It was hot.
Not the weather. Just… him. His head.
His cap clung to his scalp like someone had poured sweat down his neck and stitched it there. Every few seconds, he tugged at the rim like it would help, It didn't. Neither did wiping his hand on his jeans—sweat came back the second after, his shirt was soaked making him feel like he was still under the sun, even indoors.
Too many deliveries. Like the entire city woke up and decided to order something at once.
"Okay…"
He stared at the address again. "Building B. 42."
The GPS flickered between B42 and B44, he stepped closer to the building in front of him, no number, no buzzer, just a cracked brown door and the peeling black tape across the top, the kind of door you don't want to be near after 6 PM.
He looked around.
Nothing, just street noise—muted, a siren echoing from the wrong direction.
He knocked.
Silence.
"Hello?" he called.
Still nothing.
He grabbed the handle.
It turned.
The handle was cold and smooth, that's what made him freeze for a second. This building looked like it had been abandoned twice, one of the windows was cracked with hanging spiderwebs. Paint curled off the bricks like burnt paper, but the door handle? Clean, like someone had just scrubbed it.
He stepped inside.
The hallway smelled like damp plastic and rotting stone. The kind of smell that clings to your tongue if you breathe through your mouth, light flickered above, fluorescent, but no buzzing, just the flickering, no sound.
The hall felt… Tilted. Crooked in a way that didn't show, like the floor was slanted
He walked slow.
One door inside.
Black.
No label, no peephole, just a thin metal slit near the bottom, like a mail flap had been torn out halfway through installation.
He knocked.
The door opened.
No creak, no movement, just open.
A man stood inside.
Grey suit, not expensive, just ironed well, like it had been ironed with nobody inside it.
"You're early," the man said.
His voice was normal, so normal it was wrong, just the kind of voice you hear from behind at a queue in the bank, casual, human. But in this hallway? That made it worse.
"Package for—uh—" Vorn looked at the slip. "E. N. Gate?"
The man nodded.
"Do you need me to sign?"
"Yes, actually," the man replied, like he'd been waiting for that question.
He turned and walked deeper into the room.
Vorn hesitated.
The room beyond was empty, no couch, no rug, no shelves, just a chair, and a table, on the table—a single piece of paper, pen beside it.
He stepped inside.
A low hum pressed against his eardrums the moment his shoe crossed the threshold, like a freezer motor buried in a concrete wall.
The man gestured. "Name, time, and seal."
"Seal?" Vorn echoed.
The man didn't answer, he just looked down at his own hand, not impatient not annoyed just tired, like a receptionist who was on his last shift but still didn't mind helping.
Vorn stepped to the table.
It was just paper.
But the second his eyes landed on it, something inside his skull… twitched.
Name: ___________
Time: [August 1, 2025, 2:13 PM]
Seal: ARMAGEDDON
Class: [UNREGISTERED]
Task: Survive for as long as you can (if you can)
His fingers lifted slightly, he hadn't touched the pen yet, he looked up, the man was gone.
Gone.
Not in the room.
Vorn turned back to the paper, maybe it was a prank, maybe this was some twisted gig, maybe—
Wait.
His name was on the paper,
filled in.
He hadn't written it. He was sure.
Name: Vorn
His throat dried up, he stepped back, then another step.
Then—
Pain.
Not pain like a punch, pain like a rope around his ribs yanked from behind, he didn't even get to scream fully—
[DEATH GAME: INITIATED]
"AHHHHHHH—!"
The world bent, literally.
And then he saw it.
Earth.
Small,
shrinking.
His own planet, floating above him as if he were falling upward.
His voice cracked.
"Oh my god. I'm definitely dreaming—this is a dream—please be a dream—"
The light blinked out.
And he crashed.
—
He opened his eyes.
The light was dim. blue-ish, but not sunlight, not even artificial. It pulsed like a glitching screen.
He tried to move.
His neck twisted like it had rusted overnight. His limbs barely responded, a voice whispered in his head, don't look down.
He looked.
There was something written on his skin, faint, like a glowstick had leaked under his veins.
[SEAL: ARMAGEDDON – INITIATED]
[TIME REMAINING: 00:00:59]
A countdown.
No voice, no guide, just numbers.
"Is this a game...?"
No reply.
But the breathing in the room stopped.
The countdown ticked.
00:00:43.
Then—
A footstep.
He turned to the side. His hands groped for anything. Stone. Cold. Wet.
And then—
Paper?
No—thick. Sharp edges.
A card.
He pulled it close with shaking fingers, no writing, blank.
Next—
🩸
A red blood mark burned across its center, and burnt him in the process.
"Ah—!"
He dropped it.
It didn't fall.
It vanished.
The pain stayed, deep in his palm, the mark glowed on his skin now.
And from the shadows—
Laughter.