Adrian stared at his apartment—ransacked, yet not exactly in chaos. Every item was in its place, yet the subtle disorder told him that people had been through his things. Drawers left slightly ajar. His bed shifted just an inch too much. The feeling of intrusion hung in the air like an unwelcome guest.
After hearing the testimony that he had been flustered and seemingly afraid of something, the officers had drawn their own conclusions—seeing him as a potential threat. A serial killer, even.
With permission from the committee board members and a so-called "mutual agreement" for the safety of the neighbors, his apartment had been searched. No warrant. No formalities. Just suspicion and fear disguised as concern.
Technically, he could sue the officers. He could fight this, drag them through legal hell. But the thought alone exhausted him.
He understood—at least, he tried to. He understood the paranoia of his neighbors. He understood the police just doing their job, trying to ensure safety. But that didn't change the way he felt.
Like shit.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.
Getting into a conflict with the police department wasn't worth it. Not now. Not when something far more unsettling was at play.
Especially when many would testify that he was crazy.
Adrian sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the situation. It felt like the entire world was against him. He knew that fighting this—especially with the witnesses and officers already labeling him as mentally unstable—would be a long, uphill battle.
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside.
He started tidying his room, moving in slow, deliberate motions.
But the black box…
He didn't touch it.
It sat there, a constant reminder of the unnerving events that had unfolded.
By the time he finished tidying up his apartment, it was already 2:00 AM. The apartment was quiet now, the silence only broken by the occasional creak of the old building settling. Adrian moved to the sofa, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, but his mind was still restless.
He settled down, staring at the black box for a moment in silence. His thoughts were a tangled mess, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from it.
It was almost as if it were calling to him.
And then, finally, he moved.
Adrian slowly peered inside the box, his breath catching in his throat. He wasn't expecting to find ghosts or ancient artifacts inside—but a game console?
He blinked, his brows furrowing. What the hell?
Slowly, he reached in and pulled it out. It was sleek and dark, a little heavier than he expected. His confusion deepened as he turned it over in his hands. There was no company logo, no branding. That was strange—especially since he had clearly ordered a PlayStation.
A chill ran down his spine.
Am I losing it?
Swearing under his breath, Adrian decided then and there that he would schedule a visit to a psychiatrist. Something was clearly off.
Still, curiosity got the better of him. He set up the console, plugging it into the TV. The setup process was surprisingly straightforward—almost too easy.
As the screen flickered to life, he couldn't shake the growing sense of unease. Even the officers, despite their suspicions, hadn't thought much about the console. After all, they were middle-aged men who knew nothing about games. If they had known anything about consoles, they might have asked why a supposed PlayStation had no logo or markings at all.
Adrian sat back, controller in hand, as the screen brightened. A strange logo he had never seen before faded in…
Welcome, Adrian.
His pulse quickened. His grip on the controller tightened.
The TV lit up with deep shades of red and black, the colors swirling like smoke. It reminded him of the Asus ROG theme—but darker, more sinister.
At the center of the screen hovered an icon: a skull.
The skull was snow white, almost unnervingly so, set starkly against the pitch-black background. Behind the skull was a compass, its cardinal points etched in crimson, and atop the skull rested a crown—jagged, tarnished, and stained with what almost looked like dried blood.
Adrian's throat tightened.
A strange pressure settled on his chest as he stared at the skull. There was something wrong about it—something unnatural. His instincts screamed at him to unplug the console, to walk away—but his hands wouldn't move.
The skull icon pulsed once, a low thrum vibrating through the room. Then it faded into obscurity, dissolving into the blackness.
A new screen appeared, maintaining the black and red color scheme. Two options floated in the center of the screen in clean, sharp font:
[Library of Games][Shop]
Adrian stared at the options. His thumb hovered over the joystick. The rational part of his mind told him to shut it off. But another part—the part drowning in morbid curiosity—whispered otherwise.
He swallowed hard and took a breath.
And then, hesitantly, he moved the joystick toward the Library of Games.
He clicked on it, and a single wallpaper of a game greeted him.
[War Crown]
The title was blood red, almost as though blood was trailing down from the letters. Below the title, a note was given:
[This is the only game that this console can support. User Adrian has to note that you have to complete Act 1 of the game within the month. Otherwise, death is imminent.]
Adrian gulped, and his entire body turned into a mush of fear and terror.
His heart hammered against his chest.
Death is imminent.
What kind of twisted joke was this? His hands trembled on the joystick as his mind raced through a dozen possibilities. Maybe it was some kind of dark-themed marketing gimmick? Or maybe the console was hacked by some edgy developer trying to mess with him?
But then he remembered the delivery man's smile—the twisted, knowing smile reflected in the mirror.
His breath quickened. His mouth felt dry.
This… This can't be real.
But what if it was?
Adrian's finger hovered over the "Start" button. His rational mind screamed at him to turn off the console, throw it away, report it to the authorities—do anything except play the damn game.
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