I’d been falling for at least ten minutes. Not metaphorically—though I’ve had my fair share of those moments too—but actual, terminal-velocity, gravity’s-love-letter kind of falling. No scream, no panic, just me, tumbling through what looked like a screensaver designed by a wizard on a sugar high. Somewhere around minute four, I realized I wasn’t waking up. By minute seven, I’d mentally drafted my will, which mostly consisted of asking my sister to delete my browser history and maybe feel a tiny bit guilty for never buying me that yacht I never actually wanted. And by minute ten… I was suspicious.

  Let me tell you how my morning started.

  It began, as most of my mornings do, with me standing in the kitchen, buttering toast like I was disarming a bomb. Edge to edge, deliberate, because I firmly believe uneven butter is the first step on the road to societal collapse. Across the counter sat my sister, orange juice in hand, eyebrows already halfway to orbit. I was mid-pitch on the practical and emotional benefits of her buying me a yacht. She, predictably, was mid-eye-roll number five. I didn’t want the yacht, obviously. I just liked poking the bear. Especially when the bear managed our shared bank account like every penny was a defenseless puppy—and was currently hoarding an unreasonable amount of bacon on her plate like she was preparing for a pork-based apocalypse.

  She muttered something uncharitable about brain cells and left the room. Victory, as always, came in the form of her walking away first. I didn’t miss the small smile she had as she walked out. I finished my toast, tossed on my hoodie, and headed out to meet the guys at the field for the big game. Not that I was playing—my knee still clicked when I crouched—but I had snacks, opinions, and a plastic horn I’d promised never to use again. Naturally, I planned to use it immediately. If I’d known a rogue street sign was about to bring my morning—and my life—to an abrupt and extremely ironic end, I might’ve added jam to the toast.

  I was just walking down the sidewalk, minding my own business at a completely reasonable pace, when everything went wrong. You wouldn’t pick me out of a crowd—average height, 5'9", and a little on the chunky side at 280 pounds. I’ve got one of those baby faces that make bartenders double-check IDs, and maybe slightly broader shoulders than the average 24-year-old. With a name like Bashir, you'd expect dark skin, a killer accent, and some mysterious backstory. Instead, you get me: mid-level tan, possibly from having a drop of Cherokee blood somewhere back there—because what white guy doesn’t claim that—and zero exotic anything. White bread, through and through.

  My parents must've had high hopes, though. Bashir means "bringer of good news." Nice sentiment. Shame they died in an explosion next to a fuel truck before I was old enough to ask why the hell they picked it. Not your average upbringing, I know. But I did have one bright spot—my older sister. She’s awesome, terrifying, and secretly rich. Not even our aunt knows. Of course, my sister being who she is, it’s easy to miss. She pinches pennies so hard they squeal. And I let her. Money’s a new thing for us, and we both remember what it’s like to go hungry and rock secondhand sneakers with holes in them.

  But I digress. I was walking from my car toward the field, just strolling along the sidewalk like a responsible civilian, when things decided to go full Final Destination on me. Two cars were approaching each other on the road, both going at a perfectly reasonable Sunday-morning pace. Across the street, a dad and his daughter were riding bikes—she looked about ten, he was probably pushing late thirties. There was even one of those low concrete barriers between me and the road, so I wasn’t exactly living dangerously.

  Then came the gust. Not a breeze, not a gustlet—this was the kind of wind that makes patio furniture sign NDAs. It hit out of nowhere and forced both father and daughter to wobble just enough at exactly the wrong moment. They swerved maybe two feet into the road, then corrected immediately, but that two feet was all it took.

  The driver going the same direction as them did the responsible thing—slowed down fast and edged over just a bit to avoid them.

  The oncoming car—also slow, also safe—did everything right. The driver tapped the brakes and gently steered to the right, giving the biker duo plenty of room. It would’ve been a non-event. A perfect, harmless near-miss where everyone gets to go home and laugh about it over pancakes.

  Except.

  I was walking at the exact wrong time to be next to a No Parking sign. The car’s right-side mirror clipped it—barely, but with just enough force, even at a crawl, to knock it loose. Turns out that sign was less “securely anchored city infrastructure” and more “leaning tower of municipal negligence.” It fell with the enthusiasm of a collapsing Jenga tower and clocked me squarely on the head. Instant lights out. Like a sword of Damocles, if Damocles had been wearing soccer pants and preparing for a casual jog instead of an untimely death.

  If anyone was at fault, it was probably whoever dug that lazy little hole for the signpost and decided, “Eh, eight more inches of concrete is too much work.”

  And aside from me dying—which, you know, minor inconvenience—the person who had it worst was the ten-year-old who had to witness my body drop like a ragdoll. Poor dad’s probably got a couple years of therapy bills coming his way.

  The next thing I knew, I was falling. And falling. And still falling. For like... half an hour.

  I mean, the ten minutes I’d been plummeting were mostly me catching you up, A bit of backstory, if you will. And now, here we are.

  I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t hear anything. But the sensation of something—a presence—was there, for lack of a better word. It was like being submerged in thick silence. Then, all of a sudden, my senses came flooding back, and I was falling through what looked like a massive green portal. It was rimmed with archaic symbols—like something out of an old fantasy book I would’ve rolled my eyes at, had I not been plummeting through the air for an extended period toward whatever awaited me on the other side.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Just before I would’ve made a satisfying thud against the ground, there was a massive whoosh from below me—like the air had just been released from an industrial-sized balloon. I didn’t crash. Instead, I floated down, light as a feather, as if the universe had decided to throw me a bone before it finished giving me the runaround.

  I touched the ground with a soft thump, but that was about the only thing soft about the place. As I picked myself up and dusted off, I looked around and realized I was in an oppressively dark cave. The air was thick with the smell of damp rock, and the echo of my own breathing was the only sound.

  Suddenly, a light flickered to my left. A flaming torch appeared on the wall, casting just enough glow to get a grip on my surroundings. Yup. It was a cave…

  The floor was incredibly flat and smooth, with just enough traction to keep me from slipping, but strangely, it also felt like the kind of surface that would let me get a good running start and slide across it. I reached down with my hand and felt an oddly textured surface.

  It was a strange dichotomy—this black-and-white marble-like surface against the otherwise weathered gray stone that covered the rest of the cave. It reminded me of the limestone I used to work around when I was younger, back when I did construction work.

  Looking behind me, I saw it was an absolute dead end. The only way forward was ahead, so, like a sensible guy, I started walking.

  I started heading toward the torch on the wall, figuring it’d be a good idea to have some light. I tried to yank it off the stanchion and take it with me, but after several attempts, I found it was absolutely stuck in place. No luck. That made me grumble a little—definitely not off to a great start.

  I sighed and chalked it up to just another frustration I’d have to get over. I turned back down the tunnel and started walking again. Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly going down, but I was definitely going deeper into—or maybe out of—the cave. If crossing my fingers had any effect on luck, I was giving it a shot.

  The cave itself was about 10 feet high, 15 feet wide, with an arch shape that made it feel like I was walking through some oversized stone hallway.

  Then, I spotted another torch on the opposite side of the wall. It was over 100 feet away from the first one, and it only lit up once I was within about 30 feet of it. This pattern repeated itself as I moved further down the tunnel, each torch lighting up as I passed by.

  It was eerily quiet, and the flickering torchlight cast long, ominous shadows, making me feel uneasy about what might lie just beyond its reach.

  I’d walked for what seemed like over a mile—my best guess—before I finally encountered something new, and unfortunately, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant surprise.

  At first, I couldn’t make out the shape due to the sparse spacing of the torches on the wall. But as I got closer, I saw it—shambling toward me at about four feet tall—was a genuine, green-skinned goblin.

  It looked exactly like the kind of goblin you imagine when you’re reading those old fantasy books as a kid, or the ones you see in cartoons and anime.

  This thing was not pretty, and while it didn’t give off the kind of disgusting vibe that most anime and fantasy novels love to describe, there was no mistaking its hostility.

  The moment it saw me, even from 100 feet away, its face twisted into an expression of pure, seething hatred. Its eyes burned with a cruel, manic excitement, the kind that only came from a deep, primal desire to kill and cause suffering. Its mouth curled into a grimace, lips pulled back over sharp teeth in a grotesque grin, and its thin, clawed hands twitched with anticipation.

  Though I’d never seen such an expression on a person before, it was instantly recognizable. Every muscle in its wiry body screamed aggression, and my instincts blared with a single, undeniable message: This thing means me harm.

  My mind scrambled to process the threat, but for a brief, horrifying moment, I stood frozen in shock.

  Then, with a feral screech, it lunged forward, dagger raised high, sprinting toward me with unsettling speed.

  With a nasty-looking dagger clutched tightly in its hand, the goblin continued to charged toward me with a feral gleam in its eyes.

  In a panic, I dropped to one knee, my hands outstretched in a desperate attempt to beg for mercy. My voice cracked as I screamed, "Don’t hurt me!" at the top of my lungs, my heart pounding in my chest. Adrenaline surged through me, my body trembling with a fight-or-flight response, but I couldn't seem to move.

  The goblin’s response was immediate—laughter. Maniacal, shrill, and utterly chilling. It picked up speed, its excitement growing with every step it took.

  By the time it was about six feet away, it raised the dagger high, preparing to strike with an overhand stab. Its face twisted into a fierce grin, anticipating the moment of pain.

  I seemed frozen, trapped in an almost pathetic, cowering position. I kept shouting “No!” and “Please stop!” over and over, but it was as if my pleas only fueled its twisted joy.

  The goblin wasn’t listening. In fact, it seemed to grow more excited, its movements faster and more erratic with every shout that escaped my lips. The closer it got, the more insatiable its hunger for my fear it seemed to become.

  By all appearances, I was doomed, and my SECOND death was imminent. The goblin's dagger was inches away from me, its twisted smile growing.

  But then, in a split second, everything shifted. A fierce grin spread across my face as I screamed, “Psych!” and sprang to my feet with a sudden burst of energy.

  In one swift motion, With every ounce of strength I had, I drove my elbow into the crook of its neck and shoulder. The goblin was completely caught off guard, its expression shifting instantly from fierce excitement to shock, as if it realized its life was slipping away in that moment.

  But just like every self-defense class and Mortal Kombat game teaches you...

  “Finish it.”

  I tightened my grip on its wrist, sliding my shoulder under its arm as I twisted its wrist. In one violent motion, I slammed its arm down onto my shoulder. The sickening crack of its elbow snapping echoed through the cave, the joint bending the wrong way with a gruesome, nauseating crunch.

  By this point, the goblin couldn’t hold onto the blade anymore. It slipped from its grip, and—somehow, almost instinctively—I snatched it out of the air as it fell. Without hesitation, I drove it upward into the goblin’s gut with brutal force.

  But I didn’t stop there.

  Instead of pulling the blade back out, I ripped it sideways—slicing clean through its abdomen, straight toward the side where its mangled arm hung limp. The motion was so fast, and the blade so sharp, that it continued clean through the goblin’s wrist, severing its hand entirely. That part was almost accidental—but no less effective.

  The goblin collapsed in a heap, bleeding out into a spreading pool of crimson. The blood looked just like any I’d ever seen—deep red and unmistakably real. Not green, not glowing, not oozing with some alien sheen. Just blood. Maybe I’d watched Predator one too many times.

  I took a few staggered steps back, stunned by what I’d just done. My body swayed slightly, the adrenaline drain hitting me hard as I sucked in a few deep breaths, trying to get a grip. Everything had happened in a flash—but looking back, it felt like it had all played out in slow motion.

  My eyes darted around the cave. I wasn’t about to be that idiot who celebrates too early and gets blindsided by the sequel goblin hiding in the shadows. Not today. I scanned the darkness carefully, my heartbeat still pounding, but nothing stirred. Just me, the flickering torchlight, and the now very dead body in front of me.

  Once I felt reasonably confident no one was about to jump out and make me a cautionary tale, I turned back toward the goblin. That’s when I felt it—a strange pull. Not emotional, not spiritual—just a kind of gut-level instinct. Like something was supposed to happen next.

  I stepped closer, crouched down, and reached out. It was probably all the RPGs and anime I’d consumed over the years whispering in my ear, but it just felt right.

  So, I touched the goblin’s shoulder.