The End Life Convention was nothing short of a sensory overload. The towering banners of legendary bosses and iconic characters from the game hung like sacred relics above the flood of attendees. Massive LCD screens cycled through highlight reels of past tournaments, in-game cinematics, and teasers for upcoming expansions. Booths stretched across the venue, their tables stacked with rare merchandise—figurines, custom armor pieces, and collectibles priced high enough to make even a veteran adventurer reconsider their gold reserves.

  The air smelled of greasy con food, fresh plastic from newly unboxed gear, and the unmistakable scent of overworked air conditioning struggling against the sea of bodies. Cosplayers weaved through the crowd in meticulously crafted armor and robes, some gleaming with actual LED lights, others with handmade weapon replicas slung across their backs.

  And standing amidst it all, arms crossed as he observed the chaos, was Zero.

  Or rather, as the world outside the game knew him—Archibald Stark.

  His fingers idly traced the convention pass hanging from his neck, his mind split between the moment and the weight of his past.

  "Six years since I served."

  The military had given him structure, discipline, and a sense of purpose, but the rigid constraints of that life had always felt suffocating. End Life had been his escape, a world where he had control, where his choices were his own, and where strength was measured in experience rather than orders from above. He had spent countless hours in its virtual world—sometimes while stationed, sometimes between missions—but never alone.

  “Hey, Zero.”

  A familiar voice broke through the noise, warm and full of amusement.

  Zero turned, finding Millim Glúnmar—Milly— standing beside him.

  She was shorter than he imagined in person, standing at just over five feet, but her presence was just as commanding as it was online. She had strawberry-blonde hair tied back into a loose braid, soft green eyes, and an easy-going expression that carried the same warmth that had kept their group together in and out of the game. In End Life, she had been an elven druid, a healer and support specialist, but in reality, she had played a similar role—always watching over the group, always keeping them grounded.

  She nudged him with her elbow. “Why don’t you stay for the full convention with the rest of us?”

  Zero adjusted the strap of his duffel bag. “The only reason I even made it here was because my last contract ended. I need to get started on the next one before it eats up all my time.”

  A loud, mocking scoff came from behind them.

  “That’s rich,” came the unmistakable voice of Brock Johnson—Brockolicious in-game.

  A heavy hand clapped onto Zero’s shoulder, firm, playful, and far too familiar.

  “You mean to tell me,” Brock continued with a grin, “you actually have time for work with the amount of hours you dump into End Life?”

  Zero turned to face Brock for the first time in real life.

  He was taller than Zero had expected—broad-shouldered and built like a brawler, his cocky smirk stretched across a strong jaw. His short, dark hair was tousled, his gray eyes full of mischief, and his posture exuded a level of overconfidence only Brock could pull off. In-game, he had played a Dragonkin Berserker, a heavy-hitting powerhouse who fought with reckless abandon. In person, he wasn’t much different.

  “Guess some things never change,” Zero muttered.

  A deep chuckle rumbled from the side.

  “Except maybe the fact that he’s not wrong,” came the voice of Roland d’Arc—Dorian in-game.

  Zero turned to face Roland, the eldest of the group, and the one who had always carried himself like the responsible older brother. Dark-haired, well-built, and standing with his arms crossed over his chest, Roland had the kind of presence that commanded respect without needing to say much. His dark blue eyes carried the same steady, observant quality as they had in-game.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Roland shook his head. “You’ve definitely got more hours logged than any of us. I’d bet you’ve spent more time in End Life than you have in real life.”

  Zero exhaled sharply, half-amused, half-annoyed.

  “You’re one to talk, Sir Paladin,” he shot back.

  Roland smirked. In End Life, he had played a Knight-Paladin hybrid—a protector, a leader, and the moral compass of their group. It suited him too well.

  Before Zero could think of another retort, the last of their group joined them.

  “Are we seriously arguing about playtime?”

  Barbara Thorne—Babs—pushed her way into the group, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face.

  She was sharp-eyed, raven-haired, and much smaller than the rest of them, but her presence was impossible to ignore. A criminal profiler in real life, she had a natural intensity about her, a way of picking apart a situation like she was analyzing a suspect. In End Life, she had played a Phantom Blade—a rogue hybrid that specialized in deception, information gathering, and high-damage sneak attacks.

  “You’re all nerds,” she declared.

  Brock laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “And yet here you are, queen of the nerds.”

  She groaned, shoving his arm off. “I hate you.”

  Zero smirked. It felt good to be together, in person, for the first time.

  The convention might have been a gathering of thousands, but this—this group—was all that mattered.

  Brock grinned wider, clearly not done. “Cheer up, man! We’re not here for doom and gloom. We’re here to make some BOOM!” He threw a dramatic punch into the air, then waggled his brows. “Also, we’re here to check out the cosplay babes.”

  Zero smirked, shaking his head. “Sure. I always appreciate the craftsmanship of the outfits.”

  Brock arched a brow, his grin turning sly. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

  Before Zero could counter, Roland placed a hand on Brock’s back and shoved him forward. “Move. If we don’t get to the main stage now, we’re not getting seats.”

  Brock stumbled but laughed, leading the way.

  The stage lights blazed, casting the End Life logo across the massive screen hanging over the convention hall’s main stage.

  Zero sat with the others in the center rows, arms crossed, watching as the lead developer took the microphone.

  “The time has come…” the dev began, and a hush fell over the crowd. “We at Kyrios Interactive have poured over a decade into this world, and today, we must say goodbye.”

  The air shifted.

  Zero felt it immediately—a heavy silence, the weight of an inevitable ending.

  “End Life will be shutting down its servers indefinitely as we shift focus to a new project. This next-generation title will feature the latest in immersive technology and—”

  Zero stopped listening.

  Instead, he looked at his friends.

  Millim had her hands in her lap, her fingers lightly twisting a bracelet, her face calm but distant.

  Barbara—Babs—had her arms crossed, lips pressed together, already analyzing the situation.

  Roland sat stone-faced, unreadable as always.

  And Brock?

  Brock leaned forward, grinning like a madman.

  He was always the first to joke, and this was no different. “Pfft. A ‘new project’? More like a straight-up clone of the game we’re already playing.”

  Zero smirked. “You’d think they’d at least pretend they weren’t reskinning the entire system.”

  Brock laughed. “Lazy devs.”

  For a moment, the tension lifted.

  Zero let himself relax—just a little.

  It was the last time he would feel normal that night.

  The SUV rumbled down the empty city streets, the soft glow of neon signs reflecting off the windshield.

  Barbara sat in the passenger seat, tapping at her phone. “We should stop at that local place I told you about. Their food is supposed to be amazing.”

  Brock, seated in the middle row, grinned. “As long as I get to place the order.”

  Roland—driving—groaned. “Last time you did that—”

  Then, everything changed.

  Light.

  Blinding white light.

  Zero’s vision blurred, his body locked in place as a massive portal tore open in the middle of the street.

  A figure emerged—an old man, draped in a long white robe, gripping a staff in one hand and a cell phone in the other. His silver hair cascaded past his shoulders, his eyes locked onto his device, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

  He stepped forward.

  Right into the path of their speeding SUV.

  His head lifted.

  His face contorted in horror.

  “OH SH—”

  Roland’s foot slammed on the brakes.

  The SUV skidded, tires screeching against the pavement.

  Barbara threw up her arms, bracing herself.

  Millim and Brock grabbed the roof handles, their bodies jerking forward.

  Zero sat frozen, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

  The old man stared directly at them, his mouth still open—

  And then, impact.

  Everything vanished into white.