Sam stood in the lobby after his friend left, the emptiness of the white space pressing in around him.
"Now… a name for my character," he muttered under his breath, already pulling up the menu bar with a thought. Pete had briefed him enough times, but doing it himself still made him anxious.
The menu popped up, glowing faintly. Sam scrolled to the option that read Register as Player.
"Please create a username," a monotone voice instructed.
Sam rubbed his chin. "Hmm, what should I use? Can't use Sam. Or S, like Pete. That's lame. Way too lame."
After a few moments of thought, a crooked grin spread across his face.
"Welcome, user Slim Shady," the voice intoned once he decided.
Sam chuckled. "Guess that works."
The system wasn't done. "Please wait a moment to get your ability."
A faint hum filled the white room, almost like static in his ears.
"Serializing complete. Congratulations on gaining the Shadow ability."
Sam blinked. "Wait—what? Shadow?" His brow furrowed. "And why did it say serializing?" He asked the empty room, half-expecting no answer.
But the voice continued, calm and robotic: "You can use the Shadow ability while fighting in the game. How you use it depends solely on you and your understanding of it."
Sam exhaled slowly, his chest tightening. "So no fixed skills. Just… figure it out myself."
He couldn't decide if that was exciting or terrifying. Most games he knew spoon-fed players techniques as they leveled up. Aurora Express, apparently, preferred throwing players off a cliff and telling them to learn to fly.
Still unsettled, Sam moved to the next step: designing his character.
He didn't want to look too different from himself. His chosen avatar matched his height and build, but he added a ninja-like outfit—a sleek, black ensemble that hugged close to the body, topped with a mask that hid his face. With his new ability, it felt fitting.
No weapons, though. He wasn't about to complicate things with swordplay or staffs. Bare hands were enough for now.
A moment later, a 5'9 figure dressed head-to-toe in shadowed ninja garb stood silently in the blank white room.
Sam flexed his hands, nerves buzzing in his veins. "Alright. Time to test this… shadow thing."
He concentrated, willing the shadow beneath his feet to stir. To his surprise, the darkness rippled like ink, shifting unnaturally. With more focus, he made it crawl up his legs, until wisps of shadow wrapped around him like a living coat. It clung tightly, and when he tried moving, it felt heavy, unnatural—like stepping through water. Still, there was potential.
"It's just like I thought," Sam murmured. A flicker of pride shone in his chest, though it was dulled by the uncertainty gnawing at him.
He wasn't ready. Not really. But there was only one way forward.
Pulling up the menu again, he clicked Quick Match.
In an instant, the world shifted. The white room stretched outward, becoming a vast arena, sand and stone forming beneath his feet. Across from him, his opponent materialized.
The man looked like he belonged on the wrong end of an alley fight. Short armless jacket, army pants, scars crossing his arms, and wild green spikes jutting from his head. His body radiated the cocky swagger of someone who loved brawls.
"Get ready to be beaten by Zorro," the thug sneered, cracking his knuckles with an audible snap.
Sam's throat tightened. He fought the urge to swallow hard, masking his nerves behind the faceless mask of his avatar.
The countdown lit above their heads.
3… 2… 1…
Begin.
Zorro came at him like a bullet. His first punch tore through the air, aimed right at Sam's face with raw, street-fighter fury.
Sam's instincts screamed. He ducked just in time, the knuckles whistling above his head. Adrenaline shot through him like lightning.
Without hesitation, he countered—his fist driving into Zorro's ribs. The blow connected solidly, forcing the thug to stumble back a step.
"You punch hard," Zorro growled, rubbing his side. Then his smirk widened. "But let's speed things up."
His body gleamed suddenly, skin shining like polished steel. The air seemed to ripple with his intent. Zorro charged again, this time faster, more dangerous.
Sam barely kept up, ducking and weaving as fists hammered toward him, each swing carrying bone-breaking weight. His breath grew ragged, but his movements were sharp, instinctive.
He'd done this before, in his own way. Growing up in the orphanage, games of tag had been his specialty. He was always the one running, chased endlessly by older, stronger kids. To survive, he had to be fast, nimble, unpredictable. That skill now saved him, each dodge carrying him a hair's breadth from disaster.
But Zorro wasn't slowing down.
Sam's muscles burned as he sidestepped again, and again. He waited, carefully watching, searching for an opening. Finally—Zorro's rhythm faltered, his punches slowing slightly as his breathing turned heavy.
Now.
Sam lunged, driving his right leg into the same ribs he'd struck earlier. But instead of flesh, his foot crashed against cold metal. Pain shot up his leg. His eyes widened.
"Oh, no—"
Zorro's grin spread wickedly as his hand snapped forward, grabbing Sam's leg like a vice. "Gotcha."
In the next instant, Sam was yanked off his feet and slammed hard into the arena floor. His vision blurred from the impact.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Each slam rattled his bones, his health bar plunging with every brutal impact. He tried summoning shadows to shield him, and though they dulled the pain slightly, it wasn't enough. He was a ragdoll in Zorro's iron grip.
First slam. Second. Third.
By the ninth, desperation surged through Sam. He twisted, using his free leg to smash against Zorro's wrist. The thug hissed, grip faltering just enough. Sam tore himself free, rolling across the floor and gasping for air.
"Ha… ha… ha…" Sam panted, his chest burning. His body felt heavier than lead, every breath a fight.
Across the ring, Zorro strode toward him with a predator's calm, his fists still shimmering metallic. "Seems like your first hit was a fluke. You're fast, sure. But in the end, strength will prevail."
Sam braced himself, shadows flickering faintly under his feet.
Zorro lunged, fist swinging forward with devastating force—only to crash through empty air.
"What—?!" He spun, eyes scanning wildly.
Behind him, the shadows rippled. Silent, fluid, Sam rose from the darkness itself, his body sliding out like a phantom. He was behind Zorro before the thug even registered it.
Sam's fist cracked into the back of his neck. Zorro staggered, stunned, his health bar plummeting by half.
"One more," Sam thought grimly. He dashed forward, slamming his knuckles into Zorro's skull with all his strength. The thug roared, his health bar plunging down to 20%.
"How did you—?!" Zorro stammered, disbelief etched across his face.
"Simple," Sam replied coldly. "I made you think I was a greenhorn. Let you drop your guard."
Zorro's lips curled in fury. "You—"
Sam cut him off, voice calm despite the adrenaline still roaring in his veins. "Once I saw your ability, I knew head-on fights were suicide. So I let you catch me. I gambled everything that I'd survive long enough to figure something out."
It hadn't been easy. The repeated slamming had nearly ended him, but in that moment of desperation—kneeling, shadows beneath his hands—he'd realized something. If his feet could sink into shadow, maybe his whole body could.
And it worked.
"Cool, isn't it?" Sam smirked, his chest heaving. "I call it… Shadow Drop."
Zorro sneered. "You've got a weird personality."
"Thank you," Sam shot back. "I'll take that as a compliment."
But his opponent was already moving. "Doesn't matter. It's over."
Sam's body ached, his element of surprise gone. He knew it too. "Yeah, yeah. I know. You win," he said, unbothered.
Zorro didn't hesitate. His metallic fist swung, smashing into Sam with crushing force. Sam's health bar dropped instantly to zero.
The match ended.
"What a weird opponent," Zorro muttered before the system whisked him away to the lobby.
---
On Sam's end, he exhaled a shaky breath. "Phew. That was… intense."
The tension drained from his body, replaced by a mix of relief and awe. He'd risked everything in that fight—something he could never dare in real life.
Exiting the game, he stretched, already thinking of his shift. He and Pete always shared the same work schedule, like it or not. Pete had left early for an errand, but Sam needed to hurry.
For now, though, he allowed himself a small, proud smile.
He'd survived. And he'd learned something new.
*******