"There has been a sighting of what can only be described as a Kaiju in the Pacific Ocean. It was reported by local fishermen here in Japan. Sadly, there is no proof to support their claims, so for now the story is being dismissed as a rumor. Here is Ichirō, a fisherman who says he saw the creature."
The blonde reporter angled her mic toward a grizzled fisherman. His weather-beaten skin told the story of decades at sea, his gray hair plastered flat by salt wind. His eyes, slightly upturned, flicked nervously toward the cameras.
"I… I see very big animal… hontō ni big! So… so big, like Gojira! Head… huge, like mansion. Middle forehead… ichi no horn… very big! And… futatsu futatsu eyes… four eyes… all on big head!"
Ichirō's arms shot outward, his whole body stretching to measure the size of the beast. His voice cracked, half-fear, half-excitement.
"Okay, thank you, Mr. Ichirō." The reporter plastered on a brittle smile and pivoted smoothly back to the camera. "As you've just heard from our witness…"
The screen faded to black.
---
Tuesday Morning – Sunny Mart
The shop's glass door chimed.
"Hey, kiddo, how are you doing?" Mr. Martins squinted at Sam. His voice carried warmth, but his eyes sharpened with concern.
"You look like Hector from that old Coco movie. What's happened to you?"
Sam rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders sagging. "I'm good, sir. Just… feels like I haven't slept in weeks." His voice was hoarse, thin, as if the words themselves were tired.
Mr. Martins frowned, folding his arms. "Have you gone to see a doctor? You don't look right."
The older man wasn't around this branch often—he managed a handful of shops scattered across the city—but even he could see the change in Sam.
Sam forced a smile. "Nah. I think I just need some rest. Hospitals and needles? Not my thing."
Martins gave a long sigh and shook his head. "All right, if you insist. But I'm giving you two days' leave. Sleep, recover. Don't argue."
Relief flickered across Sam's face. "Thank you, sir."
The manager disappeared toward the back, leaving Sam to greet a new customer with automatic politeness.
It had been over a month since his first trip to the VR gaming shop, and the visits had become routine. Aurora Express wasn't just a game anymore—it was training, discovery, survival. He was winning now, growing sharper with each fight. And it was all thanks to the NAPE device Pete had given him.
Before his first battle, Sam had plugged the strange device into the capsule. It fit like it belonged, though the machine had other empty slots he didn't understand. Whatever the NAPE was, it connected him deeper than a game should allow.
---
Flashback
Later that evening, after finishing his shift at Sunny Mart, Sam trudged home. His body was tired from work, but his mind buzzed with restless energy. Unlike most nights after work, there was no sluggish haze, no drained feeling—only anticipation.
He tossed his bag onto the bed, pulled out the odd little device Pete had given him, and set it next to his battered old VR headset. The kind of headset people used back when VR was still clunky and new.
Pete's instructions echoed in his mind: Insert the device. Wear the headset. Then… sleep.
So he did.
The hum of the device was the last thing he heard before darkness claimed him.
When his eyes opened, he was standing in a city that looked like it had died decades ago.
The air was heavy, tinged with the stench of damp iron and rotting food. Torn cardboard littered cracked pavement. Broken fences leaned drunkenly across narrow alleys. Small, twitching critters darted between piles of refuse.
Above, the sky wept in shades of dark crimson, as if the heavens themselves had been bruised.
Sam's breath caught in his throat. "Where… am I?" His voice echoed faintly against empty concrete.
He spun in a slow circle. Not a soul in sight. Just him, and a silence thick enough to choke.
Panic clawed at his chest. "I don't remember leaving my house. What is this place?"
His legs trembled. He wanted to move, to find an exit, but another thought pinned him in place. What if I wait? Someone might find me. Rescue me.
But who would come?
His heart thudded against his ribs.
Then came the sound.
A faint rustle from the bushes that hemmed in the broken street. Leaves shivered. A low crunch of footsteps.
Sam's head snapped toward the noise. "Who's there?" His voice cracked, too loud in the silence.
The rustling grew louder. Then, emerging from the shadows—familiar. Too familiar.
A scarred man in a sleeveless jacket, army pants stained with dirt, wild green spikes bristling from his head.
Zorro.
Sam's stomach lurched. "This… this doesn't make sense. I left the game. I logged out. Why is he here?"
The thug didn't answer. He just moved—faster than thought.
A fist blurred through the air.
Sam barely twisted aside. The punch whooshed past his cheek, so close he felt the heat of it brush his skin. His pulse spiked, hammering like a drumline in his ears.
"I don't want to fight! You beat me already, remember?" His words tumbled out, desperate, stumbling over each other.
But Zorro said nothing. Only attacked again.
Another fist. Then a kick. Heavy, brutal, each one missing Sam by inches. Sam's world shrank to dodging, his body moving on instinct while his mind screamed for escape.
Why isn't he talking? In the game, he wouldn't shut up.
Sam ducked another blow, panting hard. He couldn't keep this up. Then, an opening—a wild swing that left Zorro exposed.
Sam's instincts screamed at him. Strike. End it now.
He stepped in, driving his fist toward Zorro's ribs.
For half a heartbeat, hope surged. Then pain detonated in his hand.
"Shii—!" Sam hissed, eyes wide. It was like punching iron. No—worse. His knuckles screamed, his bones vibrated. The metallic sheen across Zorro's body gleamed, mocking him.
Zorro's grin split wide as his hand shot out, clamping Sam's wrist like a vise.
Pressure built, bones groaning. Sam gasped, panic flooding his veins. He lashed out with his free hand, hammering Zorro's chest, his face—nothing worked.
"I'll bait him. Like before. Then shadow drop…" His mind clawed for the strategy, the one that had worked once. Sweat streaked down his face.
But Zorro didn't play along this time.
His fingers stiffened, reshaping into a spear of steel. The air shimmered with killing intent.
Sam's eyes widened. "No—"
The metallic hand plunged forward.
Pain. Blinding, shattering pain as it pierced his skull. The world went red. His body fell limp, his vision collapsing into black.
---
Darkness.
Then—breath.
Sam's eyes snapped open. He was back. Same ruined street. Same rats. Same whisper of wind through the bushes.
"What—? I… I died. I felt it. How am I—alive?" He staggered to his feet, heart hammering in disbelief.
Then, the sound again. Leaves stirring. Footsteps.
Sam's body moved on instinct this time, falling into a fighting stance.
But inside, his chest hollowed out with dread.
He knew what was coming.
And he knew he wasn't ready.
******