I breathed heavily, each inhale short and shaky, the rhythm quickening as if my lungs were trying to outrun my thoughts. What happened just now... it’s impossible. My hands trembled slightly as I replayed it in my head. I saved her, but that was just instinct. My body had moved on its own, like some unseen force had pushed me into action. Did I do that of my own volition? Should I have done that?

  The air felt thick in my throat, like I was swallowing fog. Are Mom and Dad looking for me? Are they worried? I couldn't begin to explain my actions—to them, to myself. Was that bravery real? Or just panic dressed up in heroism? Is this even real?

  I bent my elbow, slowly raising my hand to my face, pinching my left cheek with two fingers. The skin resisted slightly at first, but then gave way under pressure. I pinched harder until a sting bloomed beneath the surface. I could feel it—clear as day. The pain confirmed it. My heart pounded against my ribcage, heavy, like a drum in the silence. I was sitting on the damp floor, legs bent, dirt clinging to the sides of my pants. I needed to move. I had to move—somewhere. Anywhere but here. Somewhere where I could be alone, somewhere quiet enough to think. Maybe I could find my way back home?

  I placed my trembling palm on my knee, trying to anchor myself. I began to push myself up, legs slow to respond. Then, all of a sudden, a firm hand grasped my left shoulder. The touch was heavy, grounding me in place. I froze.

  They held me down with a calm but commanding pressure. I turned around sharply, breath caught in my throat. What greeted me was a tall, dark-skinned, short hair man dressed in a long, dark cassock. The cloth looked worn and smelled faintly of incense and sweat. He sat down beside me without hesitation, his presence both strange and oddly reassuring. His dark eyes scanned my face, and he could clearly see the fright etched into my expression. His grip tightened, not painfully, but with purpose.

  “Calm down, my son. We need to stick together.”

  Before I could respond, a deeper voice came from nearby, authoritative but not unkind.

  “He’s right.”

  I looked up and saw another figure approaching—a fashionable young man with fair skin and perfectly styled blonde hair. His posture was relaxed but alert, arms crossed over a crisp white shirt that somehow still looked clean despite the chaos. He stood just at the edge of the clearing, eyes scanning the dark forest that loomed ahead like a wall of shadow.

  “Strength in numbers, and all that.”

  Schoom!

  A large yellow screen suddenly materialized a few dozen feet above the ground, glowing unnaturally against the dimming sky. Its rectangular surface buzzed faintly, flickering as if it were alive—responding to us, watching us. The surrounding others craned their necks, some shielding their eyes from the glare.

  Desmond squinted at the spectacle, his tone grim as he commented, “Whoever is making that appear did this.”

  A chorus of uneasy murmurs rippled through the group. Someone behind me shouted, voice sharp with fear and suspicion, “Hey! Who are you?!”

  Die?! The word echoed in my head like a thunderclap. My heart began to race again, a cold sweat breaking out across my neck. My legs weakened beneath me, the fear returning in full force. Desmond grasped my trembling hand with steady fingers and pulled me to my feet. His grip was firm—reassuring. His eyes met mine. “I won’t let you die. Let’s listen to what it says.”

  There was strength in his voice, the kind that anchored you when everything else was falling apart. I felt more at ease when he was with me; the storm inside paused just long enough to breathe.

  A new voice spoke—this time soft, clear, and unmistakably feminine. It echoed from the direction of the yellow screen, smooth like water over glass.

  “Can you explain?”

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  The blonde one spoke again, his voice laced with a frustrated edge as he took a step forward, hands gesturing animatedly toward the screen. “How are we supposed to beat monsters? If these monsters are the usual fantasy ones—goblins, orcs, elves, whatever...” He paused, sweeping his gaze across the group, daring anyone to disagree. “then they’re stronger than us by miles.”

  Class. Like those RPGs. I’ve played a few games before. I’m ready.

  As if responding to my confidence, the yellow screen suddenly shifted and lowered to every one of us, mine now hovering directly in front of me. Its surface shimmered, then solidified, revealing three distinct options. Each one glowed yellow, pulsing gently. The choices were clear, yet felt impossibly important, as if this one decision would define everything going forward.

  Desmond, sensing the same shift, moved a bit further away, giving me space as he turned to face his own screen.

  I paused, my eyes flicking between the three glowing options. Necromancer seemed really overpowered at first glance—commanding the dead, overwhelming enemies with sheer numbers. Then I hesitated. The mana cost would be immense. And in most media—games, books, shows—necromancers were portrayed as fragile, glass cannons who crumbled if touched. This system, whatever it was, probably took inspiration from that kind of fiction.

  My gaze shifted to Sprinter. It sounded practical. Speed, evasion, light-footed combat—I was already pretty agile. That pick made sense, logically. But then my eyes landed on the third choice.

  Mage.

  My heart tugged toward it instantly. I’ve always played the mage class in every game where it was available. Something about casting spells, controlling the elements, bending reality—it always resonated with me. It felt right. Familiar. Empowering.

  Without letting myself overthink it, I raised my hand and used my finger to tap the screen.

  Desmond squinted at the screen, his brows furrowed in confusion. He tilted his head slightly, probably unsure of what stats were.

  I leaned in and whispered, “Stats are a numerical score of your abilities.”

  He glanced at me, then back at the screen, nodding slowly as the realization clicked. “Ah.” he said quietly, the tension in his face easing, understanding now.

  With that—whatever that was—it vanished, leaving nothing but silence and the faint hum of the screen’s departure echoing. It was just us twelve... and that forest.