The next morning, Anya woke up with a noodle stuck to her cheek and a sore back courtesy of Neutral Zone’s lumpy couch-bed hybrids.

  She blinked at the ceiling, groaned, then muttered:

  “Still not a dream.”

  “Nope,” Becky chirped from the kitchen, flipping eggs with her now-beloved frying pan.

  “But at least breakfast’s on the house. The house being my makeshift hideout-slash-restaurant-slash-anti-death bunker.”

  Anya sat up slowly. Her body still felt like she’d been drop-kicked into a pit of lag spikes. And in a way, she had — just in real life.

  “You’re up,” came a voice from the corner. Low. Flat. Grumpy.

  Damian was sitting at the café table like he was plotting a war, sipping instant coffee like it was liquid strategy. His dark hoodie was pristine, his shoes clean, and his aura screamed I will probably stab you for XP.

  Anya eyed him suspiciously.

  “You’re not tired? Sore? Confused?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I adjusted.”

  “Adjusted? I had to crawl here like a squishy noob and you’re sitting there like a DLC villain.”

  Damian didn’t flinch. “This isn’t a game anymore. You wanna survive, MVP? Then get off the couch and start acting like it.”

  Anya rolled her eyes. Becky tossed her a boiled egg. She caught it. Barely.

  “First lesson of survival,” Becky said, grinning. “Protein. Second lesson? Don’t trust anyone with perfect hair in an apocalypse.”

  Damian didn’t even blink. “Third lesson: don’t waste time joking while everyone else is training to kill you.”

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  The room froze. For half a second, Anya saw it — the faintest flicker in Becky’s smile.

  Training began in an abandoned warehouse on the far side of the Neutral Zone.

  If this were a normal game, there’d be skill trees, XP meters, maybe a wise old monk in a kimono. Instead, there was a punching bag made out of stacked rags and a pull-up bar welded to a rusting pipe.

  No cheats. No hacks. Just grit.

  Anya tried to do a single push-up. Her arms trembled. Her face hit the ground. “Ow.”

  Damian looked unimpressed.

  Becky tried to encourage her — kind of.

  “You got this! Think of the floor as the enemy. You’re already kissing it, which means you’ve got the upper hand!”

  Anya groaned. “Remind me why we’re friends again?”

  “Because I saved your butt in Minecraft five years ago, and you never forgot.”

  That... was true.

  By the end of Day One, Anya had done ten push-ups (if you round up generously), learned how to swing a wooden stick without braining herself, and accidentally kicked a wall.

  Damian trained in silence. Calculated. Precise. He moved like a soldier. Or someone who’d done this before.

  Anya watched him from the corner of her eye, heart pounding.

  “How do I know you’re not one of them?” she asked suddenly.

  Damian didn’t stop. “You don’t.”

  "Oh well, that was helpful.". Anya muttered.

  Later that night, after they collapsed back in the café for water and whatever Becky had turned into stew, Anya sat with her back to the wall and her thoughts spinning like a carousel on fire.

  She kept staring at Becky. At her bright eyes. Her easy laughter.

  "What if Becky's just pretending? "

  "What if she’s the one who lured me here?"

  Anya didn’t say it out loud.

  But Becky saw it in her eyes.

  The laughter stopped.

  “You think I’m a traitor,” Becky said softly.

  Anya froze. “What? No, I just—”

  “You looked at me like I was... someone else. Like I’m dangerous.”

  “Becks... I don’t know who to trust.”

  Becky swallowed hard.

  The frying pan, which she’d been cleaning out of habit, dropped to her side.

  “I was the first person you ever let into your real life,” she whispered. “I know your pizza order. I know you talk to your cat in a British accent. I know that when you win, you still get scared. And you think I would hurt you?”

  Anya didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  The silence burned like betrayal.

  Becky turned away, her voice breaking just a little. “If you ever figure out who the real enemies are... I hope I’m not still in that maybe column.”

  She walked to the back room and shut the door.

  Anya sat there, hands shaking, unsure if the worst part was the guilt — or the possibility she’d made a mistake in trusting anyone at all.

  Outside, the wind howled through the alleys.

  Somewhere not far off, another player screamed before going silent.

  The game was still on.

  Tomorrow, the training would get harder.

  The tower was still far away.

  And the biggest threat might not be the ones hunting her…

  …but the ones sitting right beside her.