Morning light seeped through the curtains, cutting across my room in jagged stripes. I groaned, rolling over in bed, my mind already running through the checklist of my day. Same routine, different date. It wasn't like I had much to look forward to. The faint hum of my computer, still running from last night, filled the room. My sanctuary. My prison.

I rubbed my eyes, rolling out of bed and stretching my limbs. The routine was simple. Wake up, check my messages, have a small breakfast, and get to work. My job, if you could call it that, was to stay in the digital world. I made my living by playing online games, trading digital assets, and selling my services to clients who needed help with anything from hacking to game strategies. I was a recluse by choice, spending my days behind a screen, hidden from the world outside. My parents' untimely deaths two years ago had pushed me further into solitude. I had no desire to go out, not really. What was there for me in the physical world when everything I needed was right at my fingertips?

Buzzed! Buzzed! Buzzed! Buzzed!

My phone buzzed on the nightstand—another notification from the group chat.

JayRex: Yo Khalid, you grinding today or what? I need you for that raid later.

VortexX: He's probably still asleep. This guy's schedule is trash.

I typed back half-heartedly as I shuffled toward my desk.

SpecterNova: I'm awake, chill. Let me eat first.

It was always like this. The guys in the chat kept me tethered to something resembling social interaction, but I hadn't met any of them in real life. Didn't plan to, either. This was easier—cleaner. No one asked questions I didn't want to answer.

Breakfast was quick—toast and black coffee. I stared out the kitchen window as I ate, the view as unchanging as my routine: the dusty yard, the faint outline of hills in the distance, the stillness of it all. The house felt too big for one person, but I couldn't bring myself to leave. This was where I grew up, where I last saw my parents.

Their absence hung in the air like a weight I couldn't shake. I didn't mean to think about them every day, but the memories crept in, uninvited. My father's voice, steady and reassuring, as he told me about his latest research. My mother's laugh, warm and full of life.

I shook my head, clearing the thoughts. Not today, I told myself. I had games to play, work to do. I couldn't afford to get lost in memories.

Back at my desk, I logged into the game. Today was no different. I opened my main account in a space-based strategy game where I built fleets, mined resources, and fought for control over vast stretches of the virtual universe. My fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard as I navigated the galaxy, joining alliances, gaining ranks, and securing resources to further my digital empire. The familiar galaxy of glowing star systems stretched across my monitor, and the tension in my chest eased slightly. Here, I could control things. Here, I could win.

The chat was already lighting up as my fleet joined the raid.

JayRex: Finally! Took you long enough.

SpecterNova: I'm here, aren't I? Chill.

VortexX: Let's move—enemy alliance is massing near Sector 5.

We strategized, bantered, and fought, our virtual ships clashing against waves of enemy forces. For a while, it was enough to keep my mind off everything else. But in the quiet moments between battles, the memories crept back.

It wasn't the game that made me think of them, not directly. It was the silence. Even with the constant ping of messages and explosions on screen, there was a kind of stillness that reminded me of the house. My parents had filled it with life once, with laughter and arguments and music. Now, it was just me.

I don't know why, but today, the memories hit harder than usual. I caught myself staring at a spot on the wall where my mother used to hang her photos. She loved photography—capturing moments, as she called it. My dad used to tease her about it, but you could see how proud he was every time she nailed the perfect shot.

They weren't perfect. No one's parents are. But they were mine. And they were gone.

JayRex: Yo, you still with us?

The message jolted me back.

SpecterNova: Yeah, sorry. Lag.

VortexX: Man, Khalid's always zoning out. What's your deal lately?

What was my deal? I couldn't explain it to them. They didn't know about the weight I carried, the empty house, the memories that never left. Instead, I typed something vague:

SpecterNova: Just tired. Let's finish this raid.

After the game, I sat back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to my parents again. My father's deep voice and firm resolve. My mother's endless warmth and curiosity. They had been so different from each other, yet they fit together perfectly.

My father was an American, born and raised in New York City. His family had planned every step of his life—law school, marriage to a "proper" woman, and a steady career that would uphold their family name. But all of that fell apart when he met my mother during one of his research trips to Liberia.

She was his guide, but more than that, she became his reason to stay. She showed him a world outside of the rigid expectations he'd grown up with. To his family, she was an outsider, someone who didn't belong in their carefully curated lives. They never accepted her. They never accepted us.

But my parents didn't let that stop them. They built a life together, first in the States and then in Liberia. My father always said he wanted me to see both sides of my heritage, to understand where I came from. He poured his energy into his research, uncovering stories of forgotten civilizations, while my mother brought those stories to life through her photos. They were a team, unstoppable in their shared passion for the world.

Then they were gone.

I don't like talking about how they died, but the memories come anyway. The storm, the phone call, the silence. I wasn't there. I couldn't help them. All I had were secondhand stories and the cold, brutal facts: a flood, their car swept off the road, their bodies found days later. My mother's camera bag was still strapped to her shoulders when they found her. My father's hands were clenched around the door of the car, as if trying to shield her even in his final moments.

Their deaths didn't just take them away from me—it shattered the fragile balance that held our lives together. My father's family, who had barely acknowledged us when he was alive, swooped in like vultures after his death. They wanted his assets, his research, his legacy. They didn't care about me or the life my parents had built. They only cared about what they could take.

I couldn't stay in the States after that. The lawyers, the fights, the constant reminders of everything I'd lost—it was too much. So, I came here. Back to Liberia. Back to the house my parents had built together.

It's not perfect, but it's mine. It's quiet, and sometimes that quiet is unbearable. But it's better than the noise I left behind. 

By noon, I was still glued to the screen. My only interactions with the world came through messages from clients, colleagues, and friends online. Occasionally, I'd step away to make a quick meal, but for the most part, I didn't see much of the outside world. What was there to see, anyway? The world had been crumbling long before I retreated into the digital realm.

The hours blurred together as I bounced between tasks. A handful of trades—some legitimate, others a little gray—added to my account. I resolved a dispute for a client on one of the forums I frequented. My reputation as "SpecterNova" was solid. People trusted me to deliver results. Not glamorous, but it paid the bills.

My phone buzzed again.

JayRex: Yo, Khalid. Where you at?

VortexX: You coming for the boss run later? We're down a tank.

I tapped out a quick reply.

SpecterNova: Not now. Got too much on my plate.

JayRex: You? Too busy? That's a first.

I smiled faintly. They weren't wrong. I didn't usually skip these raids. Normally, the game—the strategy, the banter—was my escape. But today, even that felt hollow.

Still, I logged back in. My fingers moved automatically over the keyboard, the familiar galaxy of glowing star systems filling my screen. Fleets zipped across the map as we coordinated attacks. I joined the voice chat, their chatter cutting through the quiet of my room.

JayRex: Khalid, take point on the left flank. You're too slow!

SpecterNova: Relax, I'm already there. My voice sounded steady, even though I wasn't feeling it.

I maneuvered my fleet into position, launching calculated strikes and timing my defenses perfectly. My hands moved with practiced precision, muscle memory taking over where my focus faltered. The others continued strategizing, joking, shouting commands. It was enough to pull me along.

But not enough to distract me completely. Between battles, my eyes wandered to the walls of my room, to the shelf where my mother's camera still sat. The silence between their chatter felt heavier, more oppressive. I fought to stay present, but my mind kept slipping.

It was strange. I played as I always did—efficient, ruthless, precise—but the usual satisfaction wasn't there. Every explosion, every fleet I destroyed, felt like going through the motions. Even the victory screen at the end of the match failed to give me the usual rush.

JayRex: Good work.

"Yeah," I muttered, my eyes drifting from the monitor.

The others were still talking, planning their next move, but I stayed quiet. The game was supposed to help. It was supposed to drown out the noise in my head. Instead, it only made the silence louder.

When I wasn't gaming or consulting, I spent hours diving into the depths of the internet. I wasn't looking for anything specific, just following threads that caught my interest. Sometimes, it was articles about emerging tech or obscure history. Other times, it was rumors, secrets buried in forgotten corners of the web. Most people called it a hobby. For me, it was more like an obsession—a need to understand how things worked, why they worked.

That obsession had started years ago, sitting at my father's desk, flipping through dusty books and ancient maps. He used to say the answers weren't in what you found—they were in the questions you asked. "The right question can take you further than any answer," he'd tell me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Back then, I thought he was just being dramatic. Now, I understood.

There was something addictive about the chase. The deeper I dug, the more threads I found to pull, each one unraveling a piece of something bigger. Sometimes, it felt like the web was alive—a massive, pulsating organism with secrets hidden in its depths. And I wanted to uncover every single one.

Tonight, though, even that felt...different. My usual rabbit holes weren't pulling me in. I scrolled through forums, clicked through half-forgotten archives, but the excitement wasn't there. It was like the threads I chased were fraying, unraveling into nothing.

The glow of the screen seemed harsher somehow, almost oppressive. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. A faint tension was building in the air around me, like static electricity before a storm. My body felt heavy, my chest tight.

As the day bled into night, exhaustion began to settle into my bones. But tonight, something felt...off. The room was too quiet, the hum of my computer louder than usual. I shook my head, trying to clear the feeling. You're imagining things.

I logged off the game and opened my secondary interface, hoping to lose myself in something tangible. This was where I did my real work—digging into hidden archives, analyzing patterns, connecting dots others overlooked. But tonight, the data felt overwhelming, like it was pressing in from all sides.

I scrolled through threads, eyes skimming past conspiracies, leaks, and speculative nonsense. But one link caught my attention. It led to a crude, barely-functioning website. The screen flickered as I navigated its broken menus. The design was deliberate—meant to make people uneasy.

Lines of unfamiliar code scrolled across the screen, their rhythm hypnotic. My pulse quickened as I leaned closer. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to go deeper.

Something about this felt...wrong. But that same itch, the need to know, pushed me forward.

I typed a command. The screen responded instantly, the lines of code rippling like water disturbed by a pebble. I blinked, leaning closer. This wasn't normal.

The tingling sensation started at the base of my skull, spreading down my spine. I froze, my hands hovering above the keys. The air in the room shifted, charged with an energy I couldn't explain.

And then, the screen went black.

The Awakening

For a moment, I thought my system had crashed. Then, faint lines of light began to trace across the monitor, forming intricate patterns too complex to follow. My heart pounded as the shapes twisted, glowing threads pulsing like a heartbeat.

The tingling intensified, spreading through my entire body. It wasn't just a feeling anymore—it was power, coursing through me like a live wire. I tried to pull away, but I couldn't move. The patterns on the screen blurred, exploding into streams of light that burned into my mind. Shapes, colors, and connections flashed in my head, too fast to process.

"What...what is this?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

The room spun as my thoughts stretched beyond me, expanding into something vast. Images, sensations, fragments of information poured in, too much to comprehend. My skin felt hot, my veins buzzing with energy.

And then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.

The room was silent. The screen was black. But the hum of energy still pulsed through me, alive inside my chest. I slumped back in my chair, trembling.

I stared at my hands, half-expecting them to glow. Nothing looked different. But I wasn't the same. Something had changed.