"Run, Nick."
The voice was hoarse, a fractured ruin of a sound that tore through the silence. It sank into the boy huddled on the floor, his knees drawn tight to his chest, shoulders shaking like a dead leaf in a gale.
Nick flinched, every nerve ending fused by terror. At the sound of his father's voice, he forced his head up.
His gaze landed first on his father's legs—or what was left of them.
Severed and jagged, they trailed behind him as he dragged his torso across the floor toward his unconscious wife, blood spraying in rhythmic arcs.
"Da… Dad…" Nick's voice was a ragged rasp, his chin slick with salt and snot. He reached out a small, trembling hand, an instinctive gesture of help from a child utterly helpless to provide it.
His father stalled. He turned his head toward Nick, but the face twisted by grief and agony was gone. In its place was a wide, unnatural smile, a grin so eerie it curdled Nick's blood, tapping into a primal fear he had carried since birth.
A scream ripped from Nick's throat.
"AHHH!"
Then, silence. Abrupt sunlight struck his restless face.
Nick bolted upright, the familiar ceiling and the four walls of his room rushing in to greet him.
He drew a jagged breath, his knuckles white as he gripped the bedsheets. From the living room, the faint, polished drone of a news anchor drifted through the door.
"...Unfortunately, the Chosen One has perished, and we must brace for another Calamity," the voice said.
"Fortunately, this time, the national representative was transported to an F-Class dungeon. We can only hope the casualties won't reach the thousands this time."
"Don't worry, Ana," a second anchor chimed in. "We have the Anomaly & Calamity Containment Bureau standing by. Let us also pray for the soul of the fallen, who died so far from his family, his nation, and his world."
Fifty years. It had been five decades since the first "Chosen" was whisked away to another realm, a phenomenon that was as much a curse as it was a blessing.
The worlds on the other side were gauntlets of horror and apocalypse, where the only rule was survival.
If a Chosen survived without breaking the "Rules," the nation prospered. If they died, an unkillable Calamity descended upon their home country, stopping only once its thirst for a specific number of lives was quenched.
Nick shook his head, a wry, bitter smile tugging at his lips.
When he was four, a ghostly Calamity had slaughtered his family. When he was seventeen, a different kind of horror—a non-lethal but life-altering anomaly—had left him like this.
A long strand of silver hair fell across his face, obscuring his left eye. Tilting his head, he caught his reflection in the vanity mirror.
A beautiful woman stared back, possessing flowing silver locks and eyes the colour of fresh rubies.
"Natalie! Breakfast!"
Hearing her roommate's voice, she stood up and headed for the bathroom to wash away the sweat and refresh herself.
Stepping into the living room, Natalie's gaze fell on a girl roughly her own age lounging on the sofa, her eyes glued to the news.
She was another victim of the same Calamity that targeted her two years ago.
"Sofie, I'm heading to the gym after I eat," Natalie said, heading straight for the kitchen.
Sofie rolled her eyes, leaning back against the cushions and tilting her head to glare at Natalie's retreating back. "Hey! How many times do I have to tell you? Stop calling me Sofie. My name is Sophus!"
"Yeah, yeah," Natalie waved a dismissive hand without looking back. "That was two years ago, Blondie."
"What did you just call me, Shortie?" Sofie snapped, bolting upright as her temper flared.
"Hey, I'm not short! We're literally the same age and height"
After finishing a quick breakfast and getting the last word in, Natalie grabbed her gear and stepped out the door, leaving the noise of the news and Sofie's protests behind.
Sipping her coffee, Natalie manoeuvred through the bustling morning crowds. The rhythm of the city was normal until.
In a single, synchronised heartbeat, every smartphone screen in sight went black.
The hum of the city faltered as people stopped in their tracks, staring at the dead glass in their hands. Then, a single word flickered onto every screen in a stark font:
[GHOST]
Around the globe, government officials surged into high alert. Within the fortified walls of A.C.C. Bureau hubs, alarms began to blare, and the silence of morning was replaced by the frantic shouting of containment teams.
The [GHOST] signal meant a Horror World. These realms required absolute caution; one single wrong move meant the player's death, and a nightmare's descent upon the world.