Dalton stepped into the kitchen, its cramped size a stark contrast to his spacious one back home. The room had a lived-in quality, the kind of place where things were used for their function, not their appearance. The small white stove looked well-worn, its knobs faintly greasy, and the black cabinets above it were chipped at the corners, their surfaces slightly faded. The stainless steel sink bore a faint ring of lime around the drain, and the overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a dim, yellowish glow.
When he opened the fridge, he was greeted by the sight of Andrew's peculiar dietary habits: an abundance of apples, bananas, grapes, and other fruits piled neatly into the bins. Plastic containers of yogurt were stacked in one corner, their tops gleaming under the fridge light. The variety of juices bordered on obsessive—mango, apple, passion fruit, carrot, grape, coconut water, and a few other flavors Dalton couldn't name. It was like Andrew was running his own juice bar.
Dalton grabbed a bottle of water, shaking his head. "Since when are there no fruit smoothies?" he muttered.
It was strange. Andrew loved those things, often downing one before they even had time to fully blend. He half-expected a lazy excuse shouted from the living room. Andrew might've claimed a bad stomach was to blame, even though they both knew the truth—he was lactose intolerant and couldn't care less. If Andrew craved something, he'd eat or drink it, consequences be damned. Dalton chuckled to himself at the thought. The guy had an iron will but a paper stomach.
Dalton, on the other hand, wasn't one to judge. He'd spent more nights than he cared to admit draining bottles and nursing hangovers. His kidneys were probably plotting their revenge.
Pouring himself a glass of water, Dalton called out louder, "No fruit smoothie? Did the doctor finally tell you to stop messing yourself up?"
Again, no answer.
Dalton frowned, his fingers drumming against the counter. "Since when do dudes do silent treatment?" he muttered, heading back to the living room. He was already crafting a sarcastic jab in his mind. Maybe something about Andrew going through a moody phase.
But the sight that met him in the living room stopped him cold.
Andrew was slumped forward on the couch, his head tilted to the side, damp with blood—too much blood. The dark stain was spreading across his shirt and pooling beneath him. Dalton's glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor.
"Andrew!" he shouted, rushing to his friend's side. His heart pounded in his chest as he dropped to his knees, hands trembling. "Hey, man, wake up! Come on!"
Dalton's instincts screamed at him to shake Andrew awake, but his mind pulled him back. What if the injury was worse than it looked? What if moving him made it fatal? Blood clung to his hands as he carefully inspected Andrew's head. Beneath the damp hair, he found a gaping wound, the edges jagged and deep. It was bad. Really bad.
Swallowing hard, Dalton fumbled for his phone, dialing emergency services. The line buzzed faintly before disconnecting. He tried again, then again, but each time was the same. Overwhelmed. The city's chaos had stretched everything to its limits.
"Damn it!" he hissed, shoving the phone back into his pocket.
He darted to the kitchen, grabbing the first-aid kit from under the sink. The box was dusty, barely used, but it would have to do. Dalton's hands shook as he wrapped the bandages tightly around Andrew's head, his mind racing. Was he doing it right? Was it enough? He had no idea, but he couldn't let Andrew bleed out.
"You're not dying on me, man," Dalton muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. "Not today."
With a grunt, he hoisted Andrew into his arms. The weight wasn't unbearable, but the awkwardness of carrying a full-grown man made every step a struggle. His muscles burned as he made his way through the debris-strewn streets. Cars lay abandoned, their doors hanging open, and faint plumes of smoke rose in the distance. The chaos of the city felt like a nightmare come to life.
The three-hour trek to the hospital felt like an eternity. By the time Dalton stumbled through the emergency room doors, his shirt was soaked with sweat and blood, his legs trembling with exhaustion.
The hospital was pandemonium. The waiting room overflowed with people—victims of accidents, injuries, and whatever else was tearing the city apart. Nurses and doctors moved frantically, their faces etched with exhaustion and stress.
Dalton pushed his way to the triage desk, his voice hoarse. "He's hurt. Bad. He needs help!"
A nurse glanced at Andrew's blood-soaked bandages and immediately called for a stretcher. Within moments, Andrew was whisked away, leaving Dalton standing there, breathless and alone.
Hours passed in a haze. Dalton paced the waiting room, his mind racing with fear and guilt. When a doctor finally approached, her expression was grave but steady.
"Your friend is stable, but his injuries are severe," she said. "You did well to get him here."
Dalton nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. He sank into a chair, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion.
The doctor entered Andrew's room later, her gaze lingering on the IV line in his arm. Something about him was... unusual. His skin wasn't just fragile—it was unnaturally so. She'd barely applied pressure to insert the needle, yet it slid in almost too easily, like his flesh was paper-thin.
What the hell is going on with these people? she thought.
She'd seen a lot since the dungeons appeared—changes in people's biology, injuries that didn't heal right, and strange abilities that came with unimaginable costs. For Andrew, the cost seemed to be his vulnerability. His body was sturdy on the surface, but beneath it? It was like glass.
She sighed, slipping her hands into her coat pockets as she left the room. The chaos of the hospital buzzed around her, but her mind lingered on a memory she couldn't shake—something she'd read in a dungeon weeks ago.
The second step of the system initiation occurs when hell breaks loose on the world.
It wasn't if. It was when. And judging by the state of things, hell had already arrived.