The water went cold long before my resolve did.
It wrapped around my wrists as I held them beneath the surface, fingers trembling against the warmth that had already begun slipping away. The bath had been hot, steaming even—when I stepped in. But heat has a habit of leaving things. Skin. Rooms. People. By the time I'd finally gathered the nerve to act, the water was lukewarm and still, a mirror too calm for the storm I was trying to end.
The razor blade sat on the edge of the tub where I'd placed it earlier. It was new—new in the way only cheap things can be, bought in a fluorescent-lit store by a cashier who didn't even look up at me. It had taken me twenty whole minutes to pick it up, sit down, and actually press it against my skin. Twenty minutes of pruning fingers and a heartbeat that kept asking:
do you have enough will to finish this?
And then I finally did it.
Deep, Not the kind you use as a cry for help. No. The opposite. The kind meant to ensure you wouldn't wake up tomorrow.
Just what I wanted.
Blood unfolded in the water like a blooming flower—rich red, delicate, floating upward in soft ribbons that curled and drifted like jellyfish tentacles. I watched the cloud spread, watched it paint the bath around me in muted crimson, and I let myself sink back until the porcelain kissed my shoulder blades.
What an ending.
Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just a boy in a bathtub with a razor. I never imagined I'd go out in such a quietly pathetic way. I always thought, realistically or not, that if I ever died, it would've been in some kind of spectacle.
Ironic, no?
At least I'd been wrong about something before going out.
What happened next wasn't death. Not exactly. If death had a door, I wasn't allowed through it. Instead, something else—something greater or crueler grabbed me by the soul and held on.
It felt like I was being stitched shut from the inside, every nerve yanked taut as if someone tried knitting a person out of a foggy memory. The very atoms that made me—every cell, every thought—were dissolved, crammed, shoved through a keyhole too small for something my size. It wasn't physical pain. No blade. No burn. No break.
It was the memory of every pain I'd ever ignored.
The heavy heads. The nights I spent shaking. The days I pretended everything was fine. They all came back at once, demanding repayment.
Then my face met stone.
And fuck, it hurt.
The ground knocked the wind clean out of me. I rolled onto my back, gasping, blinking up at a ceiling I didn't recognize. No—sky. A cracked skylight? Ruins? My brain was too scrambled to form categories.
I sat up in a daze, disoriented, looking around like a toddler dragged outdoors for the first time. I didn't know what I expected death to look like, but it definitely wasn't this.
Corpses lay everywhere. Dozens of them. Maybe more. Their bodies draped over a massive circle etched into the stone, chalk symbols glowing faintly, like whatever power they'd once held was now bleeding into the air around me. Robes soaked in blood, faces twisted in pain, limbs stiff.
Some were missing pieces.
This surely couldn't have been it.
A groan sounded nearby. A single man, older, dressed in white priest robes, staggered toward us—us?—clutching his stomach. I blinked, trying to clear my vision. There were… two others standing beside me. I hadn't even noticed them until the priest addressed us.
"You have finally been summoned, heroes… It's tru—"
He coughed, a wet, gurgling hack that shot blood from his lungs.
"It's true… what the goddess said. You look like mighty fine souls to me…"
I glanced around again, finally seeing the two people flanking me.
The first was a girl, a young woman really—with striking crimson hair. It fell around her in messy locks, and her eyes… icy blue, sharp and cold. She looked like a fox who'd been brutalized by nature, then taught to bite back. Pretty, but unsettling.
The other was a giant.
Well—not giant giant. But compared to my 5'10? Yeah. At least a few inches taller, built like someone whose favorite pastime was lifting things bigger than me. Brown windswept hair, deep brown eyes, and the kind of face that made me briefly reconsider my sexuality.
Not that I was one for men. But if I were…
I'd be having a field day.
They both stared at me, probably because I was the only one completely naked in an abandoned church full of dead priests. Great first impression.
My internal panic finally snapped through my confusion.
Why?
Why was I here?
Why was I nude?
Why was some dying priest looking at me like I was the special catch of the day?
Before I could spiral further, I forced myself to speak. I needed answers.
"Why exactly are we here, sir?" My voice came out surprisingly calm, like I was speaking for the three of us. The other two didn't say a thing, though confusion painted their faces just as strongly as mine.
"The prophecy…" the priest wheezed. "Foretold a hero would be summoned to stop the original Seven from untold corruptness… But I—I don't know why there are three of you. Still… this is all in her plan."
"Whose plan exactly?"
"The goddess, oh her—"
CRACK.
A deafening explosion tore through the roof.
A bolt of lightning shot straight into the room—no, not lightning. A man. A glowing figure wrapped in golden light crashed down like a meteor. The shockwave blasted dust and stone outward, the air vibrating with energy.
By the time my eyes adjusted, the priest was gone.
Not dead.
Erased.
His head had been instantaneously turned to char leaving only a skull left.
A man stood where he had been, sheathing a radiant blade that sang metal against metal. The sword was spotless aside from three perfect drops of blood at its tip—so round they almost hovered rather than fell.
His armor wasn't metal. It was more like… confidence. Arrogance given form. Radiant, polished, warm like sunlight and yet everything just seemed superficial.
Man, I already hate this guy…
He looked us over with a slow, deliberate smirk.
"Three of you," he said, voice smooth as a woman's promise. "One of him. The summoning is unbalanced."
He stepped forward, crushing the priest's skull beneath his golden boot. Ash puffed outward like smoke.
"Stand."
My body obeyed before my mind processed the command. The others rose too, like puppets pulled by invisible strings. Who were we to disobey someone who could turn heads into dust?
"My name is Cyrus," he continued. "You three have been summoned to this land by that man." He pointed lazily to the remains at his feet, posing like this was a theater performance and he was the star.
He definitely acted like one.
"Now…" Cyrus clasped his hands behind his back, surveying us. "What to do with you is the real question. Only one soul was meant to be summoned. Why three arrived? I suppose that doesn't matter."
He muttered under his breath, though loudly enough to hear:
"Not like it matters anyway."
Then his voice boomed.
"COME IN, MEN!"
CLAP!
CLAP!
Soldiers in ornate silver armor stormed into the building from every entrance. Their movements synchronized, their helmets gleaming. It was pretty clear who they were working for.
"CLEAN THEM UP AND BRING THEM TO THE PALACE!"
Two knights grabbed my arms before I could speak. They didn't say a word—not even to acknowledge me. Their grip was cold, unyielding. The kind of hold used on someone who has no power to resist.
And I didn't.
So I let them drag me outside, praying to a goddess I didn't know that whatever came next wouldn't be worse.
The carriage ride was long, loud, and uncomfortable. Every rock beneath the wheels sent a jolt straight through my spine. I sat wedged between the other two, staring at them while they stared back at me, all of us too confused to form words.
Silence can break a person faster than pain.
Finally, I forced a smile, using the last of my social battery.
"My name's River, everyone. What's yours?"
The giant croaked first.
"Hello, River. I'm Walker. And you, girl?" He looked at the redhead with genuine curiosity.
"Nyx." Her answer was short. Sharp. She felt like a blade—thin, cold, lethal.
"Well everyone!" I declared, forcing cheer. "I'm assuming you're all from Earth? Not… wherever this is?"
Walker glanced around awkwardly, maybe hoping Nyx would be the one to answer first. She simply nodded.
"Yes."
Walker followed. "Yeah. Earth. I'm from the States, specifically."
Ugh. One of those guys.
With a build like his, I could already imagine the type: gym junkie, protein shake enthusiast, probably owns three pairs of identical joggers. Modern-day degenerate, most likely.
Curse his figure.
The caravan finally jerked to a halt. Knights hauled us out and blindfolded us—because why not add kidnapping to the list of today's crimes?
The floor beneath our feet shifted as we walked—first dirt, then smoother stone, then cool polished marble. We entered a space that echoed with every step. A voice rang out ahead.
"STOP!"
Cyrus.
They ripped off our blindfolds.
And I understood instantly.
We were in the palace, he had mentioned.
The place was stunning—white pillars carved with gold accents, floors of swirling black-and-white marble, ceilings painted with murals of angels, gods, battles… It was like standing inside a cathedral built by someone with infinite money and zero restraint.
"You all look so impressed," Cyrus said smugly. "Good. Good."
He had a talent for pulling attention back to himself. I hated that it worked.
"To celebrate your arrival," Cyrus declared, "we'll be hosting a party fit for the finest!"
With a grace, he dismissed us, commanding knights to escort us to our rooms.
Each room was absurdly large—bigger than my entire apartment back home. A bed big enough for five people. Velvet curtains. Golden lamps. And a wardrobe with actual clothes.
It took me a moment of digging around to find something that suited me, but then there is was right in-front of me.
Khakis. A white dress shirt. Simple, but clean. Earth-like. And familiar.
Huh.
I pulled them on, studying myself in the mirror. Same face. Same body. Same River.
But for the first time in years, maybe longer, something in me felt…
Different.
Not strength. Not appeal. Not looks.
But spirit.
Man, at least this outfit makes me look snazzy.
I wasn't overly attractive, but I wasn't ugly either. I was just…me. My same pale complexion complemented by frizzy, softly colored black hair that droops over my eyes in a lazy attempt to hide my gentle pristine blue iris and low self esteem.
Maybe this was enough in the new world. I crossed my fingers tight waiting for some divine intervention that never came.
I stepped into the hallway, shut my door, and looked around for someone to ask for directions. Luckily, I spotted a young maid sweeping the floor.
"Pssst. Miss!"
She flinched, startled, then slowly approached when she realized I wasn't some noble about to scream at her because some "towels" were arranged in the wrong manner.
"Yes, sir? What is it?"
"Cyrus mentioned a party. Do you know when it starts?"
"Oh! Yes, sir." She brightened. "It already started. I suppose the Lord has drunk enough to forget to summon you."
She whispered the last part.
Smart.
I smirked. "Thanks. Really."
As I left, a tiny part of me wished I was more attractive. She was cute... but with charisma like mine, I wouldn't be able to get her anyway.
And don't even get me started on the maid cliché…
With every step down the hall, the noise grew louder—laughter, music, clinking glasses. The wide double doors opened into the grand hall where we first entered.
But now?
It was overflowing.
People in clothes worth more than my very life. Gowns shimmering like waterfalls. Suits woven with threads of metal and silk. Perfume thick in the air. Gemstones everywhere.
And me?
Even in my decent outfit, it was clear:
I was the lowest of the low.
Women shimmered through the grand hall in blissful dresses that captured every glimmer of the chandeliers overhead, while men strutted around in expensive suits like they were all auditioning to be "Most Important in the Room." Every color, every fragrance, every take on small talk felt exaggerated, like someone dialed reality up to eleven just for the sake of showing off.
Cyrus really wasn't lying—this was a party meant for the elite. The kind of gathering where normal people like me were supposed to stand in the corner and pretend like they weren't dying inside.
A waiter glided by with a tray full of cocktails, the golden rims of the glasses reflecting light straight into my retinas. I reached out and snagged one before he even fully passed.
It was time to get butt-fuck drunk.
I hovered around the same general area for a few minutes, trying to introduce myself to anyone who seemed even remotely approachable. And every time—every single time—I'd open my mouth, say something halfway decent, and watch them immediately lose interest like someone switched the "mute NPC" toggle over my head.
It didn't take long before I felt painfully out of place, like I was wearing a neon sign saying "DOES NOT BELONG."
Honestly, I didn't know if I could survive another ten minutes in this place without shriveling up like a salted slug. But the idea of going back to my room early? Yeah, that felt even worse. So I stalled, scanning the crowd, praying Walker's skyscraper self would pop out from behind some noblewoman.
Where the hell is that giant?
This was the perfect time for us to talk—just the two of us, being tossed around in a fancy ballroom like confused puppies. And yet, as I searched and searched, all I found was more disappointment. It shouldn't be this hard to find a man who's basically a walking telephone pole.
Before I even got the chance to consider giving up, a familiar set of obnoxious laughs cut through the noise like nails slicing down a chalkboard.
Cyrus.
Plastered like some washed-up salaryman, he sat slumped on a pristine white couch. Women draped over him on both sides like props in a film scene about greed. Honestly? He looked exactly like the kind of guy who would be introduced in a movie as, "the villain everyone hates because of his lackluster charm."
But before I could flee in the opposite direction, my eyes landed on someone else sitting on the same couch.
Someone who absolutely did not belong there.
Nyx.
What the hell is she doing with this creep?
Even though I barely knew her, I knew enough to call this situation straight-up impossible. She wasn't the type to giggle around him or pretend to be impressed. But as I took it in… it started to make sense. We were new, completely isolated, and surrounded by danger. If she wanted to survive a place ruled by the golden psycho king, cozying up to him was a logical option.
I hated that kind of logical approach to life.
Right when I considered stepping in, Cyrus rose from the couch—well, "rose" is generous. It was more of a drunken wobble that somehow straightened itself out before he face-planted.
He raised a hand dramatically and announced to the hall:
"I will now be departing to my room! Enjoy the party without me, EVERYONE!"
His voice boomed through the room, and every head turned as if he was delivering the gospel. He left his glass behind and moved toward the hall exit, but not before placing a firm hand on Nyx's shoulder and leaning dangerously close to whisper something into her ear.
She didn't flinch. Didn't frown. Didn't even seem bothered.
Nyx just sat perfectly still, perfectly calm.
But then it became obvious.
He wanted her to follow him.
Wait… was he trying to take her to his room?
Nyx's eyes subtly darted around the room, searching for something—someone. When her gaze landed on me, everything inside me jolted. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to. That look screamed trouble.
And she needed someone to step up.
Me.
I wasn't a fighter. I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even someone who knew how to raise his voice in public. But there was no way I was just going to stand there and let the golden bastard drag her away like some kind of trophy.
Just sit here and watch…?
Yeah, no. I'd hate myself forever.
If being moral was going to cost me my life, then I might as well look cool doing it.
I stepped forward.
Cyrus noticed immediately. His glimmering eyes narrowed in drunken irritation as he lifted his head.
"Ahh, if it isn't the new summon!" he said, swaying slightly but still somehow holding onto that arrogant charm. "How are you enjoying the party?"
The smell of alcohol hit me like a slap to the face. He reminded me of every con business guy I'd ever met—every fake smile, every lie wrapped in a handshake.
I swallowed hard.
"I actually came over to talk to Nyx," I said. "But yes—the party's been… incredible."
He gave me a crooked smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.
Nyx stood up instantly, slipping behind me for protection, her shoulder brushing mine.
Holy shit. She actually needed me for something. And I didn't screw it up.
Cyrus stared at me with open disgust, like I'd stepped out of the gutter and gotten grime on his shoes. He might've been the king here, but even he wasn't stupid enough to drag a woman away in front of a crowd. Not when someone was watching.
"Haha! It seems like you two are already getting along!" His forced cheer vanished the moment he turned away. He hurled his empty glass onto the floor and stomped toward the exit, leaving a cold silence trailing behind him. Everyone knew he was furious, but no one dared move.
Nyx's hand remained on my shoulder, gripping me harder than her calm face suggested. Even though we were about the same height, her touch felt grounded—solid—like she'd been carved out of something stronger than the rest of us.
Her grip faded as Cyrus disappeared from view. She finally pulled back, meeting my eyes with her usual blank stare.
Not romantic. Not flustered.
Just… present.
And somehow that felt even better.
Before I could say anything, someone grabbed me by the shoulder—hard.
But this grip? Yeah, this one wasn't Nyx-sized.
"I can't believe you two look like love birds already," Walker laughed from behind me.
My face instantly heated up. My heart practically launched itself out of my chest.
Did Nyx think I was being creepy? Did I look weird? Did I seem overly into her? I thought I had my composure down—apparently not.
"Ha! Relax, River," Walker added, his gruff voice surprisingly warm. "Just joking."
I glanced back at Nyx, praying she didn't take it seriously—but she just stared at Walker blankly, like she couldn't care less. I was the only idiot panicking.
I always ruin these situations…
"Good to see you, Walker," I said quickly. "I was looking everywhere for you."
"And I was looking everywhere for you too," he replied, crossing his arms. "Funny how that works, huh?"
The guy radiated charisma without even trying. Walker was a good man—you could just tell.
Even Nyx, with all her coldness and guardedness, seemed to naturally fall into the small group dynamic we were forming. It felt… right.
"Thank you for helping me, River," Nyx said suddenly. "I appreciate it."
Her tone was flat and crisp, but her words carried weight.
Enough to make my chest tighten a little.
"Any way I can help," I said. "It's no trouble."
Walker looked between us and nodded. "Well, whatever happened earlier—this is still a party." His voice rose into a wide grin. "Which means it's time to DRINK."
In my old life, I'd only had a handful of drinks. I was nineteen—too young to do anything officially, too unmotivated to proceed, too depressed to care. All the drinks I'd ever had were just handed to me during awkward gatherings.
But this?
This felt different.
Tonight, I had friends.
Tonight, I had a second life.
And tonight, I was damn well going to celebrate it.
We drifted toward a smaller bar tucked into a corner of the hall. It was quieter, more intimate, far enough from the crowd that we could breathe. Each of us picked a drink—Walker grabbed something strong, Nyx something clear and elegant, and me something fruity and appealing.
Just like my taste in women...
We drank. We laughed. We talked about where we were from.
I talked about England.
Walker boasted about America like it was the promised land.
Nyx admitted she was American too—then immediately shut down the conversation, clearly embarrassed to be lumped in with Walker's patriotism.
For the first time since, long before yesterday. I felt… normal. Like I wasn't drowning in regret or guilt or that heavy gray fog I used to walk through every day.
But deep down, something reminded me: if I kept living the same old way, everything would come back. The emptiness. The sadness. The self-hate.
And I didn't want that.
Not anymore.
This small group—this strange new friendship—they meant something.
Maybe more than I deserved.
"CHEERS!" Walker bellowed.
"Cheers!" Nyx echoed, surprisingly loud.
"Cheers, everyone!" I clinked my glass last.
The drinks flowed. Maybe too freely. The warmth spread through my body until my head felt light and cottony.
When the fun finally wound down, and we were all thoroughly wasted, I decided it was best to stumble back to my room. After saying my goodbyes, slurred but genuine. I staggered into the long hallway.
The marble floor practically moved under my feet. The lamps lining the walls glowed a little too warmly, like halos drifting around my vision.
Then I saw her—the same young maid from earlier, sweeping the hallway.
"Miss—Miss! Remember me?" I gasped, half out of breath from simply existing.
She turned, smiling through her surprise. "Yes—the man from before. Do you want me to take you to your room?"
My face lit up with an embarrassingly grateful smile. She really was the type who always knew exactly what guests needed.
"I'd appreciate that so much. Sorry for the inconvenience."
"It's no worries," she said gently. She pointed down the corridor. "Your room is just there, sir."
She really was a pro.
I made my way down the hall, weaving like someone trying to dodge invisible obstacles. Each step felt like a battle against gravity—and gravity was winning.
The hallway seemed impossibly long.
Maybe time was stretching.
Or maybe my sense of time had always been messed up.
Honestly, after everything… nothing mattered. I was exhausted in a way that felt bone-deep. A good kind of exhausted. The kind you get after living instead of surviving.
With a burst of drunken determination, I swung my door open and stumbled in. The bed was calling to me like a siren's song. I half-ran, half-tripped toward it and collapsed into the mattress.
Whatever tomorrow brought… I could deal with it when it came.
For now?
I drifted off into sleep, a small smile on my face forming, feeling—for the first time in a long time—like life might actually be worth something.
This was the start to my very own story.