Ethan stayed in the darkness of the basement, pressed against the cold concrete, forcing himself to breathe as quietly as possible.
The collectors were still upstairs.
He could hear them—boots stomping, furniture crashing, angry voices bouncing off the thin walls.
"Check the bedroom again!"
"He's hiding somewhere!"
"Basement's empty—he couldn't have gone far!"
Ethan didn't move.
Not yet.
He waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
A full minute.
His heartbeat slowed from panic to something sharper—focus. His eyes adjusted to the dim basement light. The cracked floor where he'd fallen through was now just a shallow pit of dirt and broken concrete. No portal. No red sky. No zombies.
Just his basement.
Just danger above.
He tightened his grip on the gold bar. The weight grounded him, reminded him why he couldn't get caught.
Then—footsteps moved toward the front door.
A door slammed.
Another voice shouted from outside, "Nothing in the shed! Check the street!"
More footsteps. Fading.
Ethan's pulse quickened—not from fear, but opportunity.
Now.
He moved.
Slowly at first, then faster as confidence built. He slipped across the basement, climbed the stairs one careful step at a time, and pressed his ear to the door.
Silence.
He cracked it open.
The hallway was empty. The living room was trashed, drawers overturned, cushions ripped open. But the front door hung wide open, and the collectors were outside, arguing loudly about where he could've run.
Perfect.
Ethan slipped out the back door, closing it without a sound. The cold air hit his face. He ducked behind the fence, cut across the neighbor's yard, and didn't stop moving until he was three blocks away.
Only then did he let himself breathe.
Every step made the backpack thump against his spine, a constant reminder that the impossible had happened. He had fallen through his basement floor into a nightmare world of rot and ruin, fought off creatures that shouldn't exist, and come back with treasure worth more than everything he owned.
The mini‑map hovered faintly at the edge of his vision, a ghostly overlay that flickered whenever he blinked. It showed the streets around him, the alleys, the intersections, the moving dots that represented people and cars. It was quieter here — a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of town — but the map still pulsed with life.
Green dots: people.
Blue dots: items.
Yellow dots: treasure.
Red dots—
He didn't want to think about red dots. Not here. Not in his world.
He kept walking.
The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalks. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A car drove past, its headlights briefly illuminating Ethan's face. He kept his head down, his hood pulled up, his hands shoved into his pockets.
He didn't want anyone to look at him too closely.
Not with the gold bar in his bag.
Not with the blood on his sleeve.
He reached the bus stop at the end of the block and sat down on the metal bench. His ribs ached. His arm throbbed. His entire body felt like it had been put through a blender.
But he was alive.
And he had a way out.
He pulled out his phone — cracked, dusty, but still functional — and typed into the search bar:
"sell gold near me."
A list of pawn shops and gold buyers popped up. He scrolled through them, ignoring the ones too close to his neighborhood. He didn't want to risk running into anyone who might know him. He didn't want the collectors to see him walking around with a backpack full of cash.
He picked a shop across town — a place with decent reviews and a reputation for paying fairly.
He checked the bus schedule.
The next bus arrived in six minutes.
He leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes.
His mind replayed everything that had happened in the Z‑world — the red sky, the ruined buildings, the zombies, the mutated creature that had nearly torn his throat out. The mini‑map. The treasure. The fall. The return.
It didn't feel real.
But the gold bar in his backpack said otherwise.
The bus arrived with a hiss of brakes. Ethan stood, climbed aboard, and took a seat near the back. The bus was mostly empty — an elderly woman knitting, a teenager with headphones, a man in a suit staring at his phone.
Normal people.
Normal lives.
Ethan felt like an alien among them.
He kept his backpack close, one hand gripping the strap tightly. Every bump in the road made his ribs flare with pain. Every time someone glanced in his direction, he felt a spike of paranoia.
But no one paid him any real attention.
He was just another tired man on a bus.
The city passed by outside the window — strip malls, gas stations, apartment complexes, fast‑food restaurants. The ordinary world. The world he had lived in his entire life.
It felt smaller now.
Duller.
Like a faded photograph compared to the vivid nightmare he had escaped.
The bus reached his stop. He got off and walked the remaining two blocks to the pawn shop.
The sign above the door flickered: CASH FOR GOLD — BEST PRICES IN TOWN.
He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The shop was cramped and cluttered, filled with glass display cases holding watches, rings, and electronics. The air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and old carpet. A neon sign buzzed in the corner.
The man behind the counter looked up as Ethan entered.
He was in his fifties, balding, with thick glasses and a tired expression. He wore a faded polo shirt and had the look of someone who had seen every kind of desperate person walk through his door.
"Help you?" he asked.
Ethan approached the counter and set his backpack down. His hands trembled slightly as he unzipped it and pulled out the gold bar, wrapped in an old T‑shirt.
He placed it on the counter.
The man's eyebrows shot up.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked, his voice suddenly cautious.
"Family heirloom," Ethan lied smoothly. "Inherited it. Need cash."
The man picked up the bar, weighing it in his hands. He examined the markings, tested the edges, and pulled out a small electronic scale.
Ethan watched, his heart pounding.
The man set the bar on the scale.
He whistled softly.
"This is… pure," he said. "Twenty‑four karat. Full kilo."
He looked up at Ethan.
"You know what this is worth?"
Ethan nodded. "Enough."
The man tapped a few keys on his computer, checked the screen, then exhaled.
"Gold's high today," he said. "Spot price puts this at about one hundred sixty grand."
Ethan's pulse kicked.
The man continued, voice turning cautious.
"But that's market value. I'm not a bank. I take on the risk, the melt loss, the paperwork…"
He paused, then shrugged.
"Best I can do is ninety‑eight thousand."
Ethan's stomach tightened.
Ninety‑five thousand was already insane—but before he could speak, the man raised a hand.
"You know what?" he said. "You look like you need this. I'll round it up."
He leaned in.
"One hundred thousand. Cash. Right now."
Ethan's breath caught.
One. Hundred. Thousand.
For one bar.
He nodded. "Deal."
The man counted out the cash — thick stacks of bills — and handed them over. Ethan stuffed them into his backpack, thanked the man, and walked out of the shop.
He didn't stop smiling until he reached the bus stop.
He sat down on the bench, the backpack heavy in his lap, and let out a long, shaky breath.
He had done it.
He had money.
Real money.
Enough to pay the debt collectors and still have some left over.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the number he'd been avoiding for weeks.
The line clicked.
A familiar voice answered.
"Cole," the deep voice growled. "You better have a damn good reason for running."
Ethan smiled.
"I do," he said. "I've got your money."
There was a pause.
"…What?"
"I'll meet you," Ethan said. "Tonight. Same place as before."
Another pause.
Then a low chuckle.
"Well, well," the man said. "Looks like you finally grew a spine."
Ethan hung up.
He leaned back against the bench, staring up at the darkening sky.
The mini‑map flickered at the edge of his vision.
A new notification appeared.
[QUEST COMPLETE: PAY YOUR DEBT]
[REWARD: +50 EXP]
[LEVEL UP AVAILABLE]
Ethan exhaled slowly.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was changing.
And this was only the beginning.
Ethan stayed on the bench for a long moment after hanging up the phone, letting the weight of everything settle into his bones. The sky above him had deepened into a rich indigo, the last traces of sunset fading behind the rooftops. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting pools of pale yellow light across the quiet street.
He felt… lighter.
Not physically — his ribs still hurt, his arm still burned, and his backpack was stuffed with more cash than he'd ever held in his life — but something inside him had shifted. A pressure he'd lived with for years had finally cracked open.
He wasn't free yet.
But he could see the path.
He stood, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and started walking toward the bus stop that would take him back across town. The mini‑map hovered faintly at the edge of his vision, pulsing softly with each step he took. It felt less intrusive now, less alien. Almost… helpful.
He boarded the bus when it arrived, choosing a seat near the back again. The ride home was quiet. A few passengers got on and off, but no one paid him any attention. He kept his backpack close, one hand gripping the strap tightly.
Every time the bus hit a bump, his ribs flared with pain. Every time someone glanced in his direction, he felt a spike of paranoia. But the mini‑map showed only green dots — harmless, ordinary people going about their lives.
He envied them.
For a moment.
Then he remembered the gold bar.
The zombies.
The ruined world.
The system.
And he realized something he hadn't allowed himself to think before:
He didn't want to go back to being ordinary.
Not anymore.
The bus dropped him off a few blocks from his house. He walked the rest of the way, sticking to side streets and alleys, avoiding the main road where the collectors' car might still be parked.
When he reached his backyard, he paused, listening.
The house was quiet.
The mini‑map showed no green dots inside.
They were gone.
He slipped through the back door and locked it behind him. The kitchen was a mess — drawers pulled open, cabinets left ajar, a chair knocked over. The living room was worse. The collectors had torn through everything, looking for anything of value.
They hadn't found the basement.
They hadn't found the gold.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
He went to the bathroom, cleaned the blood off his arm, and wrapped the scratches with gauze from the first‑aid kit he'd found in the Z‑world. The antiseptic stung, but the pain grounded him.
He changed into clean clothes, washed his face, and stared at himself in the mirror.
He looked the same.
Same brown hair.
Same tired eyes.
Same faint stubble on his jaw.
But something in his expression had changed.
There was a steadiness there now.
A quiet resolve.
He went to the basement door and opened it.
The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended. The broken section of floor was still there, the crack jagged and wide. The hole beneath was shallow now — barely a foot deep, filled with dirt and debris.
No portal.
No red sky.
No ruined city.
But the mini‑map flickered when he stepped closer, as if reacting to the spot.
He crouched and reached behind the old wooden cabinet where he'd hidden the gold bar earlier.
It was still there.
He lifted it, feeling the weight of it in his hands.
This one bar had changed everything.
And there were more.
So many more.
He placed the bar back in the cabinet and closed it gently.
Tonight, he would pay his debt.
Tomorrow, he would return to the Z‑world.
He climbed the stairs, grabbed his backpack, and headed out the door.
The industrial lot was exactly as he remembered it — rusted containers, cracked asphalt, a flickering streetlamp casting long shadows across the empty space. The air smelled like oil and cold metal. The wind rattled the chain‑link fence.
Ethan walked toward the center of the lot, his footsteps crunching on the gravel.
The collectors were waiting for him.
The big man with the shaved head and tattooed neck stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The scarred man leaned against a container, smoking a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dark.
They both looked up as Ethan approached.
"Well, well," the big man said. "Look who decided to show."
Ethan stopped a few feet away, keeping his posture relaxed but steady. He didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He didn't let them see the fear that still lurked somewhere deep inside him.
"I told you I'd come," he said.
The scarred man snorted. "Yeah, after running like a little—"
Ethan unzipped his backpack and pulled out a thick stack of cash.
The scarred man's words died in his throat.
The big man's eyes narrowed.
Ethan held the money out. "Five thousand. Every cent I owe. Plus interest."
The big man stepped forward slowly, his boots crunching on the gravel. He took the stack of bills from Ethan's hand and flipped through it with practiced ease. His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted — a flicker of surprise, quickly buried.
He looked up.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked.
Ethan met his gaze without hesitation. "Does it matter?"
The big man studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"Debt's cleared."
The scarred man let out a low whistle. "Damn. Didn't think you had it in you, Cole."
Ethan didn't respond. He didn't need to.
The big man tucked the money into his jacket. "You're lucky," he said. "Most people who owe us don't walk away."
Ethan didn't look away. "I'm not most people."
The big man's eyes narrowed again, as if he were trying to figure out what had changed. Ethan didn't look different. He didn't sound different. But something in his posture, in the way he held himself, was new.
Confidence.
Purpose.
A spark of something dangerous.
The big man stepped closer, invading Ethan's space. "You got lucky once," he said quietly. "Don't make a habit of it."
Ethan didn't move. "I won't."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the big man stepped back.
"Let's go," he said to the scarred man.
They turned and walked away, their footsteps echoing across the empty lot.
Ethan watched them go.
He didn't relax until they were out of sight.
Then he let out a long, shaky breath.
It was done.
For the first time in years, he didn't owe anyone anything.
He wasn't drowning.
He wasn't trapped.
He was free.
A soft chime echoed in his ears.
The mini‑map flickered.
A new notification appeared:
[QUEST COMPLETE: PAY YOUR DEBT]
[REWARD: +50 EXP]
[LEVEL UP AVAILABLE]
Ethan blinked.
Another notification appeared beneath it:
[NEW QUEST: SURVIVE THE NIGHT]
He frowned.
"What…?"
The mini‑map zoomed out slightly, revealing something he hadn't noticed before.
A red dot.
Far away.
Moving slowly.
Deliberately.
Toward him.
His stomach tightened.
That wasn't a person.
He knew that instinctively.
The red dot moved with a strange, unnatural rhythm — not like footsteps, not like a car, but like something dragging itself across the ground.
Something from the other world.
Something that shouldn't be here.
Ethan's breath caught.
"No," he whispered. "No, that's not possible."
But the mini‑map didn't lie.
The red dot was getting closer.
Another chime sounded.
[WORLD SYNCHRONIZATION: STAGE 2 IN PROGRESS]
Ethan stared at the notification, his pulse quickening.
The system wasn't done with him.
The worlds weren't done with him.
And whatever was coming…
It was coming fast.
He tightened his grip on the backpack strap and turned toward the exit.
He needed to get home.
He needed to prepare.
He needed—
A sound echoed across the lot.
A low, distant growl.
Ethan froze.
The red dot on the mini‑map pulsed.
Closer.
Closer.
He swallowed hard.
"Okay," he whispered. "Round two."
And he ran.