and locked in place.
He took a long breath.
Held it.
And stepped forward.
---
The light swallowed him whole.
