If you had told me a week ago that I'd be waking up in chains, gagging for air in a medieval dungeon, I'd have laughed. Actually, I'd have laughed and told you to get some help because clearly, you'd been watching too many fantasy shows. Yet here I am—my stomach's on fire, the taste of dirt is in my mouth, and some armored meathead with a spear just called me "inmate."
But let's rewind a bit. How does a normal, responsible guy like me end up in a situation like this?
I've always been painfully average. Not the "hidden genius pretending to be normal" type of average, either. Just…regular. Middle school? A blur of awkward phases, sweaty P.E. classes, and trying to figure out if eating five slices of cafeteria pizza would impress the cool kids. (Spoiler: it didn't.)
High school? That's where things got dicey. I fell in with the wrong crowd for a while. You know, the type of kids who thought skipping class and hanging out behind the 7-Eleven was peak rebellion. For a couple of years, I thought I was hot stuff, cruising through life on pure apathy and bad decisions. But after narrowly avoiding suspension and getting one too many lectures from my parents, I finally decided to get my act together. I clawed my way to graduation—not with honors, mind you, but hey, I walked across the stage.
After that, life really started throwing curveballs. I dodged unemployment by landing a job at a startup that burned faster than a cheap candle. Thankfully, I jumped ship before it completely sank, but not before earning a permanent twitch every time someone says "pivot."
Which brings us to the present: I'm 21, a college student, and—drumroll, please—the unwilling caretaker of my lovely little sister, Layla.
"Caretaker" might be putting it too kindly. Layla, 18 and spoiled beyond belief, has perfected the art of making my life a living hell. She talks on the phone like she's hosting a TED Talk, eats everything in my fridge before I've even bought it, and leaves her dirty laundry everywhere, like she's marking territory. Oh, and the best part? She spends my money behind my back and invites her friends over to our tiny apartment without telling me. Imagine coming home from class, exhausted, only to find a group of teenagers doing TikTok dances in your living room.
"Why don't I kick her out", you ask? Well, I'd love to. But Layla has a weapon more dangerous than a kitchen knife: our parents. Every time I even think about setting boundaries, she threatens to complain to Mom and Dad that I'm "neglecting" her. And if that happens? Goodbye to my small but vital monthly allowance. Have you seen rent prices lately? Yeah, I'm not about to risk that.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, Layla stomped into my room with a pout on her face and a game console in her hands.
"Ethan, I need you to play this for me."
I looked up from my laptop. "What? No. I've got assignments to finish."
"It's Rose-Colored Fates! You just have to beat the hard levels. I'll watch the cutscenes later."
"I don't care if it's called Rainbow Candy Unicorn Adventures. I've got better things to do."
Her pout deepened. "Fine. I'll just tell Mom you've been ignoring me again."
"You don't have any proof," I said, crossing my arms.
Layla, the devious little gremlin, didn't even hesitate. She slapped her own face with a loud smack, took a selfie, and waved the phone in my face.
"You were saying?" she said with a grin.
"That's blackmail!" I yelled.
She shrugged, already walking out the door. "Whatever. Just beat the game, or else."
…..
And that's how I ended up spending two miserable weeks glued to a screen, playing a dating sim of all things. For context, Rose-Colored Fates is this massively popular RPG dating game where you balance romance and battles in some overly dramatic fantasy kingdom. The dialogue was cringy, the voice acting was decent, and the combat mechanics were surprisingly good. But there were over twenty different routes and endings, each more frustrating than the last.
I lived on energy drinks and short naps, reading sappy dialogue about "destined lovers" and "tragic betrayals" while mashing buttons to beat ridiculously overpowered bosses. Every time I thought I was done, some new twist would pop up, forcing me to start all over again.
Finally, after two weeks of suffering, I finished the game. All the routes. Every single one. I leaned back in my chair, stared at the credits rolling across the screen, and sighed in relief.
But just as I was about to collapse onto my desk for some much-needed sleep, a notification popped up on the screen:
Achievement Unlocked: True Completionist!
Would You Like To Accept This Reward?
I groaned. "What reward? More work?"
Too tired to think, I clicked "Yes" and let my head hit the desk.
...
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in my room anymore.
The air was damp and cold, and the faint smell of mildew made me gag. I tried to move, but something heavy clinked against my wrists. Looking down, I realized I was chained up to a wall.
"What the…"
Before I could process anything, a rough voice barked at me. "Wake up, inmate!"
I turned my head, still half-dazed, and was met with the sight of a hulking man in silver and black armor. He looked like he'd just walked out of an edgy fantasy novel. The spear in his hand glinted menacingly in the dim light.
"Eh?" I managed to croak.
"Don't play dumb," he growled. "You've got a lot to answer for."
And that's when he rammed the butt of his spear into my stomach.
Pain exploded through me as I doubled over, gasping for air.
"Answer for what?!" I wheezed.
But the armored man didn't respond. Instead, he stepped back, glaring at me like I was the scum of the earth.
As the pain subsided enough for me to think, one question burned in my mind:
What. The. Hell.