Deckard stepped off the hover bus, the hiss of the brakes fading into the heavy silence of the neighborhood. The sky had darkened during his trip from his mother’s nursing home, casting long, grim shadows over chipped paint and sagging porches.

  He crossed the road to a building that stood out among the disrepair—a clean, modern supermarket. The automatic doors opened with a smooth hum, revealing polished floors and bright lighting. The logo of the big franchise, a rooster against a radiating sun background, gleamed from every aisle.

  Deckard hesitated for a moment just inside the entrance, his gaze drifting toward the corner of the store. That used to be where the old register stood. He could still picture Andy—always grinning as he bagged groceries or counted change.

  For a moment, Deckard’s fingers tightened around the handle of the trolley. He’d kept coming here even after Arnold sold the place, even after the franchise gutted it and remade it into something unrecognizable. At first, it was a habit. Then, it became something else: a way to hold onto the pieces of Andy that hadn’t been erased.

  Deckard sighed and pushed the trolley forward, weaving through aisles that felt too bright, too orderly. He filled it with fruits, vegetables, bread, coffee, and a few microwave meals. When he reached the alcohol aisle, his gaze lingered for a moment before he resolutely moved past.

  At the checkout, the cashier barely looked up. “Do you need a bag, sir?”

  “No, I brought my own.”

  He pulled out a neatly folded bag with the faded logo of the old market, a house where the triangular roof had an ‘A’ incorporated into it for Arnold or Andy. The cashier raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Deckard ignored the look, smoothing out the worn fabric as he bagged his groceries. He brought the bag every week—a small act of defiance.

  The walk to Arnold’s house wasn’t far, but the weight of the bags pulled on his arms, and the uneven sidewalks made every step deliberate. When he reached the house, he stopped to take it in. The peeling white fence leaned at odd angles, the shutters drooped like tired eyes, and moss crept across the shingles. A gutter hung loose from the corner of the porch, threatening to fall with the next storm.

  Deckard frowned. Add it to the list.

  He knocked twice on the door and, without waiting, pushed it open. “Uncle Arnold! It’s me—Dex.”

  “Over here,” a gruff voice called from the living room.

  Inside, the house was dim, the air heavy with the smell of stale whiskey and dust. Arnold sat in his recliner, a blanket over his legs, staring at the muted glow of the TV.

  “How’s it going?” Deckard leaned against the doorframe.

  “Same as always,” Arnold muttered without looking away. “You?”

  “Busy,” Deckard said, shrugging. His eyes drifted to the half-empty glass of whiskey perched precariously on the side table. “You eating enough?”

  Arnold snorted. “Yeah, sure.”

  Deckard didn’t press the point. He knew where the conversation would lead, and he didn’t have the energy for it today. Instead, he held up the bags. “I brought some groceries.”

  “Uh?” Arnold’s gaze flickered to the bags. His eyes narrowed for a moment, but when he failed to find the supermarket logo that had taken over his old store, he relaxed. Deckard suppressed a sigh of relief. It was a small detail but one that spared them both a fight.

  “You don’t have to keep coming,” Arnold said, his tone sharp. “I’m not some damn charity case.”

  “I know,” Deckard replied evenly, while looking at the photo of Arnold with Andy, back when Uncle Arnold had something to live for. Sighing, he headed to the kitchen.

  The sink was piled high with dishes, crusted over with food. Deckard rolled up his sleeves. As he worked, the rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing steadied him. Once the dishes were done, he wiped down the counters, unpacked the groceries, and checked the fridge. As expected, he tossed some expired containers into the trash.

  “Don’t worry about the trash!” Arnold shouted from the living room.

  Deckard ignored him, tying up the overflowing bag and hauling it outside. On his way back in, he stopped at the pile of mail on the entry table. Red warnings screamed from several envelopes: Overdue. Overdue.

  He frowned, pulled out his phone, and sat at the kitchen table. Logging into the accounts one by one, he paid off what he could. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  When he returned to the living room, the house looked marginally better. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “I’ll see you next week,” he said.

  Arnold waved him off without looking up.

  As Deckard stepped onto the porch, he paused, glancing back at the house. The peeling paint, the sagging roof—it wasn’t just a building. It was a reflection of everything Arnold had let slip since Andy had died.

  Deckard stuffed his hands into his pockets, the bags swinging lightly at his sides. “I’m doing what I can, Andy,” he murmured under his breath. The words dissipated into the cool evening air as he turned toward the bus stop.

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  *

  By the time Deckard got home, the night was well underway. Ordering takeout was tempting, but the thought of spending unnecessary money stopped him. Too tired to cook anything elaborate, he settled for a simple noodle soup. The artificial flavor of the broth wasn’t exactly comforting, but the warm, silky noodles did the job of easing his exhaustion.

  After finishing his soup, he cleaned his bowl and stood, glancing at his gaming capsule—the sleek pod that had become his new livelihood.

  Before climbing in, Deckard turned to his desk. It had been his gaming station for years, a place where he’d poured countless hours into Nova Cardia. Now, it felt more like a relic of a simpler time. Two small photo frames rested on the desk, catching his eye.

  One held a picture of him and his mother on his high school graduation day. The other was a snapshot of him and Andy standing in front of his father’s old store—a moment Uncle Arnold had captured. Deckard picked up the frames and carried them to his trophy cabinet. He placed them carefully on a shelf where they would be visible every time he entered or left the capsule.

  "Time to go back to work."

  He climbed into the capsule, the lid sliding shut with a quiet hiss. The familiar gel surrounded him, warm and weightless, as darkness enveloped him completely.

  And just like that, in the blink of an eye, Deckard was back in the Molting Grotto. The oppressive darkness pressed in from all sides, the damp air thick with the salty tang of seawater and decay. The echo of distant dripping water filled the silence. The cave mirrored his mood perfectly.

  Visiting his mother and Uncle Arnold had taken a toll. It never got easier, but this time, the unexpected spike in the nursing home fees and Uncle Arnold’s mounting bills had pushed the strain to a breaking point. For a fleeting two days, the game had been an escape—a chance to lose himself in the novelty and mechanics. But now, the crushing weight of responsibility loomed larger than ever.

  Deckard cracked his neck, forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand. He couldn’t afford to spiral. He had work to do.

  The dungeon sprawled before him like a labyrinth, with twelve tunnels snaking off into the darkness. Six were already cleared; six more remained.

  Steeling himself, he entered the seventh tunnel. It wasn’t long before the telltale skittering of claws on stone reached his ears. A group of crabs emerged from the shadows, their glossy shells glinting in the faint bioluminescent light scattered throughout the cavern.

  With practiced ease, Deckard threw a card to initiate combat, then retreated to create space, whittling down their health as they chased him. The familiar rhythm of slinging cards, dodging attacks, resting, and starting again set in.

  I wonder if I’ll ever be able to take these things head-on, he mused as he hurled another card, watching the projectile pierce a crab’s defenses. The hit-and-run tactics were effective but tedious.

  After another wave of crabs collapsed, Deckard moved in to collect his spoils. The smaller ones dropped only shells. The larger ones, however, occasionally yielded chunks of crab meat—a resource he hadn’t yet found a use for but stored anyway.

  Then, something new caught his eye among the loot. He crouched to inspect it—a helmet, its design unmistakable from the list of dungeon rewards he’d studied earlier. Without much ceremony, he tossed it into his inventory.

  "Not bad," he muttered. "But nothing I can use."

  Most of the regular mobs in this dungeon didn’t drop equipment suited to his class. Still, every little bit counted. Between the piles of crab shells, chunks of meat, and the occasional piece of gear, the loot was starting to add up.

  By the time he’d cleared tunnels seven through eleven, his inventory was bulging. He paused to take stock, sifting through an almost comical number of crab shells.

  One elite and one boss left to go, Deckard mused as he looked at the only unexplored tunnel. Had Deckard not done his research, he might have been confused now. If dungeons had two elites and one boss, then how could there be only one tunnel left?

  However, he now knew that clearing all twelve tunnels and the two elites unlocked a hidden thirteenth tunnel. That’s where the dungeon’s final boss awaited.

  The 12th tunnel was crawling with ordinary crabs. Deckard methodically pulled wave after wave, keeping one eye on the ceiling at all times. The next crab elite of this dungeon was infamous among beginners. Unlike its grounded counterparts, it could climb walls and ceilings, lying in wait to ambush unsuspecting players from above.

  Deckard couldn’t help but reflect on his encounter with the Crab Bulwark. He was lucky. If Deckard had gotten this other elite first, he would’ve stood no chance. It would have easily climbed into the recess where Deckard hid from the crabs and there would be nothing that Deckard could have done about it.

  After dispatching the fifth wave of crabs, he finally spotted it. At first, it was nearly invisible, its mottled shell blending seamlessly with the jagged cave wall. But the faint shimmer of movement gave it away—a slight twitch of its legs, adjusting for balance.

  He inspected the creature.

  Spider Crab: Elite

  Lvl. 5

  HP: 500

  ???

  You watch the Spider Crab.

  Your understanding of it grows.

  The Spider Crab wasn’t particularly large, roughly the size of a standard Crab Enforcer, but its appearance was unnerving. Its spindly legs stretched far longer than those of a typical crab, giving it a spider-like silhouette. Deckard had read about its ambush tactics in guides, but seeing it in person was different.

  He could only imagine how the first players to encounter it must have felt. Unaware of the creature’s ability to climb walls and shoot webs, they’d likely stumbled into its trap and been immobilized before they knew what hit them.

  The Spider Crab stayed still, clinging to the wall like a grotesque decoration. Deckard wasn’t sure if it had seen him, but whatever the case, Deckard had no intention of rushing this encounter.

  Deckard took a deep breath, sat down on a nearby rock, and pulled out his deck of cards. He began shuffling. Cards flipped, spun, and danced between his fingers in a graceful display of dexterity.

  If this gaming thing doesn’t work out, maybe I could be a party magician for kids. The thought gave him pause. Even when I think about leaving gaming, it’s still about cards. Always cards.

  He sighed, his shuffling slowing as a pang of sadness hit him. Honoring Andy’s memory had driven him to devote his life to card games. It was all he had ever done, all he had ever known. The idea of doing anything else felt... impossible.

  You watch the Spider Crab.

  Your understanding of it grows.

  The Spider Crab hadn’t moved, remaining motionless on the wall, waiting for prey. Time passed in a slow trickle. The sound of cards snapping and fluttering filled the air.

  All right, Spider Crab. Let’s see who blinks first.

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