The clerk, a wiry man with graying hair and a faded flannel shirt, had been watching the boy from behind the counter. His name tag read "Sam," though the boy hadn't noticed it, too lost in the shelves of games.
Sam's eyes softened as he saw the boy's shoulders shake, the faint glint of tears on his cheeks. Instead of turning away or pretending not to see, Sam set down the box he'd been unpacking and walked over, his steps light on the creaky floorboards.
He didn't mention the tears, didn't ask why the boy's hands trembled as he touched the game boxes. Instead, he leaned against the shelf, his voice gentle as he said,
"You look like someone who's got a favorite game or two. What's your go-to?"
The boy froze, startled, his fingers still on the edge of a game box. He wasn't used to being noticed, let alone spoken to kindly. His first instinct was to shrink away, to mumble something and leave, but Sam's tone wasn't mocking or impatient.
It was warm, curious, like he genuinely wanted to know. The boy swallowed, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and glanced at the game he'd been holding—a worn copy of Final Fantasy VII.
"This one," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I played it at the library. It's… good."
Sam nodded, his smile widening as he picked up another game from the shelf, a classic RPG with a dragon on the cover.
"Nice choice. That one's a legend—Cloud and Sephiroth, right? Epic story. You into the turn-based stuff, or you like the newer action ones too?"
The boy hesitated, unsure if this was a trick, if Sam was setting him up to laugh at him. But the man's eyes were steady, his posture relaxed, and something about it made the boy's guard lower just a fraction.
"I like turn-based," he said, a little louder. "Feels like I'm… in control."
The conversation unfolded slowly, like a flower opening to the sun. Sam asked about the boy's favorite characters, his best moments in games, and the boy found himself answering, his words halting at first but gaining momentum.
They talked about Final Fantasy's sprawling world, the way its music stuck in your head, and Sam shared how he'd spent hours as a kid grinding levels in Dragon Quest III.
"That game broke me," Sam said, chuckling. "Stayed up all night trying to beat that damn Orochi."
The boy's lips twitched, almost a smile, as he admitted he'd done the same with a boss in Chrono Trigger, resetting the game over and over until he got it right.
They moved through the shelves, Sam pulling out games to show him—old ones like Baldur's Gate, newer ones like The Witcher, each one sparking a new thread of conversation.
The boy talked about how he loved games with deep stories, ones where choices mattered, where he could be a hero who didn't just fight but made a difference.
Sam listened, nodding, tossing in his own stories of late-night gaming sessions and epic battles. For the first time in a long time, the boy felt seen, his words landing somewhere other than the empty air.
As they talked, the boy's timid nature began to melt away, replaced by a spark of enthusiasm he hadn't felt in ages. His voice grew stronger, his hands gesturing as he described a moment in Xenogears where he'd been floored by the plot twist. Sam laughed, not at him but with him, his own excitement matching the boy's.
"Man, that game's a beast," Sam said, shaking his head. "The way it builds that world, makes you care about every character—it's something else."
The boy nodded, his eyes bright, the weight of the day's bruises fading under the warmth of this unexpected connection.
The shop felt different now, less like a fleeting refuge and more like a place he could belong. Sam pulled out another game, an old copy of Suikoden II, and handed it to the boy.
"You ever try this one? It's got 108 characters to recruit. Takes forever, but it's worth it."
The boy turned the box over in his hands, his fingers tracing the faded artwork, and he found himself talking about how he loved games with big casts, where every character had a story, a purpose. He didn't notice how his shoulders had straightened, how his voice no longer shook.
Sam leaned back against the counter, watching the boy with a quiet smile. He could see the change, the way the kid's fear had given way to something alive, something eager.
They talked about Mass Effect next, about the thrill of choosing whether to save a planet or let it burn, and the boy's face lit up as he described his favorite squad members.
"Garrus is the best," he said, his voice firm with conviction. "He's loyal, you know? Always has your back."
Sam nodded, his eyes crinkling. "Garrus is a solid bro. You pick Paragon or Renegade?"
The boy grinned, a real grin this time, and said, "Paragon. Always."
Hours slipped by, the shop's light softening as the afternoon faded. The boy didn't notice the time, too caught up in the stories, the shared love for worlds that existed only in code and imagination.
Sam told him about his own childhood, sneaking games under the covers with a flashlight, and the boy laughed, imagining it. He talked about the library, the only place he could play, and how he'd memorize every detail of a game to carry it with him when he had to leave.
Sam listened, his expression thoughtful, and didn't push when the boy's voice faltered, hinting at the harder parts of his life.
The boy's enthusiasm was a fire now, burning away the shadows that had clung to him. He moved through the shelves with Sam, pointing out games he'd heard of but never played, asking questions, soaking up every answer. Sam's smile grew, a quiet pride in seeing this kid come alive.
"You've got good taste," Sam said, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder, gentle enough not to startle him.
"Reminds me of me when I was your age."
The boy ducked his head, his cheeks warm, but he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. For the first time, he felt like he wasn't just surviving—he was here, present, mattering.
Finally, as the shop grew dim and the street outside darkened, Sam stepped behind the counter and gestured toward the shelves.
"Pick one," he said, his voice casual but firm. "Any game you want. Take it home."
The boy blinked, his mouth opening in disbelief.
"I… I can't pay,"
he stammered, his old fears creeping back. Sam waved a hand, dismissing the worry.
"Not about money. There's a different kind of payment."
The boy frowned, puzzled, his excitement dimming with suspicion. Sam leaned forward, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.
"Just a tiny drop of blood. That's all."
The boy stared, his mind racing. Blood? It was weird, unsettling, but Sam's expression was calm, almost playful, like it was a joke he didn't expect the boy to take seriously.
"It's nothing," Sam said, seeing his hesitation. "Old tradition in this shop. A drop for a game. Keeps things… special."
The boy's heart thudded, but the thought of walking away empty-handed, of returning to his empty apartment with nothing but bruises, was worse. He nodded, swallowing his unease.
"Okay," he said softly, and Sam grinned, pulling a small pin from a drawer.
The prick was quick, a single bead of blood welling on the boy's finger, and Sam pressed it to a scrap of paper, his movements practiced, almost ritualistic.
Relief washed over the boy as Sam tucked the paper away, the transaction done. It was strange, sure, but it was over, and the promise of a game—a world to escape into—made it worth it.
He turned back to the shelves, his eyes scanning the rows of boxes, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. He moved slowly, savoring the choice, knowing this was a gift he might never get again. The shop felt alive around him, the games whispering possibilities, each one a door to somewhere better.
Then, in the corner, half-hidden behind a stack of newer titles, he saw it—a game called Ancient Bane. Its box was old, the edges worn, the artwork faded but striking: a lone figure in dark armor, standing against a sky torn apart by crimson light.
Something about it pulled at him, a tug he couldn't explain. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the cardboard, and a shiver ran through him, like the game was calling his name. He turned it over, reading the description: a world of ancient magic, of heroes bound by fate, of a darkness that could only be defeated by sacrifice. It felt… meant for him.
He held the box close, his decision made.
"This one,"
He said, turning to Sam, who nodded, his eyes gleaming with something the boy couldn't quite read.
"Good choice," Sam said, taking the game and slipping it into a paper bag. "That one's special. Not many pick it."
The boy's heart raced, a mix of excitement and something else—anticipation, maybe, or destiny. He didn't know why the game felt so important, but it did, like a piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he was solving.
The blood thing nagged at him as he left the shop, the bag clutched to his chest, but he pushed it aside. It was weird, yeah, but it was just a drop, just a quirk of this strange little store. He stepped into the cold evening, the streets quiet now, the pain in his body dulled by the weight of the game in his hands.
[Ancient Bane]
The name echoed in his mind, stirring something deep, something that felt like more than just a game. He walked home, his steps quicker now, the bruises forgotten, his thoughts filled with the world waiting for him.
At home, the apartment was as empty as always, the single bulb casting weak light over the cracked walls. He sat on his mattress, the game box open beside him, the disc glinting in the dimness.
He didn't have a console, but he'd find a way—tomorrow, at the library. For now, he read the manual, its pages worn but intact, each word pulling him deeper into the world of Ancient Bane.
He could almost see it—the shadowed forests, the ancient ruins, the hero who looked like him, standing against the darkness.
As he lay back, the manual still in his hands, he felt something shift inside him. The game wasn't just an escape; it was a call, a promise of something bigger.
He didn't know what, not yet, but the feeling was strong, unshakable. He closed his eyes, the day's pain fading, replaced by visions of a world where he wasn't invisible, where he could fight, could win.
Ancient Bane was his now, and with it, a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could be more than what the world had made him.