The ocean stretched infinitely before Ethan Cross, a molten expanse of gold and crimson reflecting the dying sun. The waves lapped at the shore, a gentle, indifferent rhythm that seemed to mock his turmoil. He sat on the cold sand, his arms resting on his knees, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the surface. The salty air stung his nostrils, a sharp reminder that he was still alive—whether he wanted to be or not, that was irrelevant.

The past few months had been nothing short of a waking nightmare. His company, his pride and joy, had been wrested from him by the very person he had once called his best friend. His engagement had crumbled like a poorly-built sandcastle the moment he could no longer provide the luxury his fiancée demanded. His hard-earned success, which had once felt invincible, had crumbled beneath his feet like a poorly built foundation in an earthquake. In a single swoop, his life had been emptied, hollowed out and transformed into a decaying husk, leaving behind a man without a purpose.

He exhaled, watching the sun sink lower into the horizon.

Falling, fading, disappearing.

The idea of just walking forward, letting the tide claim him, had been dancing at the edge of his mind. It wasn't a dramatic thought, nor was it one born out of a sudden surge of emotion. It was practical, almost methodical. He had lost everything. No money, soon there would be no home and definitely no future. At least not the one he had worked for, for the past 27 years. What was left?

But as he stood there, staring at the water swallowing the sand in an endless cycle, his body hesitated. His brain could conjure the logic, weigh the pros and cons, but something deeper within him—some primal, biological instinct—recoiled at the thought of stepping forward. His chest tightened. His breath came in uneven gasps. His fingers twitched as if grasping at invisible lifelines. The sheer finality of it, the terrifying reality of never taking another breath, sent a chill through his bones.

He hated himself for it. For the fear, for the weakness, for his body's stubborn refusal to obey his will. His feet felt like lead, rooted to the spot as if rejecting the very notion of stepping into the waves. I can't even do this. The thought came bitter and sharp. Even at the lowest point of his life, he couldn't bring himself to act.

A pathetic chuckle escaped his lips, more bitter than amused. His shoulders slumped, his body betraying his mind's desperate logic. He shook his head, rubbing his face with tired hands.

If he wasn't capable of making this one decision, maybe it meant there was still something left for him. Even if he didn't know what it was yet. He imagined the slow, suffocating weight of the water, the struggle, the panic—the sheer terror of it all. And he sat unmoving.

Even now, I can't decide.

A pathetic chuckle escaped his lips, more bitter than amused. He shook his head, rubbing his face with tired hands. The sky had darkened now, stars peeking out tentatively, as if unsure if they should shine in the presence of such quiet despair. The loneliness felt suffocating, heavier than any wave could be.

He thought of home.

His childhood home.

His parents' voices.

The warmth of simpler times.

The long-forgotten aroma of freshly baked bread in his mother's kitchen. Would it be easier to return to them?

To admit defeat and fade into an unremarkable life? Would they even take him back after the mess he had made? Would he ever be able to face their disappointment?

Would he ever be able to face himself?

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet.

Might as well go home while I still have one.

As he trudged back across the beach, his gaze drifted over the uneven surface of the sand, catching on a faint glimmer of gold. It was subtle, nearly lost among the scattered shells and bits of driftwood, something he would have ordinarily overlooked. But tonight, his mind, restless and untethered, fixated on it with an unusual persistence.

It was just a ring. A plain, unremarkable band, half-buried in the sand, with faint engravings that time had eroded. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have spared it a second glance.

Yet, for reasons he couldn't quite place, a quiet unease settled in his gut, twining with his curiosity.

His legs kept moving forward, his rational mind dismissing the object as nothing but a discarded trinket. But his hands betrayed him. As though compelled by something unseen, his fingers reached down and plucked the ring from the sand, holding it up against the dim light of the encroaching night.

He turned it over in his palm. The weight of it was insignificant, yet there was something about its presence that pressed against his senses, something that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

It wasn't ornate or eye-catching, not the kind of thing that should capture his attention for longer than a moment. And yet, here he was, staring at it, feeling an inexplicable urge to pocket it.

He squinted at the engraving, the script unfamiliar yet oddly deliberate.

A simple, unassuming band with an intricate string of cursive letters engraved on its surface. The writing looked old, something akin to Latin.

Maybe it was just his desperate mind clinging to something—anything—to keep himself from spiraling again. Maybe he just needed a distraction.

With a small, almost reluctant smile, he slid the ring into his pocket

'The only gain I've had in months', he thought dryly.

________________________________________

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the chatter of the usual patrons. Le Kene café, a cozy little place tucked away from the city's main roads, had always been his refuge.

A place where no one judged, where the warmth of a good meal and a familiar voice dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts.

The owner, Marcus Reed, stood behind the counter, a towering figure with dark skin, a neatly trimmed beard, and a build that made him look like he belonged in a boxing ring rather than a café. He had always been more than just a café owner to Ethan—he was a presence, a grounding force, the kind of person you could count on without ever needing to ask.

Marcus spotted Ethan the moment he entered, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the younger man's slouched posture and distant stare.

With a knowing sigh, he grabbed a mug, filled it with Ethan's usual, and walked over.

He slid into the seat across from him, arms crossed, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

Sooo," he drawled, "now that the worst has happened, are you finally gonna enter your villain arc and take up my advice to do something about that twig-like frame of yours?"

Ethan let out a snort, shaking his head. "Bro, you're so damn big, everyone looks like a twig compared to you."

Marcus chuckled, leaning back. "Fair. But you, my guy? You look like you'd snap if a strong wind blew your way."

Ethan smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He wrapped his hands around the mug, feeling the warmth seep into his cold fingers.

Marcus watched him for a beat before sighing. "Look, man. I know things have been rough. Everyone in the city knows by now that your company changed hands. And I also know about Claire."

Ethan stiffened slightly at the mention of her name. Claire. His fiancée—ex-fiancée now. It wasn't surprising that Marcus knew. He had been one of the few people Ethan confided in when things had started getting rocky between them. The fights, the unspoken disappointments, the growing distance that had eventually become an uncrossable chasm.

Marcus tilted his head. "So, what's next?"

Ethan exhaled slowly, staring into his coffee as if the answer would materialize in the dark liquid. "I don't know."

Marcus nodded, as if he expected that answer. He didn't push, didn't throw empty platitudes or tell him things would magically get better. Instead, he reached over, clapped a firm hand on Ethan's shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Whatever you decide, you know I've got your back, right?"

Ethan looked up, meeting Marcus's gaze. The man wasn't just saying it—he meant it. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ethan felt the faintest trace of something other than despair.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

Marcus grinned, standing up and stretching. "Good. Now hurry up and eat before I start force-feeding you."

Ethan let out a genuine chuckle. "Wouldn't want that."

As Marcus walked back to the counter, Ethan found himself exhaling a little easier.

He was still lost. Still had no idea where he was heading. But at least, for now, he wasn't alone.

He sat in his favorite corner of the café, absently stirring his drink, his mind drifting once again to the mess that was his life. Where do I even go from here?

Yet again, anxiety crept up his spine, the crushing uncertainty making his fingers tighten around the cup. He sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out the ring.

The cheap electroplated gold had a dull sheen under the café's warm lighting. The only thing remotely interesting about it was the string of cursive letters carved into it. He turned it over in his fingers, wondering what it said. Something about it was oddly mesmerizing.

Probably some corny Latin phrase like "Carpe Diem" or "Fortune favors the brave."

Shrugging, he slid it onto his finger.

It fit perfectly.

Finishing up his dinner, he paid the bill and left, the ring all but forgotten on his hand.

________________________________________

Home. Or rather, the house he had once called home. The house he had bought in Claire's name without hesitation, blind in love and trusting beyond reason. At the time, it had felt like the natural thing to do—an act of commitment, of unwavering belief in their future. The thought that they could ever part ways hadn't even been a passing whisper in his mind.

She had promised.

We'll always have each other, Ethan. No matter what.

Now, that promise felt like a cruel joke.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring into the dimly lit interior. It was a strange sensation, stepping inside. The space still smelled faintly of her—a subtle mix of vanilla and the perfume she used to wear. His fingers trailed over the back of the couch as he walked further in, memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

Dinners on the balcony, laughing over inside jokes that made no sense to anyone but them. Movie nights, tangled in blankets, her head resting on his chest. The whispered dreams of their future, the certainty in her voice when she spoke about their life together.

His jaw tightened.

She had left. And worse, she had done so without hesitation.

Without a backward glance.

He hated how much it gnawed at him, how the absence of her presence felt like a wound that refused to close. It wasn't just the loss—it was the helplessness of it.

The fact that no matter how much he had given, no matter how much he had sacrificed, in the end, it hadn't been enough.

He hadn't been enough.

A bitter laugh escaped him. "I really was a fool, huh?"

He dropped onto the couch, running a hand down his face. He should be angry. He should be furious at how easily she had discarded him, at how effortlessly she had moved on while he was left to scrape together the remains of his life. And yet, all he felt was exhaustion.

A part of him wanted to scream at her, to demand an answer for why she had turned her back on everything they had built. But deep down, he already knew. Love wasn't an unbreakable bond. It was fragile, conditional—an illusion that only held until it no longer served the people involved.

And now, he was alone.

His gaze drifted around the room, landing on the glass coffee table in front of him. The very same table they had bought together. The one she had once chided him for nearly breaking when he had tripped over the rug.

'You're going to break it one day, Ethan', she had teased, laughing as she helped him up. 'Try not to shatter anything important in the process.'

A surge of frustration swelled in his chest, mixing with the helplessness, the bitterness, the overwhelming weight of everything pressing down on him. Before he could stop himself, he brought his fist down hard onto the glass.

The sharp crack of impact rang through the empty room. Pain flared through his knuckles, hot and immediate, but he barely felt it. He watched numbly as thin rivulets of blood traced down his skin, dripping onto the table's fractured surface.

Great.

Just what I needed.

Moving up in life now, aren't we?

Suicidal thoughts and self-harming tendencies.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the pain and the throbbing in his hand. But then something caught his eye.

The ring.

Or rather—the ring was gone.

Instead, the cursive letters that had been engraved on it were now burned into his skin like an elegant tattoo, glowing faintly gold.

His breath hitched. "What the—?"

And he fell backwards over the chair, holding his hand away from his body.

What the fuck?

He rubbed at it furiously, but the letters didn't budge. His heart pounded, a mix of panic and bewilderment surging through him. Hyperventilating for a bit, he then realised that it didn't hurt at all.

Okay so no pain is good.

No! There is nothing good about this!

He whipped out his phone and took a picture of the tattoo. He tapped on the gallery and opened the image. His stomach lurched.

The tattoo wasn't there.

The image showed nothing but his bare hand, smeared with faint traces of blood from his earlier outburst.

His fingers tightening around the phone as he took another picture. Then another. Each time, the result was the same—his skin remained unmarked.

His pulse pounded in his ears.

This wasn't right.

This wasn't normal.

The letters were still there when he looked down at his hand.

Still glowing. Still burned into his skin as if they had always belonged.

And yet, his phone—his objective, logical piece of technology—insisted otherwise.

Was he hallucinating? Had the stress finally snapped something inside him? He swallowed hard, pressing his thumb into the tattoo, expecting pain, some indication that this was just a wound, a trick of the light—something explainable.

Nothing.

Just smooth, undisturbed skin.

His breathing slowed, panic giving way to something quieter, more insidious. If it wasn't visible in pictures, if the world refused to acknowledge it, then what the hell did that mean? His rational mind scrambled for an answer, anything to anchor himself, until his eyes drifted back to the symbols.

They weren't random. They weren't gibberish. There was a pattern to them, the same one as that when it was a ring. Then, the realization clicked.

It was Latin. Or like it.

Grabbing his phone, he frantically searched for a Latin translator. He typed in the words, at this point expecting, no—hoping—it to mean something absolutely useless like "Live, Laugh, Love."

Translation: "I make the unknown known."

His heart skipped a beat and he laughed dryly.

"That's… weirdly ominous."

Then, in a moment of impulsive curiosity—or perhaps sheer stupidity—he read the phrase aloud.

The moment the last syllable left his lips, his tattoo flared up in brilliant gold light.

Before he could react, a translucent screen popped up in front of him, hovering in the air like something straight out of a video game.

[Welcome to the Interface]

[Initializing System…]

[Analyzing Host…]

His thoughts scrambled to the point of incoherence and his mind blanked.

His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest.

He staggered back, eyes locked onto the glowing text, his mind refusing to process what was happening.

His breathing came in sharp, uneven gasps. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something—anything—to confirm that he hadn't finally lost his grip on reality.

Seconds stretched unbearably, the silence pressing down on him like a lead weight. Then, just as he was about to reach out to the floating screen, a new popup materialized before him in crisp, golden lettering.

[Body, Mind, and Soul Waiver]

Below the title was a long document and below that were two options:

Agree to All Mentioned Above

Know More... and Agree to All Mentioned Above

Ethan swallowed. His mouth was dry.

He hesitantly clicked on the 'Know More' option.

And then he in a flash of bright light, he disappeared from inside the room.