Henry King had always found it curious how new places seemed smaller at night.
During the day, the apartment felt acceptable. Not good, not comfortable, but functional. At night, with the lights off and the distant sound of cars passing on the street, everything shrank. The walls felt closer. The ceiling lower. As if the space were waiting for him to make a mistake.
He had been there only a few days. England wasn't home, just a point on the map where he had decided to stop for now. He came to study. Something related to technology, programming maybe. A course that promised a future, even if it didn't promise meaning.
Eighteen years old. A week ago. No revelation, no inner change. Just a new number and the uncomfortable feeling that mistakes would now have greater consequences.
Henry stood near the window, looking out at the dark city. His reflection in the glass showed a version of him that looked too tired for someone so young. Brown hair, almost black, a bit long, falling without any defined shape. Green eyes that, in the reflection, seemed more alert than he remembered feeling. Pale skin, no sun, no marks.
An ordinary body. Nothing about him suggested strength. Nothing suggested extreme fragility either. Just… normal.
The digital clock in the kitchen read 23:59.
He thought about going to bed. Thought maybe the exhaustion was just accumulated jet lag. Thought that tomorrow he would buy a better chair, maybe a real desk.
When the clock turned to 00:00, nothing announced the change.
There was no flash. No sound. No dramatic sensation like the ones movies use to warn that something important has happened.
The world simply failed.
It was as if someone had pulled the rug out from reality for half a second. Henry felt his stomach rise, his ears clog, the air vanish. A short, abrupt blackout, without transition.
And then he was falling.
He hit the ground on his knees, then his hands, feeling the cold roughness of stone tear an involuntary groan from his throat. The air rushed back into his lungs all at once, too fast, burning.
He stayed like that for a few seconds, breathing, trying to understand where he was.
The smell was the first thing that didn't match any logical explanation. Wet earth. Moss. Something far too alive for a building.
Henry raised his head.
The walls were made of irregular stone, covered in dark green stains. There were no windows. No visible doors. The light came from nowhere, spread evenly, pale, with no clear source.
Hallucination, he thought.
His mind tried to grab onto that word like someone clinging to a plank in the middle of the sea.
He stood up slowly. His body responded normally. No pain besides the impact. No numbness. That, for some reason, frightened him more.
That was when the screen appeared.
It didn't arrive with special effects. It didn't flicker. It simply began to exist in front of him, as if it had always been there.
White. Simple. Black letters.
Name: Henry King
Age: 18
Floor: 1
Remaining Time: 12:00:00
A slow chill crept up the back of Henry's neck.
"No," he murmured. "No… that doesn't make sense."
He knew games. He knew interfaces. That was too simple. Too raw. There was no explanation. No tutorial.
And that was the worst part.
Floor, he thought.
Floor of what?
The answer came before he could finish the thought.
A wet sound echoed through the chamber.
Henry turned his entire body, heart racing so fast it felt like it was pounding in his throat.
The creature emerged from behind a low stone formation.
It was a frog. And at the same time, it wasn't.
About the size of a medium dog, maybe a bit heavier. A low, wide body supported by thick limbs. Its anatomy made sense in a disturbingly correct way. The hind legs were enormous, muscular, built for jumping. Dark green skin glistened with constant moisture, blotchy, uneven.
Bulging golden eyes stared at him without blinking. Horizontal pupils. Predator.
Its throat inflated and deflated slowly.
Henry didn't think about running. He thought of something much simpler.
If this is a floor… then this is what lives on it.
The frog croaked. The sound vibrated through the air, low and full.
Henry took a step back. His foot slipped slightly on the damp stone. The frog jumped.
The impact was brutal.
The weight slammed into Henry's chest, throwing him against the wall. The air exploded out of his lungs in a broken, ugly sound. Something snapped in his shoulder. Pain erupted—white, sudden, without warning.
The creature landed on top of him. Its limbs pressed down with surprising force. Its mouth opened, and its tongue shot out.
Henry turned his face at the last second. He felt the tongue scrape his skin, hot, wet, reeking of something far too alive.
He screamed and punched.
His fist struck the frog's eye.
The globe partially collapsed, and a clear fluid mixed with blood spilled out. The frog let out a sharp, desperate sound, nothing like an ordinary croak.
Henry punched again, feeling his knuckles protest. The frog tried to bite him. Small teeth, many of them, scraping the skin of his arm. Blood appeared.
He shoved with everything he had and rolled to the side.
The frog tried to jump again.
Its hind leg failed.
It was twisted. Wrong. The bone had given way.
Henry staggered to his feet, body shaking. His shoulder throbbed as if someone were driving a nail into it. His arm bled. His breathing came in short, ragged pulls.
The frog was still moving.
If I don't finish this…
He didn't complete the thought. He simply lifted his foot and brought it down hard on the creature's head.
The skull gave way with a dull sound. Dark blood spread across the stone.
The body twitched for a few seconds. Then stopped.
Henry collapsed into a sitting position against the wall, heart racing, hands trembling. The smell of blood mixed with the earth.
The screen was still there.
11:55:09
He looked at the time.
Twelve hours, he thought.
Floors. Creatures. A screen that knows my name.
His mind began to work, even with fear tightening his chest.
This isn't a random place. It's not a common kidnapping. It's not a dream.
It was a system. Not intelligent. Not talking to him. Just… existing.
What if this is a test?
Or some kind of experiment?
Or worse… something that doesn't care whether I understand it or not?
Henry ran a hand over his face, smearing it with blood.
He was afraid. Very afraid. But the fear came mixed with something else, something quieter.