John Mercer's life had never been extraordinary.
At twenty-six, he was the kind of person who blended into the background without effort. People who met him once might forget his face the next day. He worked a string of part-time jobs, patched together freelance IT gigs to cover rent, and kept his head down. He wasn't unpopular, exactly, but neither was he particularly liked — more like tolerated.
Still, that was fine by him. John wasn't the type to chase the spotlight. He wanted something quieter, simpler. His dream was modest: to one day escape the city's constant hum, buy a house with a yard, and raise a couple of dogs. Pitbulls, if he had the choice. He'd grown up with them; to him, they weren't the monsters people claimed, but family. Loyal. Protective. Comforting.
For now, though, dreams were all they were.
Reality was long nights at the convenience store, stocking shelves under fluorescent lights, listening to the low buzz of freezers and the impatient sighs of customers. It was trudging home past midnight, scarf pulled tight against winter wind, and microwaving leftovers in a silent apartment.
It was routine. Ordinary. Boring.
Safe.
That was the last thing John remembered — the safety of routine. Walking into his apartment, tossing his bag onto the couch, fishing for his phone charger. The faint hum of his refrigerator. A sigh as he kicked off his shoes. And then—
Nothing.
Just—blank. Like a cut in the film reel of his life.
The first thing John felt was cold.
Not a sharp, biting cold, but an unnatural one — sterile, like air-conditioned hospital halls that never warmed no matter the season.
His eyes opened slowly. He expected the cracked paint of his apartment ceiling, the faint water stain that looked like a lopsided cloud. Instead, he saw white. Not off-white, not cream, not textured. Just a seamless, spotless expanse that stretched above him.
He jerked upright, heart hammering.
The room around him was a cube — ten feet by ten feet by ten feet, every surface the same flawless white material. No windows. No doors. No seams. It was like being trapped inside a blank canvas.
John scrambled to his feet, chest tightening. His breath echoed too loudly against the walls. He spun in a circle once, twice, searching desperately for something, anything — a crack, a handle, a panel. Nothing.
The panic came fast. His hands shook as he pounded on the wall, bare knuckles smacking the cold surface. "Hello?!" His voice cracked, sharp in the silence. "Hey! Somebody there?! Open up! What the hell is this place?!"
No answer.
He slammed the wall again, harder this time. His fist stung. "This isn't funny! Let me out!"
The cube swallowed his words whole, reflecting them back in faint, mocking echoes.
John staggered back, pressing both palms against the smooth surface as his breathing quickened. His throat tightened. The air felt thinner somehow, or maybe he was just sucking it down too fast, his chest rising and falling like a piston.
Okay. Okay, calm down. Think.
But his thoughts weren't cooperating. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out reason. He turned, scanning the room again, desperate for some flaw, some escape route. His eyes caught the only thing that didn't belong:
A desk.
Perfectly centered against one wall, made of the same seamless material, except… no. Not exactly. It had sharper lines, a deliberate shape. And on it sat a computer.
A monitor, a keyboard, a mouse. Just sitting there.
No cables. No tower. No outlet.
The screen glowed faintly, pale green light humming against the white walls.
John froze, staring at it as dread pooled cold and heavy in his gut.
"No… no, this… this is—" He laughed, a sharp, panicked sound. "This isn't real. I'm dreaming. Has to be. Must've dozed off after work, that's all."
He pressed his fingers against his temple, hard, as if pressure could force clarity. "Yeah, yeah, just a dream. I'll wake up any second. Alarm'll go off. Back to work, same old routine."
But the walls didn't shift. The air didn't change. The computer's glow stayed steady, casting long shadows across the sterile floor.
John's laugh broke into a ragged breath. His knees buckled, and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold ground. His hands trembled against his thighs.
This can't be real. Can't be. How would I even—?
He shut his eyes tight, counted to ten, then opened them again. Still there. Still trapped. Still the computer.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. John wasn't sure. Time felt slippery, unreal.
Eventually, the silence grew unbearable. The computer drew his gaze again, like a single eye watching him. Against every instinct screaming in his head, he stood and shuffled closer.
The monitor's text was simple. Clean. Clinical.
Welcome, User.
You are connected to the Spirit Nexus.
Through this interface, you may create and guide spirits.
Spirits shall be sent to distant worlds, to bond with hosts.
Half of the energy from each host's life shall strengthen the spirit.
The other half shall be converted into points for you to use.
Would you like to begin?
[Y] / [N]
John read it once. Then again. Then a third time. Each pass felt more absurd than the last.
His lips moved silently as if repeating the words might somehow make them make sense. Spirits? Hosts? Energy? Points?
He staggered back, dragging both hands down his face. "No. No, no, no. This is insane. Spirits? Worlds? What the hell does that even mean? I'm not—" His voice cracked, and he choked down the rising panic. "I'm not crazy. I'm not."
But the words on the screen didn't change.
He tried ignoring it. He paced the cube until his legs ached. He tried sleeping, curling up on the cold floor, but the silence pressed down too hard. He tried shouting again, screaming until his voice went hoarse, until tears burned his eyes and frustration hollowed his chest.
No door appeared. No rescuer came.
Only the blinking cursor waited, patient.
Hours — or what felt like hours — passed before John returned to the desk.
His eyes were red, his throat raw. He felt wrung out, emptied.
The words on the screen hadn't budged.
Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair. His fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard. "I don't… I don't understand what's happening," he whispered.
The cursor blinked. Waiting.
"If this is real… then what happens if I say yes?"
No answer.
"And if I say no?"
Still nothing.
John clenched his fists. He hated this — hated the not knowing, the helplessness. He wanted to resist, to flip the desk, to reject the whole insane setup. But some deep instinct told him the system wouldn't let him. The room had no exit. No food. No water. No way to live except what the computer offered.
His jaw tightened. Slowly, reluctantly, he pressed Y.
The words on the screen shifted instantly, as if the System had been waiting for that moment all along.
First Spirit Creation: Free.
Please stand by.
The glow deepened, filling the cube with eerie green light. John's breath caught in his throat as lines of text began to scroll, faster than he could follow. Words like Host, Bonding Protocol, Spirit Shell.
The panic stirred again, clawing at his chest.
What had he just agreed to?
The green glow grew.
At first, John thought it was the monitor. But no—this wasn't screen-light. This was room-light, air-light, a glow that leaked into the walls, into the sterile cube itself, as if the whole place had become part of the machine.
It wasn't harsh, not like sunlight or a flashlight beam. It was thicker. Heavy. The kind of glow you felt in your bones rather than just saw with your eyes.
John stumbled back from the desk, his chest heaving, pulse ragged. His arms flailed blindly until his shoulder smacked the wall. The cold surface pressed into his back like ice.
On the monitor, letters rolled across the glowing void:
First Spirit Creation: Free. Please stand by.
John's throat caught. His hands shot for the keyboard, desperate, slamming N, then jamming it down over and over. "Stop! Cancel! I didn't—don't—just stop it!"
Nothing.
The system ignored him.
New lines appeared, scrolling clean and merciless:
Initializing… Preparing Creation Protocols…
John's stomach knotted. His chest rose and fell too fast, sucking air in shallow bursts. He reached for the monitor itself, groping for a button, a switch, anything. His fingertips scraped smooth plastic. He pawed along the base, the back, hunting for cords to yank, outlets to kill the flow. Nothing. The machine had no wires, no plugs. Just existence.
The hum thickened. The glow vibrated against his skin like static electricity before a storm. John clutched his head, nails digging into his scalp.
"This isn't real," he whispered, desperate. He pressed the words like a mantra through clenched teeth. "This isn't real. I'm dreaming. This is some—some nightmare, that's all."
But the cube didn't shift. The air didn't change. The text kept scrolling.
Define Spirit Parameters.
The screen pulsed with new options.
Core Element
Form
Disposition
Purpose
Each line throbbed faintly, like veins beneath translucent skin.
John froze. His throat bobbed in a dry swallow.
They want me to… build something?
He shook his head hard, as if force could dislodge the thought. No. No, this wasn't building. This wasn't making some digital character like in a game. Something deep inside him screamed that it wasn't that simple.
But the cube was silent, save for his panicked breath.
The cursor blinked. Waiting.
John refused to move. He pressed his back into the wall, knees pulled tight to his chest, trying to make himself smaller. His eyes locked on the floor, anywhere but the screen. If he ignored it, maybe—just maybe—it would blink out, fade, reset.
Time stretched. He didn't know how long he sat like that. A minute? Ten? An hour? His chest cramped, his legs stiffened, but the glow didn't fade. The menu didn't change.
The options pulsed patiently.
Core Element.
Form.
Disposition.
Purpose.
John's hands clenched into fists. His fingernails bit crescents into his palms.
This isn't happening. It can't be happening.
He shot to his feet suddenly, a burst of frantic energy exploding in his chest. He stormed to the desk and slammed both fists against its surface. The impact stung, pain jolting up his arms.
"Enough!" His voice cracked, raw from hours of shouting earlier. "You hear me?! I'm not doing this! You can't just—you can't just trap me here like some—some lab rat! You don't get to—"
His words fell into silence. The cube swallowed them whole.
The menu blinked. Waiting.
John's face twisted. His fist lashed out, slamming into the side of the monitor. Pain screamed through his knuckles. The screen didn't even flicker.
He staggered back, cradling his hand, gasping.
The menu blinked. Waiting.
John's voice broke into pleading. He pressed his forehead against the cold edge of the desk, whispering through shaking lips.
"Please. Please, just let me out. I'll—I'll do anything, I'll work, I'll never complain again, just—just don't make me—don't make me do this."
He clenched his teeth. "You want something, right? You need me to agree. Just… tell me what it costs. Tell me what I have to give. Just let me go home."
Silence.
The cursor blinked. Waiting.
Time stretched. John collapsed into the chair, body sagging. His eyes burned. He didn't remember when the tears started, only that his vision blurred and his breath shook. He pressed his face into his palms, smearing dampness across his skin.
He was so tired. So cold. His body ached from tension. His voice rasped when he whispered into the hollow of his hands:
"I just want to go home."
But home was gone.
All that remained was the glow.
The cursor blinked. Waiting.
Slowly, painfully, John lifted his head. His face was pale in the green light, streaked with salt tracks. His eyes felt raw, burning.
He stared at the menu, hating it, fearing it, but unable to look away.
Core Element. Form. Disposition. Purpose.
The words might as well have been chains.
He drew a ragged breath. His hand shook as it hovered over the keyboard.
"Fine," he whispered.
---
The first option unfolded instantly, branching into choices.
Fire
Water
Earth
Air
Light
Shadow
Each word pulsed faintly, like heartbeats.
John's lips parted, soundless. His gaze darted across them. Fire conjured destruction, pain. Water, too fluid, too slippery. Air, too empty. Shadow, too sinister. Light—no. Too much weight in that.
Earth.
Grounded. Steady. Solid.
His mind flickered with a memory: Rocky, his childhood pitbull, lying across his feet after a bad day, warm and heavy, as immovable as stone.
John's chest tightened. His finger tapped the key.
Earth selected.
---
Select Form.
Options bloomed again:
Humanoid
Beast
Avian
Serpentine
Insectoid
Other (Custom)
John's stomach clenched. A form meant… shape. A body.
He pictured skin crawling over bone, claws sprouting, eyes snapping open. He swallowed bile.
His gaze hovered over Beast. He thought of Rocky again. Of loyalty, of warmth. Of not being alone.
His hand trembled as he chose.
Beast selected.
---
Select Disposition.
Protective
Aggressive
Cunning
Submissive
Curious
Protective. His heart whispered it before his mind could argue. He thought of bullies shoving him into lockers, of bruises hidden under sleeves, of the way his dogs had pressed close afterward, unflinching shields against the world.
His voice cracked as he whispered, "Protective."
Protective selected.
---
Final Parameter: Purpose.
Guardian
Hunter
Healer
Guide
Destroyer
His throat closed. Every word felt heavy with consequence.
Guardian. That was the only one he could live with.
His finger fell.
Guardian selected.
---
The screen pulsed once, then collapsed into summary text:
Spirit Parameters Defined.
Core: Earth
Form: Beast
Disposition: Protective
Purpose: Guardian
Confirm? [Y/N]
John stared at it, chest tight, lungs burning. His mind screamed to slam N, to reject it, to run. But there was nowhere left to run.
His hand trembled violently as it lowered.
He pressed Y.
---
The cube exploded in light.
Green flared so bright it swallowed the sterile walls, drowning the room. The hum became a roar, shaking the floor beneath John's feet. He staggered back, arms raised over his face, every nerve screaming.
Lines of energy etched into the air, carving shapes, twisting, weaving. Stone cracked out of nothing. Claws formed, massive shoulders hunched, a muzzle stretched.
John's breath seized. His heart slammed against his ribs.
A beast stood before him.
Not a dog, not exactly — larger, heavier, a hulking thing of stone and clay, muscle rippling beneath hide that shifted like earth itself. Its eyes blazed emerald, locked onto John's.
Time froze.
For a heartbeat, John felt something—connection, weight, meaning he couldn't name. Not words. Not thoughts. Just recognition.
Tears burned his eyes. Rocky. No, not Rocky. But something. Something like him.
The beast inhaled, massive chest expanding. It stood tall, steady, waiting.
Then, without warning, it shattered.
Light burst outward, fragments tearing free, streaming upward in streaks of green fire. The form disintegrated into sparks, swallowed by the void above.
Gone.
The cube fell silent.
John staggered forward, a strangled sound caught in his throat. His fingers reached for empty air.
The monitor flickered.
Spirit Creation Successful.
Spirit Deployed. Host located.
Energy Link Established.
A pause.
Current Balance: 5 Points.
---
John stared until the words blurred. His legs gave out. He collapsed into the chair, burying his face in his trembling hands. His chest heaved with uneven breaths.
It was real.
He had just created something.
And sent it away.
The cube seemed colder than ever.
His voice cracked, raw as he whispered into the silence:
"What the hell have I done?"