The question was specific enough to clearly reference the situation but vague enough to seem philosophical rather than directly invasive. Answering felt like engaging with something dangerous, but not answering felt impossible given the situation.
"Because they're selfish. Because they wanted what they wanted and didn't care about the cost."
"Mm. Simple. Clean. Probably partially true. But incomplete, don't you think? Nobody sees themselves as the villain in their own story. She probably told herself it was love, that the heart wants what it wants, that you would understand eventually. He probably convinced himself that friendship could survive this, that honesty after the fact was better than honesty before, that everyone would heal and move on. They constructed narratives where they were sympathetic characters making difficult choices rather than betrayers causing pain. The human capacity for self-justification is remarkable."
"What's your point?"
"My point is that you've just done the same thing. You've constructed a narrative where your violence was justified, where physical assault was an appropriate response to emotional harm, where causing pain was acceptable because you were in pain. You've taken the role of righteous avenger in your own story. And you believe it. Completely. Because that's what humans do. They act according to their desires and then construct justifications that allow them to live with those actions."
"So what, you're here to judge me? To tell me I'm a bad person?"
"Nothing so crude. I'm here because you've demonstrated something interesting. You acted. Most people in your situation would have cried, would have sent angry messages, would have complained to friends or sought therapy or written sad posts on social media. But you converted pain into action. Destructive action, certainly, but action nonetheless. That suggests potential."
"Potential for what?"
The figure leaned forward, and his eyes caught the light in a way that made them seem to glow from within, like embers in a dying fire. "I'm conducting an experiment. A long term project examining how individuals behave when given power in environments with minimal constraints. Most of my previous subjects have proven disappointing. They either immediately died through stupidity, or they used power for boring purposes like accumulating wealth or pursuing simple pleasures or establishing petty kingdoms. I need someone with drive. Someone with hunger. Someone who will make interesting choices."
"You're insane."
"Perhaps. But I'm also offering you something. A new life in a new world where the rules are different, where strength matters more than social constraints, where revenge is not only possible but expected. A place where you could become powerful enough that betrayal becomes impossible because nobody would dare. I'll give you tools. Abilities. A system that rewards ruthless action and ambitious choice. All I ask in return is that you make it entertaining."
"This is a joke. Or a dream. Or a breakdown. I'm having a breakdown."
"All possible interpretations. But here's what I know about you, about people like you. You're not satisfied with the mundane anymore. Your normal life has been revealed as fragile and false. Going back to the office, to the routine, to the careful construction of middle class stability, all of that will taste like ash now. You'll go through the motions. You'll heal eventually, perhaps. Find someone new. Make new friends. Rebuild. But it won't be the same. You'll always remember that the foundation can crack, that the people closest can betray, that nothing is truly secure. You'll live the rest of your life with that knowledge, and it will make everything smaller."
The words landed with uncomfortable accuracy. The thought of returning to normal, of going back to work and pretending everything was fine, of slowly rebuilding a life that now felt like it was made of paper, all of it felt exhausting and hollow.
"What's the alternative?"
"I send you somewhere new. A world that operates on different principles. You'll start in a difficult position, I won't lie about that. The body you'll inherit will have its own problems, its own history, its own complications. But you'll have tools that others don't. You'll have knowledge from your world that applies in unexpected ways in this new one. And you'll have motivation that most people lack. You want power now. Real power. The kind that makes betrayal impossible. I can facilitate that. All you have to do is promise to make it worthwhile. Be ambitious. Be ruthless. Don't waste the opportunity on mediocrity."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we end this conversation and you never see me again. You continue your life here. You process your trauma. You move on. You become another person with a sad story and eventual recovery. Nothing wrong with that path. It's just not particularly interesting."
The choice being offered was absurd. The entire situation was absurd. Home invaders in glowing tuxedos don't offer people new lives in other worlds. That's not how reality operates. This was clearly a hallucination or a dream or a complete mental breakdown manifesting as a fantastical escape from pain.
But if it was a hallucination, did refusal matter? If this wasn't real, then accepting wouldn't have consequences. And if it was somehow real, if this impossible situation was actually happening, then the alternative being offered sounded significantly more appealing than returning to a life that now felt broken beyond proper repair.
"What do I have to do?"
The figure smiled, and it wasn't a comforting expression. "Just agree. Say you accept the offer. Say you want power and are willing to do what's necessary to obtain it. Give consent to the experiment."
"I accept."
"Excellent." The figure stood, movements fluid and precise, and raised one hand with fingers positioned like a child's imitation of a gun. Something gathered at the fingertip, a point of light that grew brighter, that seemed to pull illumination from the surrounding space and concentrate it into a single focused spot. "A hint before we begin. You'll have a rough start. The situation you're entering is already complicated, and the body you're inheriting has problems of its own. But that's part of the test. Anyone can thrive with advantages. I want to see what you do when starting from a position of weakness."
The light at the fingertip was blindingly bright now, impossible to look at directly but also impossible to look away from. Alarm bells started ringing in the back of the mind, survival instinct finally overriding the strange calm that had dominated the conversation. This was wrong. This was dangerous. This needed to be stopped.
"Wait, I—"
"Bang."
The figure said it playfully, like a child playing pretend, finger gun gesture complete with the verbal sound effect. But there was no sound. Not really. Just the sensation of the world folding inward, of light and darkness swapping places, of everything that defined reality suddenly becoming negotiable.
The last thing registered was the figure's smile, satisfied and anticipating, watching like a scientist observing a experiment beginning.
Then nothing.
Then light.
Awareness returned in fragments. First the sensation of fabric against skin, softer than the sheets at home, higher thread count, more expensive. Then the feeling of a mattress beneath, larger and more comfortable than the queen size that barely fit in the old apartment. Temperature next, cool air moving across exposed skin, suggesting a room with good ventilation or climate control.
Eyes opened to an unfamiliar ceiling. Not the plain white drywall of the apartment, but something darker, richer, made of wood that looked hand carved. Detailed work visible even in the dim light, patterns that suggested craftsmanship and expense.
The bed was massive. King size at minimum, possibly larger, with four posts rising toward the ceiling and curtains tied back with thick ropes. The sheets were silk or something similar, smooth and cool and clearly expensive. Multiple pillows supported the head, all of them perfectly fluffed and arranged.
This wasn't the apartment. This wasn't anywhere familiar.
Sitting up took more effort than expected, like the body wasn't quite responding correctly to commands. Muscles felt weak, coordination slightly off, everything requiring more concentration than it should.
A mirror hung on the opposite wall, large and framed in dark wood that matched the ceiling. The reflection it showed was wrong.
The person in the mirror wasn't right. The face was unfamiliar. The hair was wrong. Everything about the reflected image belonged to someone else.
Stumbling to the mirror, each step uncertain, balance questionable, like learning to walk again but with a body that had different proportions and weight distribution. Getting close enough to see details required holding onto furniture for support.
The face in the mirror was young, aristocratic, handsome in a delicate way that suggested good breeding and careful care. But the most striking features were the hair and eyes. Long white hair, not gray or platinum blonde but genuinely white, falling past the shoulders in waves that suggested it had been well maintained. And the eyes were blue, but not normal blue. Bright blue. Piercing blue. The kind of blue that seemed to glow slightly even in the dim light.
This wasn't a reflection. This wasn't a distorted image or a hallucination. This was a different person. A different body. A different face.
The tuxedo man had been telling the truth.
As that realization settled, as the impossibility of the situation tried to find purchase in a mind that still wanted to believe in normal reality, something else happened.
A sound. Not external. Internal. Like a notification but inside the skull rather than from a device. A clear, sharp tone that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
[Ding!]