[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
10:00 p.m. - At Ryan House (Time frozen 09 September 2025)
My lungs feel itchy, I breathe in and out with a strange feeling I've never felt before. I take a long breath. No rasp. Air goes all the way down without protest. For a second, I swear I catch a clean, faint something—detergent, maybe—like my nose remembered how to be a nose.
I open my eyes, and the world hits me, warm and cozy—real, sharp, oddly comforting. Cream walls stand where they always do. The couch sags in the same spot. The rug frays at one corner like it refuses to mend. The fan hums like a small engine that never quits.
I check my left arm. Nothing missing.
"What the fuck—was that a bad dream?"
"This is my house."
I sit up slow, chest tight with leftover fear. My left arm—my arm—twitches under the sheet. Whole. No blood. No jagged scar. The blade and the wall feel like a movie that won't stop playing, but my fingers flex on command. All five.
"What the hell."
"That pain was so fucking real."
"Or I slept on my arm and the blood didn't flow."
I drop my feet to the floor. The wood answers with familiar creaks. Gravity holds me like a hand on the shoulder. Normal. Friendly. That small steadiness matters more than it should. I stand and walk toward the living room.
"Maybe I should take the medicine as prescribed by the doctor."
Fresh air. I reach the door without thinking. Hand on the handle. I pull and step out.
The floor is gone. Not the same. A trick. Like a curb that isn't there. The step becomes a hole. It's like taking another step into zero gravity.
"Whoa! Shit."
Instinct grabs the frame. Paint slides under my fingers. I haul myself up with a dumb scramble, knees banging, shoes scraping. I hang there, a knot of limbs in the doorway, breath loud in my ears.
That almost counts as falling into space. I almost step out for a breath and into the void.
I drag myself fully inside and slam the door. It clicks like any door on any street.
"Fuck, am I going crazy?"
I press both hands to my chest. Heart beats hard against my palms. A laugh pushes up, sharp and shaky.
"Hahaha, where the fuck am I?"
I cross to the bay window. Mrs. Larkin's crooked mailbox should sit there. The blue hydrangea. The cracked sidewalk. Instead—nothing but black. Far out, a rim holds like a ring of still fire.
"Hahaha, Mrs. Larkin's dog leaves paw prints on every planter. She swears it's an accident—now the footprints are the least of our problems."
Black hole far away. Not sucking me in. Gravity feels like home. This… this is the Space House. The Mystery House. A safe place that is not safe in the usual sense.
"Space House. Call it Mystery House if it makes you feel poetic."
Naming shrinks it. Not by much. Enough to breathe.
"And I can still breathe normally, like there's oxygen here—air like on Earth."
I move down the hall. Bedroom light glows softly. The RGB PC paints the desk in slow colour waves. The monitors purr. A window fills one screen, pale like an email draft, too clean.
I lean in.
"Job Application: Reality Parameters."
My reflection watches me from the glass, eyes wide behind smudged lenses. The cursor blinks like a metronome. A grin sneaks up on me. Gamer brain lights: achievement unlocked—admin privileges. I shouldn't be happy. I am. Is this the isekai starter pack?
"Okay," I murmur, steadying. "What's the rule set?" I pull the chair with a calf, sit, palms flat on the desk. "Show me the options."
The form obliges. Three lines populate, neat and cruel.
I don't touch them.
I read once. Twice. Fingers drum the table. My left arm keeps time. Whole. Warm. Real.
```Mail Form
Job Application: Reality Parameters
Status: Update Scripts
Next Cycle Begins in: 6 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes
Submit To: [email protected]
Safety Protocols Available:
- Safe from Wounds
- Safe from Legendary Beasts
- Safe from War
```
"At least I guess…"
"Avarnith.Veythralis—subdomain before domain. That's us‑west‑1 logic. So Avarnith = region/continent, Veythralis = world. My inbox just taught geography."
"If I email [email protected] and get an auto‑reply that says 'BIGBANG ENABLED,' If that thing happen I'm sorry guy i send an wrong mail."
All three check boxes wait on the screen—empty, patient, almost smug.
I lean in till the glass cools my forehead. I read like I read a spec sheet before a launch. Margin notes flash in my head.
It's an interface. The Choice Mandate. Two from 3. Domain rules. A god-form in HR clothing. It's a tool. It can break rules. It can protect me. Both at once. Wow.
A dry chuckle slips out.
"A job application to fix reality. Great. HR as a deity."
My laugh bounces off cream walls and finds the rug. I spin once in the chair. RGB washes the desk in waves—blue to magenta to sick neon green. For a breath, it feels like a nerd's room. I let the spin slow and catch the desk edge with my palm.
"Life never asked me if I was ready."
Excitement buzzes. "I'm the kid who found the admin console, this is insane. I like it." And I really shouldn't.
I hover my fingers over the keyboard like it's a shuttle launch. The mouse waits under my hand like a tame thing. The part of me that wants to click everything fights the part that measures twice and cuts once.
"Alright, two options. Think like a dev. Work the edge cases."
I push back from the desk and go to the living room. The remote sits on the coffee table like a test. I tap power. A late-night host grins with too many teeth. Crowd noise fills the room, canned and comfortable. I flip channels—documentary, cartoon reruns, a cooking show that makes onions look heroic. All there. All wrong-time.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket. I pull it out. One bar. Wi‑Fi grins full. I open the browser. Old home page loads. Search works. Headlines freeze at yesterday. A cat in a cardboard tank rolls across the kitchen floor and shoots a paper straw at a dog. I snort. The internet is cached and committed to the bit.
After finishing up my laze, that's enough for today's internet. I charge my phone and laptop batteries.
"Okay. The world's cached."
The kitchen calls. I cross tiles that shine like they were polished this hour. The fridge door opens with a soft seal-pop. Milk. Eggs. Apple juice in a neat six‑pack. I pick one apple juice, puncture the foil with the little straw like muscle memory, and drink.
"Still the same."
I throw the empty bottle toward the bin. It rustles, lands. I look back in the fridge. Another six‑pack sits perfect, like no hand touched it. I step to the bin. It's empty. No carton. No straw. A trick with no magician in sight. I catch it now—faint citrus from the juice, a clean ghost of detergent in the towels. My anosmia should make that a blank. It isn't. I like that.
I kiss my fingertips—chef's‑kiss.
"Infinite snacks. Don't break the fridge, Mercer." Bad balance patch.
I return to the desk. The form waits, pale and clean. Patient.
I stare. My left wrist—whole—sits on the desk. I flex. All five fingers answer quickly.
"Safe from wounds, my arm on the floor, the bright chop—I don't want that story again."
"No more missing limbs."
A breath. My mouth tastes like apple sugar and nerves.
"And no getting chewed by… that thing."
I click Safe from Wounds. A soft chime ticks in the house, like a toaster done. The square fills with a tick that glows once, then settles.
I shift the cursor.
The Umbrathorax walks through my head—fractal light across fog, eyes like poured gold, a mouth big enough to swallow a car.
"Legendary Beasts, yes."
I click. Another chime. The second box fills.
The third box waits. Safe from War. It looks simple. It looks like a scam, like a button a bored god puts out to see who thinks they're saint enough to press it.
I scroll. Small print hides in the white at the bottom: Select 2 of 3 options to define reality.
"It's like I have to go back to that dream world again. Otherwise, it's not like a dream. It's like another world. I'm not sure yet, but it's like I have to go back there again."
Only 2. Forever. No rollback. No revert to commit before. Safe from War sounds holy. It also sounds like breaking the spine of this world. Soldiers with no war. Kings with no wars to anchor borders. Food chains. Trade. Stories. I'm new here. I don't own their history. Not tonight.
My hand hovers over the mouse. I pull back.
"Not my problem. Not… not tonight."
Safe from Wounds — CHECK.
Safe from Legendary Beasts — CHECK.
I move to Submit. I click.
A bar appears. I read the numbers as they jump.
"5… 35… 72… 100. Done."
The hum of the fridge holds steady. The ceiling fan slices air with a soft chop. The black hole outside doesn't blink. Nothing cracks or sings. The form renders a simple word: Submission Complete.
Feel good. It's thrilling. Nostalgia hits like a warm filter. Like I'm playing god in a sandbox, but also like someone handing me a remote for a cinema I always wanted to make.
I let out one short, dry laugh.
"No fireworks. Figures."
I sit back, arms spread on the chair arms like a throne I didn't order.
Feels good. Feels stupid. I like the power. I'll pretend I don't. I'll fail at pretending.
I stand. The house breathes around me, that steady refrigerator heart‑beat. I pad down the hall. Steam fogs the bathroom fast. I twist the shower hot and let water drum. Heat climbs over shoulders, neck, scalp. I rest forearms on tile and hang my head.
"When you're alone, you talk. When you're around people, you shut up."
I look up. The mirror wears a blur. I drag a hand across it. My own face looks back, too awake.
"You okay, Mercer?"
I flex the fingers of my left hand, watch tendons rise and fall.
"You made a choice. Try not to break anything."
Clothes will be washed in the washing machine inside the bathroom.
I towel off. Cotton grabs the water and gives back nothing. I dress in the same clothes—the bright jacket, the orange shirt, the shorts that look like a dare in any medieval town. I walk barefoot to the desk.
I pause. I glance at the paper notebook on the desk, flip it open, scribble the same safety protocols list with a pen what have i chosen and what have i cut out. I hate anyone reading it. I write anyway.
"Do not touch Safe from War." Save lives first.
I close the notebook like I shield it from the room.
I step to the bay window. The void presses close, not with force, just with idea. Space lays flat, a field of tar with a ring of white far out where the black hole sits like an eye with a cataract.
The black hole says nothing. The fan spins. I tap the glass with one fingernail. It makes a crisp note. The note dies quickly. I lean my forehead against the cool.
"You think you're a god. Maybe a space landlord. This is your little country. This couch, this desk, this fridge that gives forever. Your domain. Act like a decent god. No brutal. No cosmic tantrums."
I turn, spread arms.
"Okay. Captain of this tiny ship. We made new weather—the rules here bend to me."
I cross to the couch, drop into it, then change my mind and go back to the desk. I save the file in three folders like muscle memory.
"Back up. Always back up."
I shut the lid on the laptop I brought from Earth. I lift it, feel the weight the same as the first day I paid for it, heavy and familiar. I set it down. I pick up the phone, stare at the frozen time at the top bar. I check messages that never answer. I open a thread with one of my friends, type Hey. I watch the typing cursor blink like a patient heartbeat. I delete the draft. I put the phone face down.
"Neat freak house."
A cross to the bedroom. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 22:00. It always reads 22:00. The frozen colon blinks once and holds. Photos from the old world dot the wall—ryan on a beach, friends at a hackathon, a taco truck I swore had the best sauce in San Jose.
I tap the clock.
"Sleep ryan you have a lot to do."
"Space House. Keep the lights on. Hope there won't be a bill."
I look at the door and then at the window to the void and then at my left hand again.
"I wonder if it worked."
I lie down. The mattress hugs me like it remembers my shape. The ceiling fan hisses its slow circle. The PC in the other room lets out a soft coil whine that barely hangs in the air. I watch the ceiling until I stop seeing it.
I don't pray. I count. One, 2, 3. The count stops at 4 and folds.
The house holds me without a watchman. The void beyond keeps its distance. The check marks on the form do not fade.
"Goodnight, Mystery House, see you in Veythralis world."
I roll and let sleep take me, holding the small private truth that for the first time since arriving in Eryndral I felt—strangely and dangerously—like I had power and a place to hide while I learned to use it.