**Chapter 9: The Invitation**
The day before the long-awaited Ashen Hollow update, Elias Vale felt something he hadn't in weeks: excitement. Real, sharp, almost juvenile excitement—the kind that bubbled in his chest and made his fingers fidget with the edge of his shirt.
He messaged the group chat—friends from college, classmates who had once shared basement ramen nights and late submissions. Now scattered across the city, lives consumed by jobs, routines, survival. And yet, when Elias offered to treat them to dinner, nearly all of them said yes.
"Let's celebrate before the world ends," he joked in the chat, adding a dumb meme of a pixelated apocalypse. He didn't say why he was treating, or what the celebration really meant to him.
---
The restaurant was upscale—oak tables, warm lighting, real silver cutlery that caught the glow of hanging bulbs like droplets of fire. The smell of seared beef, truffle oil, and freshly baked bread lingered in the air. Elias ordered liberally, waving off concerns with a grin. Laughter danced across the table like candlelight, everyone relaxing with each glass of wine.
But as his friends talked about work, engagements, and new condos, Elias found himself half-present. The sounds around him dimmed into a warm hum—forks tapping porcelain, ice clinking in crystal glasses, someone's perfume (jasmine?) drifting past.
He looked around and thought: *This is what normal is supposed to be.*
And yet, somewhere deep in his chest, that same cold hum from Ashen Hollow echoed softly.
---
After hugging his friends goodbye and promising another meetup soon, Elias returned to his apartment. He left his coat on the couch, shoes scattered near the door. The night was unusually warm, the city breathing through the open window.
His bed was cool and soft, the faint scent of clean sheets and lemon detergent wrapping around him like a lullaby. His eyes closed easily.
He didn't expect the dream.
---
He was in a corridor of flesh. Walls pulsed like veins, and a heartbeat thudded in the distance—wet, thick, alive. He turned to run, but the floor melted beneath his feet, sticky like tar. Something whispered his name—not from behind him, but from *inside* him.
Elias jerked awake, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt, breath ragged. The room was silent. Too silent. He reached for his phone.
3:13 AM.
He stared at the ceiling, heart still hammering, air thick with the smell of his own panic. He tried counting breaths. Closed his eyes.
And then—
A voice.
Not heard. *Felt.*
> "Do you want to play a game?"
It echoed through his bones. Not robotic. Not human. Like a whisper traveling through an ancient tunnel made of static.
Elias bolted upright, heart catching in his throat. The room was empty.
But the question lingered. *Do you want to play a game?*
And despite the fear, the confusion, the electric pulse of adrenaline—
He whispered, "Yes."
Because Elias Vale *loved* games. He loved the mechanics, the design, the hidden stories coded between lines of texture maps and sound files. He had built his life around crafting characters and worlds others could lose themselves in. A good game wasn't just entertainment—it was a mirror. A door.
---
The air around him changed.
Everything blinked black.
And when light returned, it wasn't light at all—it was *absence*. An abyss.
He stood on nothing, surrounded by everything. Thousands—maybe tens of thousands—of others stood beside him, faceless silhouettes illuminated only by the faint glimmers in their eyes. No walls. No floor. Just dark.
The air smelled like cold stone and burnt ozone, and Elias could taste metal on his tongue. Somewhere, distant chanting rose like smoke. His skin prickled. Every breath felt thinner than the last.
Then, the voice again.
Deeper this time. Hungrier.
> "You may turn back now. Look behind you and leave. Forget everything that has happened here. Forget the mirror. The game. The name."
> "But—"
> "If you choose to play... know this: you may die. Your body. Your mind. Everything."
A pause.
> "But those who endure, those who free this world from its darkness, will be granted *any wish they desire*."
Silence.
Elias didn't move.
He didn't *want* to look back. Not out of fear.
But because something in him had already made the choice.
His hands trembled. His throat was dry. But he stood taller.
And whispered to the dark:
"Let's play."
The darkness cracked.
And the game began.