"Ben, will you say something? Have I been talking to myself this whole time?"

"No, I am listening, Ma."

"Then say something! How long are you going to keep ignoring us and living like this?"

"I'm doing just fine, Mom."

"And fine is all you're doing with your life. We had so many dreams for you! When are you going to get a real job? Come back home. Your cousin says he can get you an internship at his company."

"I already told you, I’m doing what I love, and it’s enough to pay my bills."

It wasn’t, to be honest. I was barely getting by—but hey, optimism counts for something.

"Enough to pay your bills, sure, but that’s not enough! How are you going to start a family like this?"

"MOM, I told you, I don’t want to talk about that. I’m hanging up."

"At least tell me if you have a girlfr—"

CLACK.

Sigh.

I was tired of having the same conversation over and over again. Long story short? I was a disappointment to my family.

Why? Well, like every other brown kid who grew up in a middle-class family, I had three choices in life: become a doctor, become an engineer, or become a disappointment. For the first time in my life, I showed some courage and picked the third option.

Not that I started out as one. No, my tragic downfall came later—after I quit my engineering job and decided to pursue my passion.

I became a freelance artist. I did mostly digital work but also took up painting jobs around the neighbourhood. I started small, but over time, I built up my portfolio, made connections, and put in the work to polish my skills. Eventually, I reached a point where I could sustain myself doing what I loved. I’d always wanted this, but growing up, I never had the guts to tell my parents that the life they had planned for me wasn’t the life I wanted.

I had good grades in school despite barely studying. I didn’t have a photographic memory or anything, but I picked things up quickly and had a knack for remembering them. Teachers loved me (only in the classroom—I was a menace outside). I was well on my way to becoming an engineer. And, being the good, obedient son, I went along with it. Conflict-avoidant, let’s call it.

It wasn’t until I left for college—got some distance—that I finally spread my wings. I threw myself into my craft in my free time, honing my skills. But I didn’t slack off on my studies either. I did well, graduated, landed a decent-paying job… and quit six months in. Honestly? I still have no clue what the hell I was actually doing there.

Now, I lived in a small one-bedroom apartment with walls covered in sketches. Saved me money on paint. Every inch of space had something—characters from my favourite games, landscapes of places I wanted to visit, even those awful anatomy studies from when I was still learning. The only thing of real value in my room was my PC. An i7 9th-gen build. Nothing fancy to most people, but I’d saved for ages to afford it, and it got the job done.

After that not-so-pleasant conversation with my mother, I needed to unwind. So, I did what every Skyrim player is guilty of—murdering the people of Whiterun.

It all started when I popped into Belethor's General Goods to offload some cabbages, cheese, and other junk. Then, I swung by Arcadia's Cauldron for some potions and alchemy ingredients. A normal day in Skyrim.

And then he showed up.

"Do you get to the Cloud District very often? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you don’t."

Nazeem.

So, naturally, I torched his smug ass and sent him flying into the sky with a well-placed FUS RO DAH.

That’s when things got out of hand. Guards swarmed me. I took an arrow to the knee. My health bar was in shambles.

No big deal. I’d get Nazeem next time.

But before I could even reload my last save, my PC shut down. Just—dead.

I frowned at the black screen, staring at my own reflection.

'Huh. I need a haircut. And a shave.'

WOOSH. CRACK.

Thunder rumbled outside, and the room went dark.

"Great," I muttered, glancing at the open window. My clothes—freshly washed and drying—were seconds away from being claimed by the wind.

Fantastic.

I rushed out to grab them, cursing my past self for being too lazy to use clothespins. My favourite hoodie tumbled through the air like a kite. I snatched a white t-shirt off the ground—the only one that had miraculously stayed put.

It was an old Deathly Hallows shirt, one of those obligatory purchases every Harry Potter fan made at some point. The design had Death at the centre, wings spread, arms open. I used to love this shirt. Somewhere along the way, I got bored of it.

As I held it, I frowned. The mist around the figure of Death looked... odd. More detailed than I remembered.

Then, it moved.

A chill ran down my spine.

"I should get back inside."

Inside, as I sit in my chair, I can’t help but stare at the t-shirt again. The mist that was previously only around the figure of Death has now covered the whole shirt and is creeping outward. I watch, wide-eyed, as the thick black mist spreads, curling around me and everything in the room.

Okay… either I’m sleep-deprived, or I need to buy more of this new coffee.

A slight tugging sensation starts in the pit of my stomach, pulling me toward the shirt as the dark mist swirls like a whirlpool toward the centre of the Deathly Hallows.

"Ughhh..."

Motherf— can this day get any worse?

Thunder roared outside. Light flashed through the window. The mist spiralled faster.

And then—

BOOM.

THAT'S WHEN I KNEW THAT I FUCKED UP.

Murphy’s Law. Everything that could go wrong, would go wrong.

As the last thing I saw was a flash of white light, I heard a familiar melody rising through the chaos—

Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin…

My PC, still in the room with me, was being dragged along.

Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!

A chill shot down my spine.

Ahrk fin norok paal graan…

Then—darkness.

-One They Fear · Jeremy Soule