Chapter 3: Cosplay

I linger in the shadows, observing the scene before me with a hollow gaze. The love of my life and my closest friend are in the midst of celebrating Daniel's birthday, their laughter ringing out like a mockery of joy. They're the quintessential golden couple—blonde, beautiful, and impossibly perfect. Barbie and Ken. We met years ago at an elite boarding school. Jane was a scholarship student, an anomaly in the polished crowd. I was drawn to her for her difference, her novelty, and I went to great lengths to be near her. Yet, she chose Daniel—the very person who had made her life miserable. I've always thought she had a masochistic streak, and he was just a jerk.

I watch them now, their apparent happiness feeling like a cruel jest. My own emotions seem distant, as if I'm watching life from behind a glass wall. I'm not particularly hurt by their togetherness—perhaps because I never fully believed Jane was my one true love. Our brief fling had more to do with rekindling Daniel's interest than anything genuine between us.

My thoughts are interrupted by the harsh reality of my surroundings. I glance at my phone—8:14 PM. How much longer must I endure this charade?

"Atlas!" Jane's voice snaps me out of my reverie. It's showtime. I switch into my practiced persona, donning a broad smile as I step into the spotlight.

"Can't last a few minutes without the life of the party, huh?" I declare, my voice rising above the clamor as I grab a couple of cups filled with some dubious concoction. I take a sip and wince—it's horrid. I make my way to the main table, where Daniel and Jane are basking in their attention.

"Well, Dan, look at you—the first of us to hit 20!" I announce, feigning joviality. "Guess that means I get to steal this lovely lady away from you, old man." I twirl Jane into my arms, her delighted squeals only adding to my inner fatigue. Daniel's envious glare is a familiar backdrop to these social performances.

"It's just two years, Atlas," Jane chides with a playful tone.

"Whatever you say, princess. My offer is always open," I reply, my smile masking the weariness I feel. I move to stand beside Daniel, presenting him with a grin that's meant to be as warm as possible.

"For the birthday boy, here's your present," I announce, pulling car keys and a card from my pocket. "A limited edition ride and a fully-paid, month-long vacation to the Bahamas." I slam the items onto the table with a flourish.

The crowd reacts with a chorus of boos. "Sue me," I say with a chuckle. "You should have announced your presents earlier. Now I've stolen the show." I pat Daniel on the back, trying to inject genuine affection into my words. He mumbles a thanks, and I know he appreciates the gesture, even if he doesn't show it overtly.

I take another sip from my cup, bracing myself for the night ahead.

"The music!" I shout, and the DJ responds by cranking up the volume. We've booked out the VIP section for the birthday boy, and the atmosphere quickly becomes electric. I throw myself into dancing and mingling, mastering the art of socializing. As the night wears on, I spot a charming girl and decide she'll make a pleasant distraction for later.

I go through the motions like a machine—perfect Atlas Brookes, the playboy, the intellectual, the friendly charmer. I feel like I'm merely cosplaying in my own skin, each role meticulously performed.

After leaving the girl sleeping soundly in the hotel room, I'm drained. I arrange for flowers and a designer bracelet to be sent to her, a token of my "affection" that she'll receive after I head back in my car.

When I finally return to my apartment, the clock reads 5 AM. I head straight for the gym, my only solace and the place where I push my body to its limits. It's the only thing that truly rouses any semblance of excitement in me.

"Atlas!" I greet the gym staff with a forced cheerfulness, responding to their greetings with a half-hearted smile. I change quickly, eager to channel all my pent-up energy into the gym equipment. I attack the weights and machines with a fervor, each rep and set a desperate attempt to escape the hollow feeling that clings to me.

I collapse onto the gym floor, completely spent. As I catch my breath, I instinctively summon the system interface. The display reveals my level—when I first checked, I was at 1.2; now, after months of relentless effort, I'm at 1.7. It's a modest increase, but for some reason, it brings me a rare sense of satisfaction. It's one of the few things that actually makes me feel something genuine.

I glance at the countdown on the system, which now shows only 1 day remaining until the so-called Convergence. A few months ago, I had fallen down a rabbit hole of theories about the Convergence being an apocalyptic event. It was a dark, unsettling journey into the unknown, but it left me prepared in ways I hadn't anticipated.

I rise, mentally readying myself for the day ahead. Over the past year, I've invested heavily in survival skills—cave exploration, cooking, shelter building, hunting—you name it. Daniel used to mock me for it, but I took pleasure in the challenge and the learning experience. With more money than I could ever spend and a gap year before college, I had the freedom to indulge my curiosities and prepare for whatever might come.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the apartment mirror. I look ridiculous—clad in cargo pants and combat boots so expensive they might as well be made of gold, topped with a turtleneck and a bulky jacket. My backpack, stuffed to the brim with essentials—dried meat, water, a robe, a tent, extra underwear, bar soap, painkillers, first aid supplies, a couple of extra shirts, and even a gun or two—looks like it's ready for an apocalypse.

Being the son of a CEO has given me access to ample funds, which I've poured into preparing for the unknown. I check the system again—five minutes to Convergence. Despite the gravity of the situation, I feel a pang of relief that I don't have anyone I deeply care about. It makes this all a little easier. I slip three power banks into my pockets, just in case.

In the center of the room stands a massive metal box. I can't help but think I look utterly foolish. I grab the oxygen mask and tank, double-checking the box one last time. It's been triple-checked; it can be opened from the inside with a latch or a wrench, but I'm hoping nothing will end up on top of it that might trap me inside.

I climb into the box, secure the oxygen mask, and brace myself, closing my eyes. The only sound is my steady breathing.

The minutes tick by, and suddenly, it's midnight. My eyes snap open. There's no immediate change, and I can't shake the embarrassment of what feels like a futile exercise. Just as this thought crosses my mind, I'm flung violently against the wall of the box. The impact knocks me out cold, and everything goes black.