“What the—where am I?”

I try to open my eyes.

Bad idea.

My retinas immediately file a police complaint.
White light. Not bright—aggressively white. Like someone replaced reality with a hospital corridor designed by God after a bad breakup.

I shut my eyes again.

Open them slower this time.

Still white.

Endless white.

A flat, empty space stretched so far it feels like infinity forgot to render textures.

Then—
pop.

A person appears.

Then another.

Then another.

People are teleporting in like laggy NPCs spawning without collision detection. Some fall. Some scream. One guy vomits instantly, like his body clock said, “Yeah this feels like a vomit situation.”

Seconds pass.

More people.

Dozens. Hundreds.

The air fills with overlapping panic:

“WHERE AM I—”
“IS THIS HEAVEN—”
“WHO TOUCHED ME—”
“I WAS IN THE BATHROOM—”

Then suddenly—

Silence.

Not calm silence.
The inhale before mass hysteria.

And then it hits.

Everyone starts panicking at once.

People scream.
People run in random directions despite there being no directions.
People accuse each other of things nobody understands.

“This is YOUR fault!”
“No, YOU pressed something!”
“WHICH ONE OF YOU IS MARK ZUCKERBERG?”

And somehow—somehow—I become the center of it.

I don’t know how.

I’m just standing there.

Existing wrong.

And then I feel it.

That primal human instinct.

Someone has chosen me as the problem.

A shadow looms.

I turn.

And there he is.

A man built like a midlife crisis final boss.
Round. Sweaty. Red-faced.
The kind of guy who yells at waiters and lets his wife fight customer service.

This man looks at me like I personally unplugged his life support.

“You,” he says, pointing. “YOU DID THIS.”

I blink.

“…I didn’t even scan my bus card today.”

Wrong answer.

He charges.

Not fast—determined.
Like a refrigerator falling down stairs.

He grabs my collar.

“CONFESS,” he roars, breath smelling like poor decisions and onion rings.

“I don’t know where we are,” I say calmly. “But statistically, it’s not me.”

He punches me.

Hard.

The universe flickers.

I stumble back.

People gasp.

Someone yells, “FIGHT! FIGHT!”
Which tells me society is still functioning.

He punches again.

I try to dodge. I fail emotionally.

I fall.

He kicks me.

Once. Twice.

I curl into a defensive ball—the ancient martial art known as “Please stop”.

Then he grabs my leg.

Drags me.

And throws me across the white nothingness.

I land.

Face-first.

The floor feels like regret.

I lie there.

Staring at infinity.

Thinking, So this is how I die. Not to aliens. Not to destiny. To a guy named N0BrianFatAssGooner.

And then—

PING.

A giant screen materializes in the sky.

Everyone freezes.

Even Brian.

Text appears.

CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING SELECTED

Selected.

For what.

STAGE 0 STARTS IN 10 SECONDS

A countdown appears.

10

I’m still on the ground.

Bleeding.

I sigh.

Of course.

Of course the apocalypse comes with stages.
Of course there’s a tutorial.

I sit up slowly.

“Okay,” I mutter. “If this is death, I want to file feedback.”

9

I look around.

People are crying.

Praying.

Screaming.

Someone is livestreaming nothing.

I clear my throat.

Think, Ennis. Routine failed. Adapt.

8

“Alright,” I say to nobody. “Let’s address the obvious. I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t sign up. I didn’t click ‘Accept Terms.’ If this is a game, I want to refund.”

7

“This feels like one of those systems where they say ‘Congratulations’ like it’s my fault. Like—no. You kidnapped me. Don’t gaslight me with confetti language.”

A voice whispers beside me.

“E-excuse me…”

I ignore it.

6

“Also,” I continue, louder, “I notice we’re on Stage Zero. Which implies there are more stages. Which implies suffering has been roadmap-approved.”

The voice tries again.

“Um—sir—”

Still ignoring.

5

“Let me guess. Stats. Levels. Powers. Chosen ones. Someone here will be special. It will not be me. I press buttons. The buttons feel nothing.”

The voice sighs.

4

“Side characters,” I say, gesturing vaguely, “you will die first. Not because you deserve it. But because the plot requires emotional efficiency.”

“HEY,” the voice snaps. “I’M TALKING TO YOU.”

I turn.

Finally.

“…You interrupted my monologue,” I say.

The countdown continues.

3

The screen flickers.

The rules are coming.

And for the first time in my life—

I’m early for something.

2

I adjust my posture.

Wipe blood off my face.

“No shame,” I whisper.

1

The world holds its breath.

And Stage 0 begins.