Ethan sat on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped tightly between his knees, staring at the scuff marks on his sneakers. The living room was dim, the only light coming from a flickering lamp in the corner, its bulb on the verge of giving out. The air smelled faintly of burnt toast—he’d forgotten breakfast in the toaster that morning, too distracted by the chaos of the past two weeks. Since the ballpark incident, nothing felt real. The world had tilted on its axis, and he was still scrambling to find his footing.

  Declan wouldn’t even go out in the yard to throw a ball anymore. Ethan understood—the green-skinned aliens had left scars on them both, invisible but deep. The boy’s laughter, once a constant melody in their small home, had been replaced by a heavy silence. Declan lay across the arms of the brown leather recliner now, his small frame curled in on itself, eyes glued to a superhero show on the streaming service. The bright colors and triumphant music felt jarring against the gloom that had settled over them. Ethan watched him, his chest aching. He hurt when his son hurt, a pain that cut deeper than any physical wound.

  The police had been useless. Over a dozen adult witnesses, parents who’d seen the aliens with their own eyes, and still the authorities had written it off as a terrorist attack. A fabricated story for the public to swallow, Ethan figured, because they didn’t know what else to do. They couldn’t simply not believe them—too many identical accounts, too many grieving parents demanding justice. But justice for what? Beings that shimmered out of existence, leaving nothing but death and questions? Declan, at ten years old, couldn’t grasp the bureaucracy of it all. He couldn’t even watch a show with monsters now, his once-fearless imagination tainted by the memory of green skin and wooden armor.

  Ethan’s anger simmered, a slow burn in his gut, mingling with a sadness he couldn’t shake. He wanted to hunt the green giant that had nearly killed him, that had loomed over Declan like a predator over prey. He wanted to pulverize it, to make it feel the terror it had inflicted on his son. But how? They were gone, vanished into the air, and he was just a man—a tired, overworked father with no answers.

  He stood, the movement stiff, and crossed to the front door leading to the yard. The glass was smudged with fingerprints, a testament to Declan’s once-endless curiosity about the world outside. Now, the yard was a forbidden zone, a place of shadows and fear. Ethan gripped the doorknob, the metal cold against his smooth palm, and stared out at the empty grass. He’d set a baseball glove on the counter earlier, a silent hope that Declan might want to play, but the boy hadn’t even glanced at it. Ethan sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room, and let the glove sit. He couldn’t force this. Not yet.

  He turned back to Declan, watching the flicker of the TV screen reflect in his son’s green eyes. “Hey, D,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You okay over there?”

  Declan didn’t look up, his fingers tightening on the remote. “Yeah,” he mumbled, the word flat, unconvincing. Ethan’s heart twisted. He wished he could be the superhero on the screen, the one who swooped in and fixed everything with a snap of his fingers. But he wasn’t. He was just a dad, and right now, that didn’t feel like enough.

  What was he going to do?

  The question hung in his mind, unanswered, as he trudged to his bedroom. The hallway was narrow, the walls lined with framed photos—snapshots of better days. Declan at three, grinning with a chocolate-smeared face at his birthday party. Ethan and Declan at the zoo last year, laughing as a giraffe stole Declan’s ice cream cone. Ethan paused at the last photo, a candid shot of him holding a newborn Declan, his own face a mix of exhaustion and awe. Tara had taken that one, back when she’d still been part of their lives. The memory of her abandonment stung, a sharp jab in his chest. She’d walked away from this—from Declan—without a backward glance. Ethan would never understand it.

  He pushed open his bedroom door, the hinges creaking softly, and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress sagged under his weight, the springs groaning in protest. He stared at the ceiling, the popcorn texture blurred by the dim light filtering through the blinds. His body ached, a dull throb in his lower back from sitting too long at his desk, and his mind raced with a thousand what-ifs. What if the aliens came back? What if he couldn’t protect Declan next time? What if he failed, like Tara had?

  A low rumble shook the house, the vibrations rattling the windowpanes. Ethan rolled off the bed in a panic, his heart leaping into his throat. Was this an earthquake? They lived in Tennessee—earthquakes didn’t happen here. The house shuddered again, a deep, resonant groan that seemed to come from the earth itself. Glass shattered somewhere in the living room, the sound sharp and jarring, as pictures fell from the walls with a series of thuds. Ethan had never known an earthquake could make such a distinct sound, like the growl of some ancient beast waking beneath the ground.

  He stumbled to his feet, his socks slipping on the hardwood floor, and scrambled down the hallway, bouncing off the walls as the shaking intensified. The living room was a disaster—books, dishes, and knickknacks littered the floor, a chaotic mosaic of their once-orderly life. The television had fallen from its mount, its screen cracked, and the coffee table was overturned, a small vase of dried flowers shattered beneath it. Ethan’s eyes darted around the small space, searching for his son.

  Declan was huddled by the counter peninsula that separated the living room from the kitchen, his small body curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes were wide with terror, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Ethan made his way over, stepping over a shattered picture frame, the glass crunching under his socks. He scooped Declan into his arms, the boy’s weight a familiar comfort against his chest, and held him tight. Carrying Declan made it harder to balance as the house continued to shake, but Ethan managed, his determination outweighing the chaos.

  He stumbled toward the front door, his shoulder brushing against the wall as another tremor rocked the house. He didn’t have experience with earthquakes, but he figured outside was safer—no shelves to collapse, no glass to shatter over their heads. The second they crossed the threshold into the front yard, Ethan felt something shift in the air. It wasn’t just the humidity of a Tennessee evening; the air felt palpable, electric, like the charged stillness before a lightning strike. He looked up, and his breath caught.

  A light pulsed through the atmosphere, flickering at random intervals, a kaleidoscope of colors—blue, green, violet—dancing across the sky. It wasn’t like the blazing orb from the ballpark; this was softer, more diffuse, but no less unnatural. Declan didn’t seem to notice, his face buried in Ethan’s neck, his small hands clutching at his shirt. Ethan’s heart pounded, a mix of fear and awe, as he watched the light show. What was going on?

  He glanced around the neighborhood, his eyes scanning the yards of his neighbors. A few were outside, their faces tilted upward, mouths agape as they watched the same phenomenon. The rumble of the earthquake continued, a steady vibration beneath his feet, but it grew louder with each pulse of the light, like a heartbeat syncing with the sky. It reminded Ethan of those novelty lights that flickered in time with music, the kind he’d seen at a coworker’s house party years ago. But this was no party trick—this was something far beyond his understanding.

  Making sure no trees or power lines were close enough to fall on them, Ethan knelt on the grass, the blades cool and damp against his knees, and set Declan down beside him. The boy didn’t want to let go, his arms tightening around Ethan’s neck, so Ethan let him climb back into his lap, holding him close. He understood. He was scared too. All he knew was that he had to be strong for Declan, to protect him, no matter what came next.

  The phenomenon lasted for two hours, an endless stretch of time that felt both eternal and fleeting. After about thirty minutes, Declan calmed enough to look around, his curiosity slowly overtaking his fear. He sat in Ethan’s lap, his small body pressed against his father’s chest, and gazed up at the lights in wonder. “It’s like a fireworks show,” he whispered, his voice soft but steady, the first real words he’d spoken since the shaking started. Ethan’s throat tightened, a wave of relief washing over him. For just a moment, he had his son back—the boy who saw magic in the world, not monsters.

  The moment was shattered by a prompt that covered Ethan’s vision, a translucent window floating in the air like something out of a video game. He swiped at it with his hand, but it didn’t budge. He rubbed his eyes, then smacked the side of his head, thinking it might be a hallucination, but the window remained, its text glowing with an eerie blue light. By the small gasp Declan made, he’d gotten one too. Ethan finally let himself read the words.

  System Integration initializing…

  System Integration complete.

  Welcome to the System. Your world is in peril and its fate is in your hands. Will you save your planet or rush it further toward devastation? The choice is yours. Strength is power and with enough power you may find peace.

  System navigation screens currently available

  Status - Yes

  Quest - Yes

  Achievement - Yes

  Notification - Yes

  Skill - Yes

  Faction - No

  Class Selection - Unlocked at Level 5

  Ethan blinked, the words searing into his mind. Was he in some kind of computer program? A simulation? The thought made his stomach churn, but he pushed it aside. First, he needed to check on Declan. How could he get rid of this window? The moment he thought about dismissing it, the prompt vanished. To test his theory, he willed it back, and it reappeared. Satisfied, he closed it again.

  “Are you okay, D?” he asked, his voice rough with worry.

  Declan’s brow furrowed, his eyes still fixed on the air where his own prompt must have been. “This says I’m in a System and that more will unlock when I turn fourteen,” he said, his voice a mix of confusion and curiosity. “Nothing but my status screen is available. Dad, what’s happening?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’re okay,” Ethan reassured, pulling him closer. He ran a hand through Declan’s hair, the strands soft against his fingers, and tried to keep his own fear at bay. Declan was surprisingly calm, his earlier terror replaced by a child’s adaptability. Ethan supposed that a rumbling earthquake and a mysterious screen were tame compared to seeing your father smashed into a bloody heap in front of you.

  The window had mentioned strength and power. Could this System give Ethan the tools to ensure the ballpark incident never happened again? Could he become strong enough to protect his son from whatever came next? He opened the welcome prompt again, reading it more carefully this time. What were these screens it talked about? Were they like the welcome window, something he could summon with a thought? He started with the first on the list, the Status screen, willing it to appear.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  A new window opened, different from the welcome prompt, displaying a panel of stats that might as well have been written in a foreign language.

  Name: Ethan Carter

  Faction: None

  Class: None

  Level: 1

  HP: 18 MP: 19 EP: 34

  Statistics

  Strength: 10

  Dexterity: 11

  Constitution: 14

  Agility: 10

  Intelligence: 15

  Wisdom: 14

  Charisma: 9

  Ethan stared at the floating panel, the numbers and words a jumble of nonsense at first glance. Strength at 10—average, he supposed. He wasn’t exactly lifting weights at the gym, but he could hold his own. Dexterity at 11—what did that even mean? His fingers were nimble enough from years of typing reports, but he wasn’t a pianist. Constitution at 14 seemed higher, maybe tied to his health. He’d always been resilient, rarely getting sick, even when Declan brought home every bug from school. Agility was 10—nothing special there.

  Intelligence and Wisdom, at 15 and 14, sparked a flicker of pride in his chest. He’d always prided himself on his problem-solving, on figuring things out even when the odds were stacked against him. Those numbers felt like a small validation, a nod to the late nights he’d spent balancing budgets and raising a kid on his own. But then his eyes landed on Charisma: 9. Below average. He winced. Not that he could argue—he’d rather face a pack of goblins than make small talk at a company party. The stat wasn’t wrong; it just stung to see it laid bare.

  He closed the screen, his mind still reeling, and checked on Declan. The boy’s eyes were unfocused, likely reading his own status screen, but he seemed unharmed. Ethan moved on to the next item on the list: the Quest Log. He willed it to open, and a new window appeared, split into two panels. The left side listed two entries, and when he focused on the first—“Kill or be killed”—the right side displayed more details.

  Kill or be killed

  Time Remaining: Unlimited

  Description: You must take your first steps and establish your place in this new world. Kill 10 monsters or people.

  Progress: 0/10

  Reward: Experience and a Skill book

  Ethan wasn’t surprised. The welcome screen had already hinted at conflict, and he’d suspected as much. He wasn’t military, had never killed a person, but he’d always believed he could if it came down to it—most men did, didn’t they? The monster part might be easier. He was a redneck at heart, had hunted deer and rabbits with his dad growing up, knew how to field dress, skin, and butcher meat. He could tan a pelt if he had to. But this wasn’t hunting for food—this was survival, a new kind of game with rules he didn’t yet understand. He needed to arm himself.

  The reward intrigued him. Experience made sense with levels in play, but a Skill book? What was a Skill, and what did a book have to do with it? He moved to the second quest entry.

  Class Selection

  Time Remaining: Unlimited

  Description: The true beginning of your journey. Get to Level 5 and choose a class from the class selection screen.

  Progress: 0/1 class chosen

  Reward: Experience

  Class Selection? Ethan’s head spun with questions, each one piling on top of the last. He hoped some would answer themselves soon—he couldn’t handle much more uncertainty. Declan stirred in his lap, pulling him back to the moment.

  “I figured out how to open another screen, Daddy!” Declan said, his voice bright with excitement. “If I go to that first screen and stare at the word ‘Status’ real hard, another screen opens. It tells me about me, just like in a video game!”

  Ethan couldn’t help but smile, the first real one he’d felt in days. “That’s great, bud,” he said, ruffling his hair again. “Let’s go check on the house. I think everything might be on the floor.”

  They stood, Declan clinging to his hand, and stepped back inside. The house was a wreck, a testament to the earthquake’s fury. Books, dishes, and toys littered the floor, the shards of a broken lamp glinting in the dim light. The air smelled of dust and spilled coffee, the pot having tipped over in the kitchen. Ethan’s stomach churned at the sight—it would take hours to clean, hours he didn’t have. But he pushed the thought aside. Survival came first.

  “Declan, go to your room and start picking things up,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. For the first time in history, Declan didn’t protest, nodding solemnly as he shuffled off, his sneakers crunching on debris. Ethan followed him partway, pausing at the door to Declan’s room. The space was a mess—action figures scattered across the floor, a shelf that once held them toppled over, its contents a chaotic pile. Ethan’s heart sank at the sight, a reminder of the normalcy they’d lost. He turned away, leaving Declan to his task, and headed for his own room.

  He headed straight for the safe in his bedroom, his steps purposeful. The door was ajar, a photo of him and Declan at the beach lying face-down on the floor. He picked it up, brushing off the dust, and set it back on the dresser before kneeling to open the safe. First, he grabbed his sneakers from beside the bed, slipping them on with quick, practiced movements. The laces were frayed, but they’d hold—he couldn’t afford to be caught barefoot if something else came for them. With his shoes on, he turned to the safe. Inside was his pistol, a 9mm he’d bought years ago after a string of break-ins in the neighborhood. He loaded it with steady hands, the familiar weight grounding him, and strapped it to his hip. He didn’t stop there, gathering his hunting gear—knives, a canteen, a small tent, anything he could think of. The power was already out, the house eerily silent without the hum of appliances, and he didn’t expect it to come back on anytime soon. If this was an apocalypse, he’d be ready.

  Next, he checked the plumbing, turning on the kitchen faucet. Water sputtered out, cold and clear, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It worked—for now. He grabbed every container he could find—jugs, bottles, even an old bucket—and filled them to the brim, lining them up on the counter like soldiers on parade. When the pipes ran dry—and they would—he’d be damned if they went thirsty. He didn’t know how long they’d have running water, but he wasn’t taking chances. If he had to scavenge, he’d rather not worry about the basics.

  As he worked, his mind churned with questions. Why did he have statistics? He figured HP was his health, MP was mana like in video games, and EP was probably stamina, but why? How could he use mana? It was higher than his health—19 MP to 18 HP—and if he could hurl fireballs, it might mean the difference between life and death. He needed to figure this out, and fast.

  Ethan froze, his fingers tightening around the grip of his pistol, as a noise snapped him out of his thoughts. It came from the back of the house—the basement carport, where the roof sagged like a tired awning, hiding whatever lurked beneath. His pulse quickened, the memory of the ballpark flashing in his mind—green skin, a melodic voice like wind chimes and rushing water, Declan’s screams echoing in his ears. Not again. “Not this time,” he growled under his breath, flicking the safety off with a soft click. He held the 9mm low, barrel tilted downward but ready to snap up in an instant, and crept toward the side of the house.

  The sound hit him before he saw them—a chorus of harsh, grating growls, like rocks scraping deep in a cave, but pitched higher, almost shrill. It didn’t match the melodic, flowing tones from the park, the ones that had haunted his dreams for weeks. These were different, a cacophony of overlapping voices chattering in a jagged, guttural tongue that clawed at his ears. Ethan edged along the wall, his sneakers silent on the grass, until he reached the corner of the carport. He pressed his back to the siding, the wood rough against his shirt, and took a steadying breath before peeking around.

  Three creatures stood there, barely four feet tall, their green skin glistening with a sickly sheen under the dim afternoon light. They were scrawny, hunched things—nothing like the hulking giant that had nearly ended him. Knobby limbs jutted from torsos pocked with warts, and their faces were a mess of bulging eyes and jagged teeth poking out at odd angles. Disgusting didn’t cover it—they looked like something coughed up from a nightmare, jabbering in that grating, subterranean chatter. No weapons, just claws and spite.

  Ethan’s anger flared, mingling with a cold resolve. These weren’t the same monsters, but they were close enough. His Quest Log flickered in his mind—Kill or be killed. 0/10. Maybe this was the System’s twisted gift, a chance to fight back. He gripped the gun tighter, his knuckles whitening. He could do this.

  He stepped out, leveling the pistol. “Hey!” he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through their yammering. The trio whirled, eyes widening—surprised, not scared. The closest one hissed, a wet, phlegmy sound, and lunged, claws outstretched.

  Ethan didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger, the crack of the shot splitting the air. The creature’s head jerked back, green ichor spraying as it crumpled. The other two screeched, a high-pitched wail that grated on his nerves, and charged. He fired again—missed, the bullet pinging off the brick wall—then adjusted, dropping the second with a bullet to the chest. It flopped backward, twitching, its blood pooling on the concrete.

  The last one was faster, closing the gap. Ethan swung the pistol like a club, cracking it across the thing’s skull. It staggered, dazed, and he finished it with a point-blank shot, the recoil jarring his wrist. Silence fell, heavy and sudden, broken only by the faint drip of goblin blood on the ground.

  A strange energy pulsed in his chest, warm and electric, and an icon blinked in his peripheral vision. He focused on it, and notifications flooded his sight.

  [You have killed a Level 1 goblin - 50 experience gained]

  [You have made progress on Kill or be killed - 1/10]

  [You have killed a Level 1 goblin - 50 experience gained]

  [You have made progress on Kill or be killed - 2/10]

  [You have killed a Level 1 goblin - 50 experience gained]

  [You have made progress on Kill or be killed - 3/10]

  Ethan stared at the messages, his breath still ragged. He didn’t feel guilty—not even a flicker. These things had been aggressive, would have attacked him without hesitation. He scanned the area for more threats, his pistol still raised, sweat beading on his forehead. There was only one direction the goblins could have come from—the rear of his small property, where the detached garage sat at the very back of his land. He moved forward, leading with his gun, his steps cautious but determined.

  He reached the garage, its weathered door hanging slightly ajar, and stopped dead. He didn’t need to guess where the goblins had come from. A giant, cave-like entrance yawned in the ground inside the garage, its edges jagged and glowing faintly with an eerie blue light. The air around it shimmered, just like the aliens’ departure at the ballpark, and Ethan’s stomach dropped.

  “Jesus… what am I going to do about this?” he said aloud, more to himself than anyone else. He couldn’t explore the cave with Declan by himself, and he had no idea how many goblins were inside. He needed help. His thoughts turned immediately to Ruth, Declan’s maternal grandmother. She’d always been there when he needed her, a steady presence despite Tara’s abandonment. With everything that had happened—the aliens, the earthquake, the System—he hadn’t thought to check on her until now. Her daughter might have been a failure, but Ruth was a rock.

  Ethan pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up with a faint hope. He unlocked it and dialed Ruth’s number, her contact starred in his list. The phone switched to the calling screen, but when he pressed it to his ear, there was nothing—no ring, no static. He glanced at the screen again and saw the reason: no bars. Whatever had happened during the earthquake must have knocked out the cell towers.

  He shook his head, frustration bubbling in his chest, and headed back to the carport. A plan formed in his mind, a list of tasks to keep him focused. First, he’d clear the goblin bodies—he’d throw them back into the cave, let it swallow its own filth. Then he’d load Declan into the car and, if the roads were clear, drive to Ruth’s house. Declan would be glad to see his Nanny anyway, and Ethan needed her help to face whatever this cave held.

  He lifted the first goblin body, grimacing at the weight. The small, lanky creature was heavier than it looked, its muscles dense despite its scrawny frame. It must have been stronger than it appeared, a predator in disguise. Ethan got to work, dragging the corpses one by one, their blood smearing across the concrete as he hauled them toward the garage. He moved quickly, his eyes darting to the house, making sure Declan didn’t stumble upon the grisly scene. The last thing his son needed was another nightmare to haunt him.