10:00 p.m. - At San Jose, California (09 September 2025)
The city hummed with the rhythm of innovation and progress, a testament to Ryan Mercer's passion. A talented software engineer, he had climbed the rungs at one of the top tech companies in Silicon Valley. From a young age, he had a remarkable knack for understanding technology's inner workings, turning complex lines of code into remarkable applications. His colleagues often marveled at how he could transform mundane ideas into extraordinary results, such as mobile apps that streamlined daily tasks or software projects that pushed the boundaries of creativity. But with each successful project, an undeniable itch grew within him: the yearning for authenticity and the chance to create something uniquely his own.
Ryan's days were consumed by endless coding sessions, brainstorming meetings, and late-night caffeine-fueled marathons that left him skimming the surface of exhaustion. His ambitions outgrew the cushy corporate straitjacket; he wanted to revolutionize technology—a desire that pulsed within him like a heart beating for freedom. At just 24 years old, he'd understood that life was too short to pour energy into someone else's dream. The shadows of self-doubt loomed large but so did the glow of his aspirations.
Having saved enough money for a leap of faith, Ryan decided to break free. With his resignation letter in hand, excitement coursed through him, complemented by a pinch of trepidation. Today marked a pivotal moment—his dream of starting a tech startup was within reach. As the day drew to a close, he took his usual route to the bus stop, his mind racing with ideas and plans for the future. The urban landscape around him blurred into a tapestry of billboards and flashing lights, a world of endless possibilities.
He settled onto the cold metal bench at the bus stop, the weight of change pressing on his chest. In moments of quiet contemplation, he envisioned his startup: a technology that could connect people in meaningful ways, something beyond mundane schedules and traffic updates—a bridge between dreams and reality.
But before he could flesh out the details of his vision, fatigue washed over him like a tidal wave. Ryan leaned back, willing his eyelids to stay open, but soothing whispers of slumber beckoned him to rest. With a soft sigh, he succumbed to the comforting embrace of sleep.
07:00 a.m. - At Unknown Forest, outskirts
Ryan's head throbbed. Light cut through the strange canopy above. He blinked, lungs tight, trying to push the fog from his mind. He remembered the resignation letter, the bench, Silicon Valley—and then nothing until this damp ground under him.
(I don't know where.)
The air smelled green and new. Huge trunks rose like columns. Leaves whispered in a language he didn't know. Colors slid at the edge of his vision—soft lights, wet petals, things that caught the light and split it. Two moons hung high: one silver, one dark red. Their light made weird shadows.
He sat up slow and took his pack off like proof he still had a life. He pulled items out one by one.
What he brought:
- Laptop bag and laptop
- Notebook and pens
- Cell phone
- Wallet (about $300)
- House keys
- Bag of potato chips
- Hamburger
- Soft drinks
He checked his phone. Photos worked. No bars, no messages.
(I think this is a game. Or a dream. I don't know skills, status, ability, or that magic thing.)
The compass spun like it was drunk, then stopped pointing somewhere he didn't trust. Dirt under his shoes made him tense. He had never hiked. He was not ready for this.
(I've never done this. This is scary.)
Curiosity tugged at him anyway. He bent and picked small things from the ground and dropped them into his bag. He typed quick notes on his phone so he wouldn't forget.
Collected:
- Herbs, grasses, and strange plants
He kept taking pictures to capture the place—the glow on the bark, the light through twisted leaves, the twin moons. The shots looked ordinary, which made the whole thing feel more real and more wrong.
(Why do I feel like someone is staring at me all the time?)
The feeling sat heavy at the back of his neck. He spun slowly. Trees and shadow. No one near, but the sense did not leave.
Ryan (Surprised/Confused): "Uh… did I just get isekai'd, or did my brain finally crash from sleep deprivation?"
Only the leaves answered. A small sound moved far off, like something shifting on old wood.
He tightened his pack and put the phone away. He talked to himself to keep calm.
Ryan (Curious/Inquisitive): "Find exit. Keep the stuff. Don't get eaten."
He picked a thinner path and walked careful, camera ready. The watching didn't stop. He couldn't see what watched him, only feel it—patient, waiting. He had no powers, no guide. He had his things, his notes, and a strange forest that would not let him be invisible.
03:00 p.m. - At Unknown Forest, clearing
The sun had dipped low, painting the sky tangerine and amethyst. I stumbled into a clearing and felt a small, guilty sort of relief—my legs loosened, the forest's tight hold easing for the first time. Under my boots the ground changed; the trees thinned and a worn path appeared like a lifeline.
(I don't know where.)
The path was packed dirt. A half‑buried cartwheel, a weathered fencepost, the scent of old smoke—signs people had been this way before. Beyond the trees a thin column of smoke threaded into the colored sky. My chest pushed harder. Maybe there were others. Maybe answers.
I dug the little black slab from my pocket and checked the photos I'd taken earlier—shots of two moons, of the bark that shimmered like wet glass, of a line of odd plants I'd stuffed in my pack. I had picked strange herbs and grasses; they looked like nothing from home. I'd collected them out of curiosity. It felt stupid and sensible both.
(I collected things. Curiosity is the habit I brought with me.)
The compass spun and stopped on a direction that didn't feel right, but it was something to follow. I walked, camera ready because habit tells me to capture. Habit tells me to leave breadcrumbs in pixels.
Then the sky went wrong. A huge shadow passed overhead and the world narrowed to a single, terrible shape. A dragon rode the late light, scales flashing fire and stone. It folded its wings, dived, and spat a long ribbon of flame into the village below. Thatched roofs flared like matches. Smoke and screams burst up at once.
I pulled the slab up without thinking and hit record. The tiny screen glowed sick and bright in my palm.
Ryan (Surprised/Confused): "Jesus Christ… that's a dragon."
The sound was like broken earth. Heat rolled toward the trees. People ran, carts were shoved, and a few men—old spears and patched blades—rushed toward flame like they hoped courage itself could change fate. My feet wanted to move. My body wanted to sprint into the chaos, to help, to prove I wasn't useless. My brain cut in: run in, get killed. Stay back, watch them die. I could not decide fast enough.
(To run in could get me killed. To do nothing feels worse.)
I crouched behind a stout oak and kept the camera on. The rise gave me a sick view of the burning roofs, a child pressed to a woman by the well. The red recording dot blinked like a pulse—absurd and necessary. I mouthed things to myself, the way I do when I'm alone.
Ryan (Muttering): "Find exit. Don't get eaten."
The dragon circled. For a long moment it seemed bored, like a hunter considering whether to finish prey. Then its head swung. Those eyes—hard and thin and old—found the rise where I crouched. The gaze cut me open. Every hair stood up. I felt smaller than a mouse.
(It feels like someone is staring at me all the time.)
I froze. My heart thudded so loud it seemed to cover the roar. If it had dived, if it had aimed, I would have been nothing but ash and a story told by other, braver people. My hands shook. The slab recorded. The dragon stared until the air itself seemed to pull tight.
And then, impossibly, it turned. It beat its huge wings and folded away into the dark of the trees, like a shadow sliding back into a hole. The village gave one long sound—half an animal sob, half a prayer. People ran from the flames to press water into seams and drag out children, stamp at hot thatch, wrap wounds in linen.
Only after the beast's silhouette melted into the forest did I let myself breathe out. The camera in my palm felt useless to them, but it felt real to me. A tiny way of proving I had been here. I couldn't delete the file. It was the last scrap of the life I remembered.
(I need rules. If this is a game—where's the HUD? If it's a dream—wake me. If it's real—how do I help without getting killed?)
The attack over, I walked down to the village edge. Ash dusted my hair; the smell of burned grain and hot metal hung in the air. People moved with an efficient, exhausted speed—no time for questions. They needed hands that could carry and steady, not explanations.
Villager (shouting): "Get water! Move the carts! Help the wounded!"
I did the small, clumsy things. A woman shoved me a pail and I dropped water until my hands were sore. I hauled a sack away from a smoldering beam and passed a boy up into his father's arms. My movements felt useless and real all at once. The villagers eyed me—suspicion shading into guarded thanks. My clothes, my face, the way I held the slab marked me as other.
Villager (woman): "Who are you? You speak oddly."
Ryan (Quiet): "San Jose—no, that sounds stupid. Just—I'm from far away. I was sleeping on a bench."
She blinked at the name and softened a little. She handed me a rag to wipe ash from my face. A child latched onto my sleeve and would not let go. For a dizzy second, while soot crusted my skin and the child's small fingers dug into my shirt, I almost felt like I could stay.
But the watching stayed with me. Not just the dragon's eye—there was a second, steady weight to it, like a hand on my shoulder I couldn't see. Between two blackened beams something moved—too quick for a person, too smooth for wind. It melted into trunks and was gone.
(I am being watched. Not only by the dragon.)
A rough‑faced old man glanced at the glowing rectangle in my hand and snorted, half curiosity, half warning.
Old Man (suspicious): "That gleams strange. Keep it close—children will want tricks."
Ryan (Hastily): "It's nothing—just… I carry it. For maps."
He didn't press. People had work to do and lives to save; the thing in my palm was a curiosity, not a weapon. That small relief told me something about this place: facts and danger braided together, and survival came first.
I kept doing what I could until night slipped toward us and shoulders drooped. A woman fetched a thin soup bowl and offered it to me with hands that still smelled of smoke and woodsmoke. I accepted because my stomach hummed with emptiness and because accepting meant I was, briefly, part of something.
Woman (kind): "You help. You are welcome for tonight."
Ryan (Soft): "I'm Ryan. Thanks."
When I left, the village stretched behind me—fires wrapped in wet blankets, a child asleep in a man's lap, faces set like stone. Some people waved; some watched me with a look that measured stranger to stranger. My pack felt heavier for the ash caught in its weave and lighter for the small, clumsy things I'd given away. The slab in my pocket warmed against my thigh like a small hurt.
Ryan (Muttering): "Keep the footage. Keep the stuff. Find a safe path. Don't be stupid."
(Find exit. Keep the record. Help when you can. Don't die.)
I walked back up the path. The forest closed around the village like it always does, greedy and patient. Smoke tasted near my teeth and the sky bruised toward night. The watching followed me—an echo on the leaves, a pulse in the dark. I couldn't tell if it was curiosity or hunger.
My mind kept flicking to lists—small, useful rules I could hold onto so I didn't float away:
1) Keep pictures. They anchor.
2) Stay alive. Priorities over heroism.
3) Find rules. Find exits. Learn what powers and laws run this place.
I said them out loud once, softly, because alone I talk like that. Introvert, but loud in my head and softer with my mouth.
Ryan (Muttering): "Keep the pictures. Keep moving. Don't get clever."
The path ahead was both promise and threat. The slab in my pocket was warm and recorded the dragon's roar. My pack had a few odd plants and a notebook where I scribbled notes to myself in a neat, useless way. I didn't know if any of it would help. I only knew I had to move.
The forest closed, and the eyes that watched did not blink.