My name is Rayer, and I've never had a gift.
At eighteen, when the government handed out powers to every citizen, I got nothing. No flames, no levitation, no healing. I watched as everyone else received theirs—displayed proudly at the official ceremony—while I stood there, empty-handed. The applause, the gasps of awe, the proud faces of parents… it was all a reminder that I was invisible, a glitch in a world designed for the gifted.
Two years passed. Two years of walking through the streets like a shadow, listening to classmates describe their new abilities as if they were ordinary, when to me they were a constant, aching reminder of what I lacked. I tried to hide the frustration, the envy, the self-doubt, but it always found a way to settle in my chest. Every evening, I would sit by my window, staring at the neon lights of the capital and wondering if I was even meant to exist in a world that rewarded power.
Until the day I decided I had had enough.
I packed a small bag—bare essentials, nothing fancy. I left behind my apartment, my school, even my old life. The streets of the capital were still alive with noise: the rumble of hovercars, the chatter of people showing off their gifts, the distant hum of neon advertisements. But I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I was finally free.
The quiet town I moved to was a stark contrast. Cobbled streets, narrow alleys, the smell of fresh bread and coffee wafting through the morning air. People didn't glance at you the moment you walked past, didn't judge you for what you could or couldn't do. For the first time in years, I could breathe. I could laugh. I could exist without constant comparison.
I found a small apartment above a bakery. The owner, a cheerful woman named Lila, didn't care about my lack of a gift. "You just need a roof and a good cup of coffee," she said. And she was right. Days slipped by, light and simple. I made friends—people who liked me for me, who didn't notice that I had no extraordinary abilities. We spent evenings walking along the river, talking about everything and nothing. I tasted a life I thought would never be mine.
But nothing lasts forever.
It was a Sunday night when everything changed. I had just returned from the riverwalk, my bag damp from the evening mist, when there was a knock at my door. I assumed it was one of my friends—maybe bringing some late-night pastries or gossip. But when I opened it, my stomach sank.
Three figures stood there. Tall, silent, their faces unreadable. Eyes sharp, cold. Serious.
— "It's time to play," one said.
The words were simple, almost casual. But the tone made them deadly.
Before I could react, they stepped inside, forcing me to leave my apartment. I grabbed my bag, heart hammering, but no resistance was possible. They led me out of town, past the familiar streets I had finally grown to love, until the city disappeared behind a wall of darkness.
We entered a forest.
It was massive and silent, the kind of silence that presses against your ears until you can hear your own heartbeat echoing. The air was heavy and damp, carrying a scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. Shadows moved, though there was no wind. The ground swallowed the light from the moon, and every step felt like sinking into the unknown.
And then the voice came. Not spoken aloud, but inside my head, icy and relentless:
— "Listen carefully. Whoever refuses to play… will die. No luck. No excuses. Every step, every move… is being watched. Fail, and I will come for you."
I froze. My chest ached. Fear gripped me with icy fingers. This forest was no longer just a forest—it was alive, a trap with no exit, and I was at its center.
I wanted to run, to scream, to disappear—but I couldn't. The shadows seemed to pulse with anticipation, as if enjoying my hesitation. My friends, my new life, the quiet comfort of my apartment… everything seemed impossibly far away.
— The Game begins.