I needed one more hit.
Across my monitor, the Abyssal Sovereign lifted its sword. Black light ran along the edge, spreading over the broken floor beneath my character's feet.
My thumb hovered over the dodge button.
Not yet.
A crack appeared in the stone. Now.
Aiden rolled under the first swing. His shoulder clipped the second, taking most of what remained of his health. I ignored the red warning flashing at the edge of the screen and moved him closer.
Backing away would trigger the thrust. Dodging left would put him inside the next burst. After more attempts than I wanted to count, I knew exactly how both choices ended.
Forward.
One step beneath the raised arm, one light attack, then another.
My sword struck. Nothing happened.
For half a second, I stared at the thin line still visible in the boss's health bar.
"Oh, come on."
I hit the button again.
An enormous hand caught Aiden around the chest. His feet left the ground. Black light spread up his armor, and the controller vibrated hard enough to rattle against my desk.
Right. The grab. Apparently, knowing an attack existed wasn't the same as remembering it at the useful moment.
I pressed the release command and watched my last stored skill fire from inside the Sovereign's fist.
Light filled the screen.
When the brightness faded, Aiden lay beneath a broken arm. Beyond him, the boss's enormous body folded forward and struck the floor.
My remaining health was too small to read, but he was alive.
"Finally."
I leaned back. Something in my neck cracked. For several seconds, the only sound in the room came from the dying monster on the screen. Even after all those runs, the last fight still found ways to annoy me. A slightly different build. A different party. One missing item, and an attack I usually ignored became the reason for another wasted evening.
Tonight's run had taken nearly six hours.
I waited for the result.
Aiden dragged himself toward the throne. Names appeared beside the empty spaces where his companions should have been. I'd kept them alive this time, fulfilled their conditions, finished the optional quests and left the final route's strangest choice until the last possible moment.
According to the argument I'd spent most of the previous night having online, this combination might open something new.
Might. No one involved in the argument had been particularly confident.
White letters appeared.
ENDING COMPLETE
Underneath them, smaller text faded in.
Thank you for playing the story as it was written.
I waited.
The music continued. I watched the animation loop for ten seconds.
"Don't do this."
A familiar menu appeared.
CONTINUE
NEW JOURNEY
RETURN TO TITLE
I opened the endings list.
Seven main routes. Two hidden routes. Every one marked complete.
At the bottom, beneath an empty picture, the last entry remained locked.
TRUE ENDING
REQUIREMENTS NOT MET
I let the controller fall into my lap.
Of course. Six hours, three arguments and a cold dinner had earned me the same answer as yesterday.
"Wonderful."
I took a screenshot anyway. Someone would ask whether I'd used the right dialogue choice. Someone always asked. Usually, someone who hadn't read the first half of the post.
My guide was open on the other monitor. Three hundred pages of maps, item locations, route conditions and corrections to mistakes I'd once been certain weren't mistakes.
I added one sentence beneath the latest theory.
Tested. Does not unlock the ending.
After a moment, I deleted the second sentence I'd started. Calling everyone involved an idiot would include me, which seemed unnecessary at this hour.
The clock in the corner read 3:14.
I had work in the morning. No. Later this morning. That distinction had stopped being funny some time ago.
A delivery bag sat beside the keyboard. Inside it, the food had gone cold enough for the grease to harden along the paper. I folded the top shut and moved it away from the mouse.
My room needed cleaning. Two cups occupied the windowsill. Clothes hung over the back of the only other chair. Beyond the thin wall, someone turned on a shower.
I should have gone to bed after work.
Instead, I'd opened Throne of Ruin to check one thing.
Four thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven hours.
Steam displayed the number whenever I launched it. I had stopped looking at it months ago, but I knew it anyway.
Enough time to become good at something useful, probably. I rubbed my eyes and reached for my phone.
A message from my mother waited near the top of the screen.
Did you eat?
Sent at nine.
I typed yes, then looked at the cold bag.
Close enough.
Another message sat beneath it.
Call when you're free. Nothing urgent.
I opened the reply box.
Tomorrow.
My thumb paused over send. I'd used the same answer two days earlier.
After deleting it, I wrote that I would call after my shift. A specific time would make it harder to put off. I sent the message, lowered the phone and looked back at the locked ending.
Hana would have laughed at me. Probably asked whether the people who made the game had forgotten to finish it. Then she'd have looked at the number of hours and asked the more difficult question.
I set the controller on the desk.
Two years was long enough to know which thoughts made sleep impossible. Thinking about my sister at three in the morning was near the top of the list.
Tomorrow, I would clear the cups. Call my mother. Buy something that required a plate.
Tonight, I needed water.
I pushed against the edge of the desk to stand.
My fingers slipped.
For a moment, I thought the chair had rolled backward. I caught the armrest and waited for the brief dizziness to pass.
My breath came in shallow and stopped halfway.
"What..."
I tried again.
Air entered, but not enough. A dull pressure spread across my chest. My right foot found the floor. My left didn't seem to understand what I wanted from it.
The phone was beside the keyboard.
I reached for it.
Two fingers brushed the case and pushed it farther away.
No.
I leaned forward. My elbow struck the cold bag. Something tipped over, and water spread across the desk toward the keys.
The screen blurred.
I couldn't see the phone anymore.
My hand kept searching for it until I couldn't feel the desk beneath my fingers.
...
Something soft pressed against my cheek.
I opened my eyes to a pale strip of cloth hanging above me. For a while, I stared at it without understanding why it was there.
My ceiling had a stain over the window. I had meant to tell the landlord about it before the stain spread. Whatever I was looking at now had no stain. It had stitching.
Gold stitching. I blinked and looked at the edges of the cloth. A bed curtain. I was in a bed.
Had someone found me?
I tried to sit up. Pain caught beneath my ribs, sharp enough to send me back onto the pillow.
"Ah..."
My voice sounded wrong. I swallowed and tried to breathe more slowly. Whatever had happened at the desk, I was still breathing. That mattered more than the curtains.
Sunlight fell across a wide carpet. Beyond it stood a table, two chairs and a fireplace large enough for me to crouch inside. A dark coat hung beside a door farther away than my entire room had been long.
No medical equipment. No plastic rails. No irritating machine waiting to complain about my heartbeat.
Unless my insurance had become remarkably generous while I was unconscious, this wasn't a hospital.
I checked my chest through the loose shirt I wore. No wires. No dressing. My fingers felt oddly light against the cloth.
Where was my phone?
A small table stood beside the bed. Water in a glass pitcher. An empty cup. A folded cloth. Nothing else.
I reached for the cup and almost dropped it. My hand was pale. Smooth across the knuckles. The old burn near my thumb was missing.
I turned it over. No scar.
I had carried that mark since burning myself on a tray at work. A stupid mistake, followed by several weeks of being reminded of it whenever I washed my hands.
Gone.
Footsteps approached outside the room. I stopped examining my hand.
A quiet knock came from the door, followed by the click of a handle.
A young man entered carrying a silver tray. Dark trousers. A fitted gray vest. A white shirt buttoned neatly to the neck. His gaze moved from the pitcher to my face.
The tray dipped. One cup struck another with a small, sharp sound.
"Young master."
I stared at him. The man lowered his eyes at once.
"Forgive me. We weren't expecting you to be awake."
Young master?
I looked past him. No camera. No one standing in the doorway waiting to laugh. My friends weren't the sort to rent a mansion for a joke. Most of them wouldn't pay for the train ride to visit me.
"Where..."
I stopped.
Again, the voice came out too low. Smooth, despite the dryness in my throat.
The attendant's hands tightened around the tray.
Something about his expression made me swallow the rest of the question.
"Water," I said instead.
"Of course, Lord Cedric."