Look, I'm not saying my life was perfect before all this happened. Far from it, actually. But it was 'mine', you know?
Predictable.
Safe.
Boring as hell, sure, but boring never tried to kill me or rearrange my internal organs or bind me to an ancient demonic contract, so honestly? Boring was underrated.
Let me paint you a picture of my incredibly mundane existence before everything went sideways.
I worked, correction, 'still' work as a mid-level data analyst at some faceless tech firm you've definitely never heard of.
My days consisted of staring at spreadsheets until my eyes crossed, drinking coffee that tasted like someone's evil science experiment, and attending meetings that could've been emails.
My nights? Equally thrilling. Cramped apartment, microwave dinners, binge-watching whatever crime documentary Netflix tried to shove down my throat.
The most exciting thing in my life was when Mrs. Chen from 3B would blast her K-dramas at two in the morning and I'd have to decide if complaining was worth putting on my pants.
I had a routine. Wake up, shower, coffee, spreadsheets, more coffee, home, microwave something vaguely food-shaped, sleep, and repeat.
Was it depressing? Probably. Did I care? Not really. Because here's the thing about routine: it's predictable, it doesn't surprise you, it doesn't suddenly upend your entire existence because you touched something you weren't supposed to touch.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
So yeah, I was living my best boring life, actively avoiding anything that might qualify as "interesting" or "potentially life-threatening." I'd gotten pretty good at it, actually. Spent years perfecting the art of being aggressively unremarkable.
Then my company decided to ruin everything with "team building."
I'm going to be real with you: I hate team building. Hate it with the burning passion of a thousand suns, it's always the same corporate nonsense. Trust falls that make you trust your coworkers even less, icebreakers that make you want to break actual ice over someone's head. Forced fun that's about as fun as a root canal.
But this wasn't just any team-building retreat. Oh no. Some brilliant mind in HR decided we needed to go 'all out' this year. And by all out, I mean they booked us at Valek Industries' headquarters for their fancy annual gala thing.
Valek Industries. You know, that massive conglomerate that basically owns half the city's tech sector and the other half of everything else? Yeah. That one.
The email came on a Tuesday. "Mandatory attendance." Those two words should be illegal, I swear. I tried everything to get out of it, I claimed I had food poisoning, a dentist appointment, a sudden onset of the plague. My manager, Karen wasn't having it.
"It's mandatory, Riven. That means you have to attend."
"But what if I'm allergic to team building?"
"You're going."
So I went.
The Valek Industries building was exactly what you'd expect from a mega-corporation with too much money and not enough taste. All glass and steel and that weird modern architecture that looks like someone started building a normal skyscraper, got bored, and just started adding random geometric shapes.
Inside was worse.
Everything was aggressively luxurious in that way that makes you afraid to touch anything because it probably costs more than your yearly salary.
Marble floors so shiny I could see my disappointed reflection, chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a palace, art that was probably worth more than our entire company.
The gala was being held in their main conference hall, which had been transformed into something out of a billionaire's fever dream.
Ice sculptures (in July, because why not), a chocolate fountain that seemed unnecessarily large, servers in tuxedos offering champagne and tiny food that looked pretty but wouldn't fill up a toddler.
My coworkers were loving it.
Sarah from accounting was already three glasses deep and getting handsy with the ice sculpture. Tom from IT was explaining blockchain to anyone who'd listen (no one was listening). Karen was networking so hard I thought she might pull a muscle.
I grabbed a glass of champagne I had no intention of drinking and found the darkest corner I could. My game plan was simple: survive the next few hours, avoid eye contact, and count the minutes until I could leave and return to my beautiful, boring, normal life.
The evening dragged on like a funeral march. Speeches about "synergy" and "innovative solutions" and other corporate word-salad that meant absolutely nothing. More networking, more forced mingling, a slideshow about quarterly projections that made me want to throw myself out a window.
Around eleven, they dimmed the lights for "ambiance." Someone started a playlist of smooth jazz that made me want to commit crimes. The crowd had thinned out a bit, the serious networkers having extracted maximum value and departed for wherever corporate vampires sleep.
I was seriously considering faking a medical emergency when the storm hit.
And I mean 'hit'. One second it was clear, the next the windows were rattling with thunder that sounded like the sky was tearing itself apart. Rain hammered against the glass so hard I thought it might break. Lightning flashed, turning everything white for a heartbeat.
Then the lights went out.
Not flickering, not dimming, just straight to black, like someone had flipped a switch on the entire building. The emergency lighting kicked in after a few seconds, bathing everything in that weird red glow that makes everyone look like they're in a horror movie.
People started murmuring, that nervous chatter that happens when something unexpected interrupts the planned itinerary. I heard Karen's voice cutting through the crowd, trying to maintain order. "Everyone stay calm! I'm sure the backup generators will kick in any moment!"
But honestly? The blackout was the best thing that had happened all night. In the chaos and confusion, I saw my chance.
I slipped away from the main hall while everyone was distracted. Down a corridor I'd noticed earlier, away from the crowd and the nervous energy and Karen's attempts at damage control. My phone's flashlight cut a thin beam through the darkness.
I wasn't trying to go anywhere specific, I just wanted out. Away from people, away from the forced socialization and corporate nonsense. Maybe find a quiet room to hide in until this whole thing blew over.
The hallway seemed to go on forever, doors on either side marked with plaques I couldn't read in the dim light. I was pretty sure I'd wandered into a restricted area at some point, the decor changed from "aggressively corporate" to "weirdly fancy museum."
I should've turned back. Obviously. That would've been the smart thing to do.
But when have I ever done the smart thing?
I found myself in front of a set of double doors, partially open. Beyond them, I could see the faint outline of an exhibit hall, display cases catching the emergency lighting, turning their contents into mysterious shadows.
The smart thing: go back to the gala.
The thing I did: walk through those doors like an absolute idiot.
The exhibit hall was smaller than I expected, intimate almost. Display cases lined the walls, each containing various artifacts. Corporate memorabilia, probably. Old tech prototypes, signed documents, the kind of stuff companies with too much history and too much money loved to show off.
But there was one case in the center of the room that drew my attention immediately.
I can't even explain why. It just... pulled at something in my chest. Like a hook behind my ribcage, tugging me forward.
Inside the case, sitting on a velvet cushion like it was the most precious thing in the world, was an amulet. Obsidian, I think. Black as midnight, smooth and polished, hanging from a silver chain.
It looked really old, the kind of old that made you think of ancient civilizations and blood sacrifices and things that definitely shouldn't be kept in a corporate headquarters.
I stood there, staring at it, that weird pull getting stronger. My hands were sweating, my heart was beating faster than it should've been.
Then it started glowing.
Not like a lightbulb. More like embers in a dying fire, pulsing with this deep red light that seemed to come from inside the stone itself. The glow intensified with each pulse, brighter and brighter, until it was almost painful to look at.
I should've run. Should've gotten the hell out of there and never looked back.
But that pull, that hook behind my ribs, was yanking me forward now. And there was something else. Something familiar about the energy radiating from that amulet, something that sang to a part of me I'd spent years trying to ignore.
The part that could see things. Feel things. Things that weren't supposed to exist.
I'd locked that part away when I was a kid after an accident I didn't like thinking about. Buried it deep and built my nice, normal, boring life on top of it. And it had stayed buried for years.
Until now.
My hand moved without my permission. Reached toward the case. The glass was cool under my palm.
The amulet pulsed again, violent and bright, and I felt that familiar surge of something rising up in my chest. Panic, maybe. Or recognition. Or something worse.
"Don't," I whispered to myself. "Don't be an idiot. Walk away."
But my hand was already on the case, pushing it open (why wasn't it locked?), reaching for the amulet like I was possessed.
The second my fingers touched the obsidian, everything went white.