The walk home felt longer than usual.
James moved down the cracked sidewalk with his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the late afternoon wind. The sky above him was the color of old concrete, heavy and unmoving, as though it had given up trying to be blue. The sun was somewhere behind the clouds, but it did not matter. Nothing felt warm anymore.
Cars passed without slowing. Tires hissed over the damp asphalt, a ghostly whisper beneath the distant hum of the city. Someone laughed across the street, a short, sharp sound, gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the air hollow behind it.
People passed without looking. Nobody ever looked.
James kept his head down, eyes fixed on the uneven pavement ahead of him. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the ground itself resisted him, daring him to stop. His backpack hung loose on one shoulder, lighter than it had any right to be.
No textbooks.
No notebooks.
No folded permission slips or unfinished homework.
No reason to open it again anytime soon.
Third school. Same ending.
Expelled.
The word did not feel real. It sat in his mind like a foreign object, sharp and awkward, lodged there and refusing to leave.
Not for fighting. Not for stealing. Not even for talking back.
Just not showing up.
Too many absences.
Too many mornings where the alarm rang and he lay there staring at the ceiling, watching shadows stretch and twist as the sun climbed higher. Too many days when the thought of walking into a classroom, pretending to care about equations and essays, felt like dragging himself through wet cement.
Too many nights staring at the ceiling long after midnight, counting cracks, listening to the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen because silence felt louder. Silence left too much room for memories.
The principal's voice echoed in his head, clipped and rehearsed, heavy with concern that felt more like obligation than care.
"James, this cannot continue."
James had nodded. He always nodded. It was easier than explaining something he did not understand himself.
Neither could his life, apparently.
He reached the apartment building and slowed, stopping just short of the entrance. The place looked the same as it always did. Gray concrete. Narrow windows. A flickering light above the door buzzed faintly, struggling to stay awake.
He tilted his head, staring up at the third-floor window. Curtains drawn. No light. No movement.
His mother would not be home.
She was probably working late, or sleeping on a friend's couch, or working late and then sleeping on a friend's couch because going home felt like one responsibility too many.
James did not blame her. Not really.
After his father died, everything had tilted off balance. Bills piled up. Shifts got longer. Smiles became rarer. Silence filled the spaces where conversations used to live. People said time healed things. James had not seen it yet.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The stairwell smelled like dust and old paint, with a faint trace of something burned. Someone on the second floor had ruined dinner again. A television murmured through one of the walls, canned laughter hollow and shallow, an imitation of life.
James took the stairs two at a time, sneakers squeaking against worn concrete. His legs moved on autopilot, carrying him upward while his mind drifted elsewhere, tangled in thoughts too heavy to touch.
Apartment 3B.
The familiar dent in the doorframe caught his eye. His father had made it years ago, slamming the door too hard during an argument that never really ended. They had laughed about it afterward, promised to fix it someday.
Someday never came.
James unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The apartment greeted him the way it always did.
Cold. Still. Waiting.
The air felt stale, unmoving, as if the room itself had been holding its breath. The television sat dark in the living room, a thin layer of dust dulling the glass. The couch sagged in the middle, cushions permanently shaped by years of use and neglect.
Empty coffee cups crowded the kitchen counter. Some still smelled faintly of burnt grounds. Others held dried rings at the bottom, stubborn reminders of things left unfinished. A chair stood slightly crooked, one leg shorter than the others, wobbling if touched.
James dropped his backpack by the door and kicked off his shoes. They landed unevenly, one on its side, the other facing the wrong direction.
"Mother?" he called.
The word echoed once, thin and lonely, before dissolving into silence.
He already knew the answer.
James exhaled slowly and rubbed his face with both hands, dragging his fingers down until they rested against his jaw. His skin felt tight, stretched thin over bone.
Seventeen years old. No school. No father.
The memory came without warning, sharp and intrusive.
A knock at the door. Firm. Official. Blue and red lights flashing through the living room window, painting the walls in harsh, pulsing colors. His mother's voice rising, cracking into something almost unrecognizable. And his father's blood. Too dark. Too much.
James squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching.
Not today.
He forced the memory down, burying it beneath layers of practiced avoidance. He had gotten good at that. Too good.
He walked into his room and tossed his jacket onto the chair. It slid off and pooled on the floor, sleeves twisted like broken arms.
On his desk sat the game case. He had hidden it under his mattress for three nights, pulling it out only when he was sure his mother would not see. Each time he thought about it, a knot of guilt tightened in his chest, cold and insistent.
Nexus Blades. An MMORPG unlike any other. A broken world of mages, knights, and towering castles. A vast map stretching beyond imagination, crawling with monsters in every dark corner. Towers vanishing into storm-choked clouds. Dangerous dungeons daring anyone foolish enough to enter.
The title was etched across the cover in jagged, uneven letters, as if carved by something impatient and restless. The artwork was dark, unsettling. A twisted tower pierced the sky, lightning frozen mid-strike around it. At the base, cloaked figures stood armored and armed, faces hidden in shadow. They looked small. Insignificant. And yet, overwhelmingly powerful.
James's eyes traced every line, every shadow, every hidden detail. He imagined himself standing among them, wielding a blade, a cloak fluttering behind him. A world so dangerous, yet alive in a way his apartment never was.
He stared at the cover, drawn in by both danger and promise. The world inside waited, and he knew he could not resist.
He picked it up, running his thumb along the edge of the case. He had bought it with money stolen from his mother's wallet.
The memory twisted his stomach. She had left the wallet on the kitchen table, bills visible. James had stood there for a long time, staring at it, arguing with himself in silence.
Just this once.
She will not notice.
I will pay her back. Eventually.
The guilt had not gone away. It lingered, heavy and persistent, every time he looked at the game.
But it was done.
Tonight, he needed something. Anything. A place to disappear into that was not his own head.
James picked up his phone and opened the food application.
Pepperoni pizza. Large. Extra cheese. He hesitated, thumb hovering, then added a soda.
Order placed. Thirty minutes. Plenty of time.
James carried the game case into the living room and knelt in front of the console. The plastic wrap crackled loudly as he tore it open, the sound intrusive in the quiet apartment, like breaking something sacred.
The disc slid free. It gleamed faintly under the ceiling light, darker than normal, almost absorbing the light instead of reflecting it. Strange patterns etched into its surface caught his eye, subtle and uneven, like symbols worn down by time.
James frowned. "Must be the design," he muttered.
He slid the disc into the console. The machine hummed to life. A familiar sound. Comforting.
James sank into the couch, remote in hand, the worn fabric creaking beneath his weight. He stretched his legs out and leaned back, eyes fixed on the screen as it flickered.
Black.
White.
Black again.
The logo appeared. Nexus Blades. The letters pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
Thunder rolled through the speakers, low and distant. The title screen faded in, revealing a desolate landscape. Ruins stretched beneath a dark sky. Firelight flickered in the distance. Shadows moved where they should not, slipping between broken walls.
Something stirred in James's chest. Real excitement.
"Finally," he muttered, leaning forward. He pressed Start.
The screen froze. Then stuttered. The sound warped, stretching into something wrong. A thin line of static crawled across the display from left to right.
James leaned forward, tapping the side of the television. Once. Twice. Harder the third time.
The static multiplied. The image twisted, colors bleeding together like wet ink. The sound collapsed into a low, distorted hum that vibrated through the floor and up his legs.
The hum was no longer just sound. It pressed against his chest, tactile, insistent, as if the room itself had begun to pulse.
James stood. "Okay," he whispered, pulse quickening. "That is not normal."
The hum deepened. It filled the air, thick and heavy, clinging to his skin, settling into his lungs. Breathing felt like inhaling through water.
The apartment lights flickered. Shadows stretched unnaturally across walls and furniture. Corners darkened where light should have reached.
Then the screen filled with lines. Not static. Not interference. Thin, angular patterns shifting and crawling across the glass like something alive, pressing to get through.
James froze, heart hammering. His fingers tightened around the remote, knuckles white.
The food application chimed softly on the coffee table.
"Your order is on the way."
The sound felt impossibly distant. Alien. Wrong.
The hum rose again. Stronger. Deeper. Almost sentient. As if the television were no longer a machine, but a doorway.
Something was about to cross the line between worlds.
And James was standing far too close.