New Eridu never slept. Its neon arteries pulsed through Sixth Street, where holographic signs hawked synth-ramen and Bangboo tune-ups.
The air buzzed with the hum of drones and the chatter of mercenaries haggling over W-Engine mods.
Beyond the city's glow, the Hollows loomed—a silent threat, their spatial rifts swallowing anything that strayed too close.
In this last bastion of humanity, everyone was running from something: Ethereals, debt, or their own pasts.
Michael stepped out of the 141 Convenience Store, the chime of its automatic door fading into the street's din.
He slung his worn suit jacket over his arm, old cable earphones dangling from his pocket like relics from a bygone era.
In his other hand, a chilled can of New Eridu Soda—lime flavor, the cheapest they had—glinted under the flickering streetlights.
His black hair fell messily over his eyes, dark and tired, while a scruffy beard made him look older than his twenty-odd years.
He wore a loosened black tie, the knot half-undone, a silent rebellion against the corporate grind he'd been chained to.
He found a park bench near Random Play, the retro video shop where kids traded VHS tapes and argued over Proxy rankings.
The bench creaked as he sat, the metal cold against his back. Popping the soda can with a hiss, he took a sip, the fizz sharp on his tongue.
But the words that slipped from his mind were heavier than the drink in his hand.
"I can't believe it," Michael thought, staring at the can's condensation dripping onto his fingers.
He wasn't from here. Not really.
Sure, he'd lived in New Eridu for twenty years, navigating its chaotic streets and corporate cubicles, but today, out of nowhere, it hit him—a flood of memories from another life.
On Earth. A place without Hollows or Bangboos, where he'd been a nobody, a corporate salaryman grinding away in a gray office.
He remembered late nights scrolling through wikis, a friend hyping up some new game: Zenless Zone Zero.
He'd skimmed its lore—Proxies, Hollows, New Eridu—and thought, Why not? I'll give it a shot.
That night, he'd gone to bed as usual, expecting to wake up to his alarm and a lukewarm coffee.
He never did. Instead, he woke up here, as Michael, in a world that was both alien and eerily familiar.
For twenty years, he'd lived this life, working a soul-crushing desk job at a mid-tier New Eridu firm, unaware of his past.
Until today, when the memories crashed over him like a corrupted data stream.
"Why now…" he muttered, rubbing his temple. His earpiece hummed faintly, a cheap model that buzzed, showing its antiquity.
What was the point of remembering now?
He had no system, no cheats, no overpowered proxy skills to game the system like some isekai hero.
Just a tie, a soda, and a life unraveling faster than a Hollow raid gone wrong.
Michael pulled out his phone, its cracked screen glowing with a notification from the Hollow Investigative Association (HIA).
He'd taken their aptitude test last month, hoping to escape his dead-end job and join the elite ranks of Proxy-adjacent investigators.
The HIA's logo—a stylized gear encircling a Hollow rift—flashed as he opened the document. His heart sank as he read:
Dear Michael Varen,
We regret to inform you that your Ether Aptitude Test results do not meet the minimum requirements for Hollow Investigative Association certification. Your Ether affinity scored in the 12th percentile, indicating insufficient resilience for Hollow operations. We encourage you to explore other career paths within New Eridu. Thank you for your interest.
He sighed, the sound swallowed by the street's noise.
"Great. Just great." The HIA was his ticket out, a chance to be more than a cog in New Eridu's corporate machine.
Now, that door was slammed shut.
To make it worse, his company was imploding.
Last week, the Hollow Affairs & Neutralization Department raided their offices, accusing the CEO of embezzling funds to bankroll Null_Face, a shadowy criminal proxy network running illegal Hollow dives.
The investigation had cleared Michael—his desk job was too low-level for him to be involved—but the damage was done.
The firm was shuttered, leaving him jobless.
His rent was due in a week, and his savings were thinner than a Bangboo's battery life.
He leaned back, the soda can cold against his palm.
"Why me?" he thought, bitterness creeping in.
He'd read enough ZZZ wikis to know how this was supposed to go: reincarnate, get a system, dominate as a proxy with god-tier hacks.
Instead, he was stuck in a cold, unforgiving reality, no better than the one he'd left on Earth.
Where was the fairness in that?
Michael caught himself.
Throwing a tantrum wouldn't pay the rent or get him into the HIA.
He drained the last of his soda, the lime tang lingering, and stood.
The bus stop was a short walk, and he needed to get back to his cramped apartment on Seventh Street.
Maybe he could scrape together some freelance work—data entry, Bangboo repairs, anything to keep the lights on.
As he waited at the stop, a holographic timetable flickering above, the city's pulse pressed against him.
A Bangboo waddled past, its LED eyes blinking erratically.
Overhead, a news drone blared about a new Hollow sighting near Lumina Square.
New Eridu didn't care about his problems—it kept moving, with or without him.
Michael boarded the bus, its interior smelling of stale coffee and motor oil.
He found a seat by the window, the city's neon blur reflecting in the glass.
He didn't know how he'd survive this—jobless, rejected, and haunted by a past life he barely understood.
But he'd figure it out. He had to. After all, in New Eridu, you either adapted or got swallowed by the Hollows.
***
The bus lurched to a stop on Seventh Street, its brakes squealing like a wounded ethereal.
Michael stepped off, the night air thick with the scent of motor oil and street-vendor skewers.
New Eridu's skyline glowed in the distance, a mosaic of neon and holograms, but here, in the city's quieter veins, the streets were a patchwork of cracked pavement and flickering Bangboo charging stations.
His apartment block loomed ahead—a squat, concrete relic dwarfed by the sleek towers of Lumina Square.
The building's sign, "Starlight Residences," flickered, half the letters burnt out.
Michael trudged up the stairwell, his worn loafers scuffing against the steps.
His tie hung loose, a black noose around his neck, and the empty soda can from earlier rattled in his pocket.
The memory of his past life—of Earth, of Zenless Zone Zero as just a game—gnawed at him, but hunger and exhaustion dulled the edges.
Rent was due, his job was gone, and the Hollow Investigative Association had slammed the door on his dreams.
What was the point of remembering another world if this one was determined to crush him?
His apartment was a mess, a testament to weeks of neglect.
Dirty dishes piled in the sink, their ceramic edges chipped like New Eridu's promises. Empty ramen packets littered the counter, and a busted Bangboo—its LED eyes dark—sat in the corner, a failed repair project.
Michael dropped his suit jacket on a chair and sank to the hard floor, the linoleum cold against his back.
His phone buzzed, and he answered it with a sigh.
"Mr. Varen, this is Mrs. Kwan," came the landlord's voice, sharp as a W-Engine's edge.
"Rent's due in five days. You got it, or are we having problems again?"
"I'll pay early," Michael said, forcing confidence he didn't feel.
"Just… need a few days to sort things out."
"You said that last month," she snapped.
"Don't make me send a Bangboo to collect."
The call cut off, leaving silence heavier than a Hollow's shadow.
Michael rubbed his eyes, his scruffy beard itching.
He dragged himself to his desk, where his ancient laptop hummed, its fan wheezing like an overworked proxy.
The screen glowed with job applications—dozens of them, sent to every faction and outfit in New Eridu that might take a chance on a washed-up salaryman with no Ether aptitude.
He scrolled through the rejections, each one a knife to his pride.
The Hollow Special Operations Team had dismissed him outright:
"Insufficient combat proficiency."
Even Victoria Housekeeping Co., the eccentric cleaning and combat outfit, had sent a polite but firm no:
"We require candidates with advanced Ether sensitivity or domestic expertise." Cleaning services, and he still wasn't good enough.
The Cunning Hares, Belobog Heavy Industries, none of them wanted him.
The only nibble was from the White Star Institute, a fringe research group studying Hollow phenomena.
They'd flagged his application because of his decent academic marks from a community college course years ago, but their response was lukewarm, a "we'll consider you" that felt more like pity than promise.
"Well, I guess that was something,"
Michael muttered, chewing on a plastic straw he'd found in a drawer. He slumped onto his bedframe, the mattress sagging under his weight.
The White Star Institute wasn't exactly the HIA, but it was a lifeline—maybe.
"Let's apply tomorrow," he told himself, the straw bobbing between his lips.
A real application, not a desperate spam email. Something to show he wasn't just another New Eridu nobody.
He stood, ready to scrounge some instant noodles from the kitchen and crash for the night, when something caught his eye.
On the floor, half-hidden under a pile of laundry, lay a card.
Michael frowned, kneeling to pick it up. It was heavy, its edges worn but oddly pristine, like it belonged to another time.
A tarot card.
The image on it was striking: a gigantic silver snake, its scales glinting like polished chrome, coiled into a wheel.
The snake's head bit its own tail, forming a perfect circle, and faint threads of light seemed to pulse within the design, connecting each scale to the next.
It was mesmerizing, almost alive, and it sent a shiver down Michael's spine—not fear, but something deeper, like the hum of a Hollow rift.
He turned the card over, searching for a clue.
No text, no markings, just the snake-wheel staring back at him.
He tried to recall where he'd seen such a design.
A random arcade claw machine prize?
Maybe something from his Earth life, buried in the haze of corporate monotony?
But his mind came up blank, and his stomach growled, loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
"Whatever," he said, tossing the card onto his bed. If he couldn't remember, it wasn't important.
Hunger was the real enemy now.
He grabbed his wallet—empty except for a few Dennies—and headed for the door, aiming for the 24/7 noodle stand down the street.
The card lay forgotten on the crumpled sheets, its silver snake glinting faintly in the dim light of his apartment.
Unbeknownst to Michael, that card was no mere trinket.
It was a spark, a fragment of something ancient and vast, tied to powers beyond New Eridu's neon cage.
In another world, it might have been called the Wheel of Fortune, a symbol of cycles and destiny from a system of mysticism.
Here, in the shadow of Ethereals and Proxies, it was a key—one that would unravel Michael's life and rewrite his place in this strange, fractured city.
As he stepped into the night, the card pulsed once, a faint ripple of energy that stirred the air.