Ethan Cross had just completed another fourteen-hour shift. His desk resembled a crime scene more than a workspace: coffee cups at various stages of decay — some empty, others with cold sludge — arranged haphazardly. Empty energy drink cans rolled as he moved his chair. Crumpled protein bar wrappers, sticky notes, and a lone fork with dried noodles indicated weeks of neglect. His dual monitors emitted a tired blue glow, casting shadows on his hollow-cheeked face.

The office felt eerily quiet, like the calm after a funeral. The steady hum of servers in the back room filled the space, unending and constant. The old HVAC system sputtered now and then, blowing out stale air through the vents. In the daytime, the floor was bustling with phone calls, footsteps, and the occasional forced laughter of coworkers trying to get through the same routine. But at night, once everyone had left, the silence grew oppressive, weighing down as if the building itself was holding its breath.

He leaned back in his chair until it groaned in protest, vertebrae popping as he stretched. For a brief moment, he let his eyes close. The question surfaced unbidden, as it had countless times before: What am I even doing with my life? If he didn't show up tomorrow, how long would it be before anyone noticed? His bosses would care eventually, though only because work would slow down. But family? Friends? They'd given up a while ago. His mother used to call every Sunday—gentle reminders to eat properly, visit, and take care of himself. Now, weeks passed in silence. Friends had once dragged him out for beers, late-night drives, and silly adventures that felt endless when they were younger. These days, invitations no longer came. People eventually learned that Ethan always said no. Sorry, too busy. Maybe next time.

Every day blended into the next, nearly indistinguishable except by the angle of sunlight streaming through his office window. His mornings started with the shriek of a 6 a.m. alarm that sounded like a gunshot, followed by a frantic stumble to the gas station across the street for an energy drink and a stale breakfast sandwich. He barely tasted either anymore. Afternoons were filled with conference calls where everyone talked in circles until no one remembered what the meeting was about. Evenings were spent on deadlines, pushing pixels across a screen until the hours blurred. Then he went home, if it could be called that: a shoebox apartment cluttered with laundry he never folded, a fridge that only ever held takeout boxes and flat soda.

His coping rituals were pathetic, and he knew it. Microwave dinners were eaten half-cold because he didn't bother waiting for the timer. Late nights scrolling social feeds until dawn left him numb from a parade of smiling faces — vacations in Bali, weddings, new apartments, gym selfies with captions about progress and discipline. Sometimes he left the TV on mute while he worked, letting the flickering light keep him company like a ghost. Other times, he drank until the edges of his thoughts dulled, though never enough to sleep well.

The scariest part wasn't the exhaustion; it was the numbness. His life was less about truly living and more about keeping a machine running — feeding it coffee, entering data, generating results. There were no highs or lows, just gray.

His phone buzzed once, face down beside the keyboard. He instinctively reached for it, thumb ready over the screen. It was a notification from his social feed, but he hesitated to open it, knowing what awaited. It was more evidence that everyone else was moving on—engagements, babies, trips, new jobs, progress. Meanwhile, he remained stuck in this dead-end job, half-hidden beneath fluorescent lights in the middle of the night, surrounded by the leftovers of another useless day.

That's when the light showed up. Initially, it was a faint shimmer at the corner of his vision, reminiscent of an afterimage from staring at a lamp too long. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but instead of fading, the shimmer grew stronger. It expanded across his monitor until the spreadsheet blurred into a white haze. Gradually, his desk, walls, and floor were consumed, all swirling in a mix of white and gold, flowing like molten fire and engulfing everything.

"What the--?"

Fear was absent, and no scream escaped. The light exploded around him, burning like liquid fire, causing Ethan to feel himself disintegrate. Every fiber of his being unraveled, like threads tearing from cloth. He was falling—or maybe rising—into a vast, infinite, and utterly unfamiliar realm.

Maya Tanaka stood on the campus library steps, clutching a heavy stack of books to her chest. Her arms trembled from the weight, but she carried them like treasure — because to her, they were. Volumes on Mesopotamian epics, translations of Sanskrit battle hymns, and journals tracing the evolution of god-forms across continents. Her research on ancient mythologies was her pride, though most of her classmates dismissed it as impractical. Few cared about dead languages and forgotten gods, but Maya did. She cared fiercely.

The crisp autumn air brushed against her skin, rustling her notes. A strand of her black hair, streaked with pink messily, slipped from her bun and pressed against her cheek. She brushed it away, longing for a pause button on life—just a moment of stillness. Everywhere she looked, voices echoed—professors calling for revisions, classmates anxious about internships, and her parents repeatedly asking: What are you going to do with your life?

Her parents' expectations always seemed like invisible chains. From a young age, her future was planned with meticulous detail: achieving perfect grades, joining honor societies, securing scholarships, and pursuing a career to make them proud. The choices were clear: doctor, lawyer, engineer. These careers were drilled into her as if they were commandments. Anthropology was never considered part of the plan, and mythology was definitely not.

When she revealed her interest in ancient gods and lost languages, her father's brow furrowed. "That's not a career, Maya," he said unemphatically. Her mother briefly pressed her lips, softly saying, "We only want what's best for you." Neither of them shouted. Their disappointment was louder than any anger could be.

So Maya learned to play the part. Over phone calls, she lied in small, careful ways.

Yes, I'm keeping my options open.

Of course, med school is still on the table.

Don't worry, I'm focused on what matters.

The lies now flowed effortlessly, but each one left her feeling guilty afterward, as she sat alone in her dorm room with guilt twisting in her stomach. She vowed silently that it wasn't permanent. I'll make them proud someday... just not in the way they want. That secret promise was her shield and her quiet rebellion.

Secretly, she delved into her passions—ancient myths, their languages, and stories that outlived empires. Every translation was a quiet act of rebellion, and each discovery a step into a world she alone could claim. Among gods who existed long before her parents' rules, she was truly free.

She placed her books on the library's stone railing and gently opened one. Her fingers followed the shape of a cuneiform symbol, and for a moment, she felt her chest relax. The world's noise diminished, giving her a sense of ownership.

A brief flash of light zipped across the page. She furrowed her brow and tilted her head. Initially, she assumed it was the streetlamp overhead flickering once more. However, the shimmer intensified, distorting the air as heat does from hot asphalt. The words became fuzzy, and the stone beneath her hand warmed up.

Her breath caught as she gripped the railing with one hand and held her books close to her chest with the other. The shimmer extended, fracturing the air like glass under stress.

The library, campus, and city—her whole world— shattered all at once. Then, as if drawn into the gap between heartbeats, everything melted into a blinding light.

When Ethan reopened his eyes, the office had disappeared. He was now lying on polished marble, underneath a ceiling of towering gold arches. Torches flickered in iron sconces, and the air was filled with the aroma of incense and candle wax.

He groaned and pushed himself upright. "What the hell…"

A woman sat nearby on the floor, holding a book close to her chest like a shield. Her two-toned hair had come loose, with strands framing her wide, confused eyes.

"Uh… hi," Ethan said, still a bit dazed. "Please tell me you're seeing this as well."

The woman blinked at him and asked, "You're not… part of my hallucination, are you?"

"Depends. Do your hallucinations usually involve marble palaces?"

Before either of them could speak further, a circle of robed figures moved closer, murmuring in low voices. They surrounded Ethan and Maya, their staffs illuminated with runes.

"Behold!" exclaimed one of them, an elderly man with a silver beard that draped to his chest. "The summoning is successful. The Heroes are here!"

Ethan stared, convinced his eyes blinked separately and more slowly than normal. He didn't fully grasp what was just said. "Heroes?"

Maya took a deep breath, her eyes shifting between the robed figures and the throne at the hall's end. There, a man sat wearing crimson robes and a jeweled crown. His face was pale but exuded pride, and his stare was as formidable as a mountain.

The king's voice echoed throughout the chamber: "Strangers from another realm... I welcome you to Aeloria, in the Kingdom of Arathen. You have been selected by the Binding Oath to defend our world from the Demon King."

Maya's breath caught in her throat. Demon King. Heroes. Chosen. These words felt like the beginning of one of her favorite myths—yet the fear in her chest was genuine.

Ethan weakly raised a hand. "Uh... thanks for the hospitality, Your Majesty, but I believe there's been a mistake. I'm an accountant. She's a... what exactly are you, librarian?"

Maya muttered automatically, still holding her book, "Graduate student."

"Yeah. Point is—we're not… sword-wielding monster-slayers."

The king's eyes narrowed, his tone serious. "You are not given the luxury of choice. The summoning will bind you. Until the Demon King is slain, this world—and your fate—are intertwined."

The words hit like chains. Ethan felt it—a weight sinking deep in his chest, a thread of fire pulling tight in his veins. Maya gasped, grabbing her arm as glowing runes flickered across her skin before fading.

Ethan's jaw tightened as Maya's eyes glistened, but she forced herself to look away. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the crackling of the torches. A new life had begun, one neither of them had willingly chosen.