Inside a bar tucked within the endless flow of a crowded city, people sat scattered across worn stools and small tables. Some stared blankly into the drinks cupped in their hands. Others spoke in low, half-hearted conversations with familiar faces. A few simply sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts.
But one thing was certain.
Not a single face in the room looked happy.
Bars were supposed to be a refuge. A place to drown problems in noise and alcohol. Tonight, that excuse felt hollow. This was not escape. It was just sitting still and letting things fall apart.
A small television mounted above the counter flickered with a live news broadcast. On the screen, a reporter stood stiffly before a massive fire, thick smoke staining the sky behind him.
His voice was flat. Empty. As if emotion had long since worn out.
"And as you can see behind me," he said calmly, almost coldly, "the fire continues to spread throughout the industrial district. The blaze was sparked by labor riots that escalated into violent clashes with authorities, following this morning's announcement of new economic sanctions imposed by the Western bloc."
The camera shook slightly, showing blackened buildings swallowed by smoke. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, nearly drowned out by the reporter's steady delivery.
"The global economy has now reached its lowest point since the Second Energy War two decades ago. Nations continue to cripple one another through sanctions. Trade alliances are collapsing one after another. Natural resources are being fought over like water in the middle of a desert."
He paused briefly.
"In the eastern region, a small nation has already fallen. Not to foreign invasion, but to its own people. Citizens stormed the palace, overthrew the government, and seized control."
Another pause.
"This event has triggered waves of populist uprisings across the world, further destabilizing an already fractured global order."
Inside the bar, no one reacted.
A middle-aged man in the corner took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes half-closed, as if the news were nothing more than rain tapping against a window. Two young people near the pool table glanced up for a moment before returning to their phones. Behind the counter, the bartender wiped a glass with mechanical precision, his face empty, as though he had heard this story a hundred times before.
No curses. No panic. Not even a sigh.
Everyone in the room already knew.
They knew the world was dying, and that it was likely beyond saving. The news was no longer a warning. It was a reminder.
Outside, New York remained alive. Horns blared. Cars pushed through traffic. Skyscrapers glowed against the approaching darkness. But inside the bar, behind cigarette smoke and half-empty glasses, there was a quiet understanding shared by all.
This was not the beginning of the end.
It was simply the continuation.
---
In a seat tucked away in the corner sat a young man in his mid-twenties. His head was lowered, black hair slightly disheveled. The formal uniform he still wore suggested he had either just left work or never made it home at all.
Unlike the others, his expression was not tired.
It was vacant.
"How did this happen," he murmured, disbelief seeping into his voice.
Five minutes ago, he remembered being at his workplace.
Now, he was here.
In someone else's body.
The realization hit him all at once.
His hand shot to his left chest. His breath caught as strength drained from his limbs.
"I died," he whispered.
The memory surged back. Sharp metal piercing his chest. Sudden pain. An accident at work.
His eyes darted around the unfamiliar bar. The unfamiliar uniform. Beneath it all, a chaotic flood of memories that did not belong to him, yet felt disturbingly close.
His phone vibrated.
He pulled it out.
Incoming call: Leon Redfield.
The name felt painfully familiar, though he could not explain why.
He answered.
"Hey, Eryon," a young man's voice said. "I got the job this afternoon. Everything went smoothly. I start tomorrow. How about you?"
The moment he heard that voice, irritation rose in Eryon's chest. Sharp. Unwanted. Deeply rooted.
"It's great," he replied shortly.
"Yeah, right," Leon laughed softly. "You probably don't want to talk about it now. I get it. I'm having a small celebration at my place tonight. We can talk then. I really hope you'll come."
"Sure," Eryon said.
The call ended.
He remained frozen in his seat.
The names echoed in his mind.
Leon Redfield.
Eryon.
A world on the brink of collapse.
His eyes widened.
He stood abruptly and rushed toward the back of the bar, pushing through the door to the restroom.
---
He stood before the mirror.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, revealing a face he did not recognize, yet somehow knew.
Sharp features. Tired eyes. A stranger staring back with unsettling familiarity.
For a moment, it felt unreal. Like looking at a character on a screen.
His hands trembled as he pulled out his wallet and opened it.
An ID card stared back at him.
Eryon Cain.
Age: 27.
New York.
"Impossible," he muttered. "This world is…"
The words stopped.
Memories rushed forward. A novel he once loved. A world destroyed by corrupt rulers. Resources depleted. Famine spreading unchecked.
Humanity did not go extinct.
It was sent elsewhere.
A far crueler world.
A place ruled by the law of the jungle, where the strong devoured the weak.
Eryon's body trembled.
This was not coincidence.
This was that world.
"And more importantly," he whispered, staring into his own eyes, "I'm him."
Eryon Cain.
A side character.
A disposable existence whose death served only as a stepping stone for the protagonist.
Leon Redfield.
His closest friend.
His throat tightened.
He knew exactly what awaited him in the story. No destiny. No hidden power. No importance.
A nobody.
He had always lived in Leon's shadow. That resentment, buried since childhood, had never once been voiced.
Because he was afraid.
A loser. Or worse, someone who knew it and did nothing.
Eryon turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto his face. Droplets slid down his skin as he inhaled deeply, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Then he looked back at the mirror.
This time, his expression had changed.
"I won't let this happen," he said quietly.
His gaze shifted to the watch on his wrist.
4:00 PM.
"I still have time to prepare."
He turned away, left the restroom, and stepped back into the city.