"Now?" Every cell in Michael's body screamed for sleep.
"Now."
Jane tossed him a clean hoodie. "Try not to faint on the stairs."
"Stairs?"
Mason yanked open a hidden door in the back wall, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. "You wanted answers? Time to meet the man who wrote the questions."
The steps creaked as they climbed down. The air grew colder. Michael's Fitbit-like device beeped rapidly.
At the bottom, a massive steel door loomed. Ancient symbols glowed blue across its surface. Mason pressed his palm to a scanner.
IDENTITY CONFIRMED: KING, MASON. CLEARANCE LEVEL: 2.
The door slid open with a hiss.
Michael stumbled forward as the steel door slammed shut behind him.
The metallic clang echoed like a gunshot. He whirled around, hands slapping the smooth surface—no handle, no keypad, nothing. Just cold, unbroken steel.
Where'd he go? Why leave me here?
Darkness pressed against his eyes, thick and suffocating.
His breathing sounded too loud. The bandages on his left hand itched, the skin underneath still throbbing dully.
He patted his pockets, relief flooding him when his fingers brushed the phone Mason had tossed him. The screen lit up with a crack across its surface, bathing his face in pale blue light.
123 missed calls. 298 new messages.
He ignored them, thumbing the flashlight icon. The beam cut through the black, revealing walls covered in strange symbols—glowing, shifting marks like the ones on the steel door upstairs. They pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
Okay. Weird, but not the weirdest thing today.
"Hello?" His voice bounced off the walls, too small. "Anyone here?"
Silence.
He swept the light across the room. Empty. No furniture, no doors, no vents. Just a concrete box the size of a classroom, etched floor to ceiling in those eerie symbols.
His phone buzzed suddenly, making him fumble it. The screen flashed:
[Unknown Number]: Stop shining that light everywhere. You look like a lost toddler.
Michael froze. "Who is this?"
[Unknown Number]: The guy who owns the room you're trespassing in. Turn off the flashlight. Now.
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Trap? But the symbols on the walls brightened, their glow intensifying until the room swam in watery blue light. He shut off the flashlight.
"Happy?" he muttered.
[Unknown Number]: Ecstatic. Now listen closely, Michael Cobb. You've got two choices. Walk to the center of the room. Or stand there until your legs give out. I'm fine either way.
Michael glared at the phone. "Or I could smash your creepy symbol room and—"
[Unknown Number]: You're standing in a contained reality pocket. Try vandalizing it, and the failsafe protocols will reduce you to confetti. Poof.
He glanced at the walls. The symbols did look sharper now, edges glinting like knife blades.
…Fine. Center of the room. Let's play along.
Each step echoed. The symbols tracked him, their glow shifting from blue to an uneasy green as he reached the middle. His phone buzzed again.
[Unknown Number]: Good dog. Now hold the phone up. Camera facing you.
"Why?"
[Unknown Number]: So I can see if you're as dumb as you look. Do it.
Grinding his teeth, Michael raised the phone. The camera light flicked on automatically, blinding him.
"What now?" he snapped.
A voice crackled from the speaker—deep, smooth, and laced with mocking patience. "Now we chat. Lower the phone. Your acne is tragic."
Michael obeyed, squinting at the screen. A face materialized—a man in his 40s with silver-streaked black hair and eyes so pale gray they looked blind. He wore a navy suit that probably cost more than Michael's life.
"Michael Cobb," the man said, steepling his fingers. "High school baseball star. Tragic amputation. Failed suicide attempt. Recent dragon-slayer. How's the arm?"
Michael's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
"Everyone calls me the Curator. I… manage talent." The Curator leaned closer, his pixelated gaze sharpening. "Specifically, yours."
"I don't have any talent." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
The Curator smirked. "You survived a Celestial attack and a Phoenix Vial overdose in the same day. Either you're insanely lucky…" His smirk faded. "Or you've got a Talent number under 100."
Michael's mind flashed to Mason's explanation earlier—low numbers mean high potential. "What's your number?"
"Rude. But since you'll die soon anyway… #027."
Whoa. Michael shifted, the room suddenly feeling colder. "Why am I here?"
The Curator's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Because you're a liability. Using magic trinkets from mobile games? Summoning Celestials? Amateur hour. The higher-realm factions hate attention. And you've got ESPN, cops, and half the internet asking questions."
Michael's bandaged hand twitched. "I didn't know the vial would—"
"Ignorance isn't cute. It's deadly." The Curator's voice turned icy. "Here's your new reality: You either join my organization, learn to control your Talent, and clean up your messes… or I erase you. Your choice."
Michael stiffened. "Erase me?"
"Memory wipe. You'll wake up thinking the last three years were a coma dream. No baseball. No college. No arm." The Curator tilted his head. "Well, you'd still miss the arm. Medical records are pesky."
Michael's stomach churned. Forget everything? Start over as a nobody?
"And if I join you?"
The Curator leaned back. "Training. Resources. A purpose. Plus, we'll suppress the Phoenix Vial's poison permanently. No more…" He waved a hand. "…amputated arms."
The symbols on the walls flared red. Michael's phone screen flickered.
"Tick-tock, kid."
Sweat trickled down Michael's neck. This is insane. But…
"What do I have to do?"
The Curator's grin widened. "First, pass a little test."
"What do y—"
But before Michael could ask what kind of sadistic trial awaited him, the Curator leaned closer.
"Have you forgotten about your little mobile game?"
Michael's pulse spiked.
How does he know about that?
"I know everything about my investments," the Curator purred.
The call disconnected.
Michael stared at the dead screen.
Aiko.
He hadn't opened the game since the Yuriko attack. How long had it been? Hours?
His thumb shook as he swiped to the app. The loading screen flickered—
[System Alert!]
[Tatsuya (Level ??) - Arrived: one hour ago. ]
"Shit." Michael's stomach dropped.