Ethan stared at the glowing text on his screen, the words hammering at his already fragile nerves:
REALITY HAS BEEN UPDATED.
Welcome, Architect.
The room seemed to darken around him. His eyes darted to the can of beans on the counter, then back to the screen. His mind raced for logical explanations: sleep deprivation, a practical joke, maybe even a hallucination. But the can was undeniably real. He could see it, smell the faint metallic tang in the air.
He took a step closer to the counter, hesitant as if the can might lash out at him. His hand trembled as he reached for it, brushing against the cool, rusted surface.
It was the same can he'd just scavenged in Catalyst.
"This… this can't be happening," Ethan muttered.
But the screen disagreed. More text appeared, as if responding to his doubt.
Every action shapes the world. Every choice has a consequence.
Ethan's pulse quickened. "Is this some kind of augmented reality game?" he muttered, but the words rang hollow. He'd played AR games before, and none of them had ever materialized objects out of thin air.
A faint sound broke his thoughts—a low, guttural growl.
He froze. The noise was faint but unmistakable, like a distant animal's snarl. It wasn't coming from his computer or outside the apartment. It was coming from the hallway just beyond his kitchen.
His survival instincts kicked in. Heart pounding, Ethan grabbed the flashlight from the floor and edged toward the sound. The hallway was narrow and dark, a place that had always seemed mundane—until now.
The growling grew louder.
...
Ethan rounded the corner, gripping the flashlight like a weapon. At the end of the hallway, the shadows shifted unnaturally, coalescing into a dark mass. Two pinpricks of light—eyes, he realized—glimmered in the blackness.
It stepped forward, revealing its form: a gaunt, humanoid creature with pale, leathery skin stretched taut over its skeletal frame. Its eyeless sockets fixed on Ethan, unblinking.
His breath caught. It was the creature from the barn.
"This isn't real," Ethan whispered, stepping back. The creature's lips peeled away, revealing jagged teeth.
It lunged.
...
Ethan barely had time to react. He swung the flashlight wildly, the beam flickering across the creature's face. The impact was solid but did little to stop its momentum. Its claws raked across his arm, sending pain shooting up to his shoulder.
He screamed, stumbling back into the kitchen.
"Think, think!" he muttered, adrenaline surging. He looked around desperately, his eyes landing on the can of beans. He snatched it up and hurled it at the creature. The can struck its head with a dull thud, momentarily dazing it.
The crowbar. He'd equipped it in the game.
Without thinking, Ethan sprinted back to his desk, clawing through the clutter. His fingers closed around something cold and heavy—the crowbar. He yanked it free, disbelief flickering in his mind. He didn't own a crowbar. Not until tonight.
The creature charged again.
Ethan swung the crowbar with everything he had. It connected with a sickening crunch, sending the creature sprawling to the floor. It twitched once, then dissolved into a black mist, just like in the game.
The room fell silent.
...
Ethan stood panting, the crowbar slipping from his fingers. His arm burned where the creature had scratched him, blood seeping through his sleeve. He staggered back to the sink, turning on the faucet to rinse the wound.
The cold water stung, but the pain grounded him. He glanced back at the computer screen.
The Catalyst watches.
Health: -10
Status: Light Bleeding
Ethan blinked. "What the hell is this?" he muttered. He ripped a dish towel from the counter and wrapped it around his arm, staring at the screen.
More text appeared:
The Architect has drawn attention. Prepare yourself.
"Attention from what?" Ethan shouted at the screen, but it didn't respond.
...
He paced the room, his mind racing. Whatever Catalyst was, it wasn't just a game. The line between it and reality had shattered, and he was caught in the middle.
He turned back to the computer and hesitated. Exiting the game felt like the obvious choice, but what if doing so made things worse? What if more creatures came through?
The cursor blinked expectantly, awaiting his next move.
Ethan sat down, gripping the mouse with clammy hands. He navigated back to the in-game inventory. The bone charm he'd looted from the barn was still there.
Bone Charm: A relic of unknown origin. It hums faintly.
"Let's see what you do," Ethan muttered, clicking on it.
Would you like to activate the Bone Charm? [Y/N]
Ethan hesitated, then pressed Y.
The screen flickered, and text began to scroll rapidly.
The Bone Charm pulses with energy.
You are no longer alone.
Ethan's apartment filled with an eerie hum. He spun around, expecting another creature, but instead, he saw… nothing.
Until a voice echoed from the shadows.
"You're reckless, Architect."
Ethan's blood turned to ice. The voice was calm, almost conversational, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
"Who's there?" Ethan demanded, clutching the crowbar.
A figure stepped into the dim light of his desk lamp. It was humanoid but cloaked in shadow, its features obscured. Only its eyes shone, a pale blue that seemed to pierce through him.
"I am the Archivist," it said. "And if you don't want to die tonight, you'll listen."
Ethan's grip tightened on the crowbar. "What's happening to me? What is this game?"
The Archivist tilted its head. "This is not a game. It is a test. And you are failing."
Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but the creature raised a hand, silencing him.
"You have little time. The Catalyst has noticed you. The world you know is unraveling, and it's your fault."
"My fault?" Ethan snapped. "I didn't ask for this!"
The Archivist stepped closer, its voice lowering to a menacing whisper. "And yet, here you are. An Architect, wielding power you barely understand."
Ethan took a shaky breath. "What do I do?"
The Archivist grinned, revealing teeth far too sharp. "Survive."
And then, it was gone, leaving Ethan alone in the dim light of his flickering computer screen.
Reality has been updated.