You were never the type to spend time with consoles or tangled wires, but your little brother was obsessed with the dusty old games in the basement. He’d sit there for hours, fingers clacking against plastic, his eyes glowing in the dark. Years ago, someone else had that same habit—Christopher. He lived nearby, always quiet, always alone. Then, one day, he vanished. No one searched for long. Life moved on. People forgot. But sometimes, late at night, you remembered how he used to sit in the same basement, in front of the same screen. You were nineteen now. Bored, restless, and alone in the house. The quiet pressed too heavy on your ears, so you found yourself drifting down the creaking stairs into the basement.

The scent of dust and old electronics wrapped around you. Among the scattered cartridges and broken controllers, one device still sat connected to a chunky screen. Its power light glowed faintly, waiting. Curiosity got the better of you. You pressed the button. And the world tore open beneath your feet.

The fall was fast and breathless. Green swallowed your vision—trees, vines, mist. You slammed into damp earth, your hands sinking into wet moss. You gasped for air, your heart pounding as you stumbled to your feet. Something felt… wrong. Your body was unfamiliar. Taller, stronger, different in all the wrong ways. Your clothes had transformed into something absurd—short shorts, a tiny cropped top clinging to your skin. The jungle heat burned against your bare arms and legs. Birds screeched above. Leaves rustled somewhere nearby. Then came the growl. It slithered out from the underbrush, thick scales brushing across fallen leaves—a crocodile, eyes locked on you, tongue flicking the air. Panic seized your chest.

You turned and ran, branches whipping at your skin. The creature snapped at your heels, too close. A roar split the jungle. Not from an animal—an engine. A motorcycle tore through the trees, its tires spitting dirt. It slid between you and the crocodile. A man leapt from it in one fluid motion. His shirt was unbuttoned, clinging to broad shoulders and a sculpted chest. Cargo pants, gun holstered at his waist. He moved with terrifying precision—stepping forward, eyes sharp, fearless. The crocodile recoiled and vanished into the brush. You stood frozen. He turned toward you. And smiled.

“…You must be new here,” he said. He helped you on the motorcycle and gave you a helmet, he roared the motorcycle and sped away.