ETHAN DRAKE: WORLD HORIZON GAMES

The first thing I noticed was the absence of pain. No searing heat, no crushing weight—just an overwhelming stillness. It pressed against my ears, amplifying the rhythmic ticking that cut through the silence like a metronome. My eyes snapped open, and I jolted upright in a plain chair, heart pounding against my ribs.

White. Endless, blinding white, like I'd been dropped into a blank canvas.

I flexed my hands, expecting blood, burns—anything—but found nothing. Clean. Unscathed. A chill crawled up my spine.

"Alright, Drake," I muttered, my voice rasping against the void. "Either you made it out, or this is the afterlife. If it's the latter, not impressed."

The ticking grew louder, deliberate. My gaze darted to the sleek table in front of me. Porcelain clinked against porcelain. A man sat there, impossibly composed, pouring tea like he had all the time in the world. His suit—a work of art, black with silver embroidery that shimmered faintly, like stars caught in fabric—practically dared you to question his authority. He didn't look up, but his smile was sharp enough to cut.

"Tea or coffee?" His voice rolled out, smooth and effortless.

I squinted at him, leaning back in my chair. "Not exactly my first question, pal."

"Ah," he said, finally meeting my gaze. Piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, studying me like I was an amusing puzzle. "But it should be. A good drink sets the tone for any discussion."

"Discussion." I let the word hang, dry as desert air. "That what this is? Because I was just in a burning building, and now I'm… here. Either someone's playing a sick joke, or I'm hallucinating."

The man chuckled, low and indulgent, as though he'd heard it all before. "Neither, I assure you. You're exactly where you're meant to be."

I straightened, scanning the room—or what passed for one. No doors, no windows. Just us, the table, and the faint shimmer of heat in the air. My jaw tightened.

"Great," I said. "Now where the hell is that?"

He set the teapot down, the delicate sound unnervingly precise. "This," he said, spreading his hands, "is the White Room. A transitional space. Think of it as the lobby before the real adventure begins."

My laugh was sharp, humorless. "And you are?"

"Adrian Calloway," he said, inclining his head. "Spokesperson for the gods."

"Gods," I echoed, my tone flat. "Right. What kind of cult nonsense have I walked into?"

Adrian's smile didn't falter, but something in his eyes shifted—an edge, subtle but unmissable. "No cult. No nonsense. Just reality, albeit one most mortals are blissfully unaware of."

"Sure," I said, crossing my arms. "Because reality always involves sharp-dressed strangers and endless white voids."

He sighed, as if my skepticism was an inconvenience, but one he was willing to endure. "You've already accepted the invitation, Ethan. This meeting is merely a formality. You agreed to join the World Horizon Games."

The words hit like a fist to the gut. Flashes of memory surfaced—the fire, the voice, the offer. My throat tightened. I forced myself to hold his gaze.

"I was dying," I said, my voice low. "You could've offered me a toaster and I'd have said yes."

"True," Adrian said with a faint chuckle. "But you'll find the stakes here are far more interesting than mere survival."

I leaned forward, the chair creaking under my weight. "Yeah? Then spell it out. What exactly did I sign up for?"

He sat back, steepling his fingers. "The World Horizon Games. A multiversal competition sanctioned by the gods. Players—chosen for their skills, resolve, or sheer potential—are drawn from countless worlds and thrown into arenas designed to test them. Each one is a world unto itself, filled with intrigue, chaos, and peril."

"So, like an MMORPG," I said, arching an eyebrow.

His smile returned, sharper this time. "Of sorts. But here, the stakes are real. Life, death, victory, defeat—they're not pixels on a screen. They're tangible. Permanent."

I stared at him, my mind racing. The fire had been real enough. The pain, the smoke, the crushing weight—all of it. And now this. My hands clenched, the weight of his words settling in my chest.

"And you're here because...?"

"To welcome you," he said, his tone light but his gaze unwavering. "You've been chosen as a sponsor player. A professional."

"Lucky me," I muttered.

"Indeed. Sponsored players represent individual gods, gaining exclusive advantages—permanent talents, unique skills."

"And what's the catch?" I asked, my voice steady despite the storm building inside me.

"The catch," he said, his smile fading, "is survival. You'll face other players, creatures, and challenges beyond imagination. Succeed, and you'll ascend to new worlds. Fail…"

"Game over," I finished, my jaw tightening.

"Precisely."

A glowing scroll materialized between us, its edges pulsating with divine symbols. Adrian slid it across the table with a pen that gleamed like obsidian.

"All that remains," he said, his voice a velvet whisper, "is your signature."

I hesitated, my eyes scanning the document. The words seemed to ripple, shifting between languages I didn't recognize. My chest tightened. No pressure. Just cosmic-level stakes.

With a sharp breath, I grabbed the pen. The hidden needle bit into my thumb, drawing a bead of glowing blood. I pressed it to the parchment.

"Here's to terrible decisions," I muttered.

The scroll flared, dissolving into golden light. Adrian stood, smoothing his suit with a satisfied smile.

"Welcome to the big leagues, Ethan."

The room began to shift, the ground rippling beneath me like water. My balance faltered, and I shot him a glare.

"Oh, and one last thing," Adrian's voice echoed as the whiteness consumed everything. "Try not to die too quickly. The gods hate anticlimaxes."

His laughter lingered as the world fell away, leaving me suspended in darkness.

"Noted," I muttered, my voice lost in the void.