The familiar symphony of "The Rusty Mug" hummed around Era, a comforting blend of sizzling grease, clinking gssware, and the low rumble of human conversation. It was the soundtrack to her Tuesday nights, a predictable rhythm in an otherwise unpredictable world. Tonight, the aroma of sautéed garlic and onions mingled with the comforting scent of grilling beef, a culinary perfume she’d come to both appreciate and take for granted. With practiced ease, she wielded her spatu, flipping a batch of perfectly browned burger patties on the well-seasoned griddle, the rhythmic hiss a steady beat in the background of her focused work. She found a quiet satisfaction in the controlled chaos of the kitchen, the intuitive dance between heat and ingredient, the tangible reward of a satisfied customer’s smile.

  The bar was comfortably busy, a smattering of regurs occupying their usual spots. Big Tony nursed his Budweiser at the corner of the bar, his booming ugh occasionally punctuating the low murmur of conversation. Over by the window booth, the Tuesday night poker game was in full swing, chips cttering against the worn Formica tabletop. Through the small pass-through window, Era caught Maria’s familiar thumbs-up as she delivered a pte piled high with Era’s famous chili cheese fries. It was a typical night in Cibolo, Texas, a small pocket of normalcy in a world that often felt anything but.

  Then, the warm, inviting glow of the bar’s lighting began to stutter and fail. The fluorescent tubes above the stainless-steel surfaces of the kitchen flickered erratically, casting strobing shadows that danced across the walls. A wave of confused murmurs rippled through the patrons, their conversations faltering in the face of the unsettling visual disruption. The cssic rock anthem that had been pying on the jukebox abruptly cut out, plunging the bar into an unexpected silence, broken only by the confused whispers and the persistent sizzle of Era’s grill.

  A moment ter, an eerie, pulsating blue light began to seep into The Rusty Mug, an otherworldly luminescence that filtered through the dusty windows and cast long, distorted shadows that writhed across the familiar space. It felt as if the very air had thickened, vibrating with an unseen energy that hummed against Era’s skin. Gsses on the bar top trembled, emitting faint chimes. A profound, unsettling silence descended, heavy with a growing sense of unease and the unspoken question of what was happening.

  Era, spatu still clutched tightly in her hand, froze mid-action, her heart suddenly pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The blue light intensified, bathing the familiar surroundings in an alien glow that seemed to penetrate every corner of the bar and kitchen. Then, a crystalline chime, clear and resonant, echoed through the stillness, and a translucent blue screen flickered into existence directly in her line of sight, seemingly suspended in the air just inches from her face, an impossible intrusion into her reality.

  [Welcome, Individual Designation: Era (Unregistered)]

  Era’s mind reeled, her senses overwhelmed. What in the deepest recesses of the universe was this? Some kind of bizarre, shared hallucination? The blue light pulsed insistently around her, and the confused, increasingly anxious faces of the bar patrons seemed to blur at the edges of her vision. Her entire being was drawn to the glowing text, an undeniable, impossible presence.

  More text swiftly materialized below the initial greeting, each word glowing with an ethereal luminescence.

  [The Great Convergence has begun.]

  [The Spheres have aligned.]

  [The world as you know it has ended.]

  A cold, visceral dread washed over Era, a primal fear that resonated deep within her bones. This felt… undeniably real. Too tangible, too intrusive for a mere trick of the mind. The words carried a chilling finality, a sense of irreversible change that sent a shiver down her spine despite the heat of the grill. She tried to look away, to focus on the comforting familiarity of the grease stains on the stainless-steel backspsh, the worn, non-slip tiles of the kitchen floor, but the blue screen remained stubbornly in her vision, as if it were an inseparable extension of her own consciousness, a new, unwelcome yer of perception.

  [Scanning for inherent capabilities…]

  [Potential identified.]

  [Innate Affinities Detected: Ice (High), Darkness (High), Nature (High)]

  [Observation Skill Acquired.]

  Era’s breath hitched in her throat. Innate affinities? Ice, darkness, nature? Where in God’s name had that come from? She’d always felt a certain inexplicable pull towards the stark beauty of a winter ndscape, a sense of quiet understanding in the deep shadows of the night, a profound connection to the silent wisdom of ancient forests. But magic? Elemental forces? That was the realm of fantasy novels she devoured in her rare moments of downtime, not the gritty reality of flipping burgers and dealing with te-night drunks in a dive bar in Cibolo, Texas. This was beyond bizarre; it was fundamentally impossible.

  Suddenly, a new line of text appeared as her gaze flickered instinctively to a slightly neglected potted basil pnt on the corner of the prep counter.

  [Potted Basil (Herb)]

  [Condition: Needs watering.]

  [Effects: Culinary enhancement (minor), slight aromatic appeal.]

  Era’s mind struggled to reconcile the impossible information flooding her senses with the mundane reality of her surroundings. It was as if her vision had gained an entirely new, intrusive yer of data, an augmented reality overying the familiar world, revealing hidden information about everything she looked at.

  She looked down at her own calloused hands, the hands that had chopped countless vegetables, kneaded endless loaves of bread, and flipped more pancakes than she could count, and new text materialized, detailing aspects of her very being.

  [Name: Era (Unregistered)]

  [Level: 1]

  [Css: None (Potential Identified)]

  [HP: 100/100]

  [MP: 75/75]

  [Strength: 14]

  [Agility: 15]

  [Dexterity: 13]

  [Constitution: 12]

  [Intelligence: 15]

  [Wisdom: 13]

  [Charisma: 12]

  HP? Hit Points? MP? Mana Points? Strength, Agility, Dexterity, Constitution, Intelligence, Wisdom, Charisma? These were stats ripped straight from the pages of the fantasy role-pying games she occasionally indulged in! And they were… surprisingly high. Era had always been reasonably strong from lugging sacks of potatoes and quick on her feet navigating the tight confines of a busy kitchen. Her hands were certainly dexterous from years of knife work. But these numerical values felt… exaggerated, almost cartoonish. Yet, the blue screen persisted, its glowing text an undeniable, unwavering presence.

  More text began to popute the screen, detailing skills she somehow possessed.

  [Skills:]

  [Knife Handling (Intermediate): Proficient in the safe and effective use of various knives for food preparation. Allows for increased speed and precision in cutting and slicing.]

  [Cooking (Advanced): Possesses a deep understanding of culinary techniques, fvor profiles, and ingredient preparation. Enhances the quality and effects of prepared food.]

  [Observation (Intermediate): Allows for a more detailed and insightful perception of the surrounding environment and entities. Increases the ability to notice subtle details and assess situations.]

  [Nimble Footwork (Intermediate): Enables quick and agile movement, improving reaction time and evasiveness in confined spaces.]

  [Fvor Identification (Novice): Beginning ability to discern and analyze the individual components of complex fvors.]

  [Ingredient Knowledge (Novice): Basic understanding of the properties and uses of common culinary ingredients.]

  [Time Management (Intermediate): Efficiently manages multiple tasks and deadlines within a demanding environment.]

  Era stared at the list of skills, her mind struggling to catch up with the onsught of impossible information. Knife Handling and Cooking made sense; they were the cornerstones of her profession. Observation… perhaps that was honed from years of watching customers and anticipating their needs. But Nimble Footwork? That was probably just a fancy name for not tripping over spilled beer in the kitchen. Fvor Identification and Ingredient Knowledge were skills she was still developing. But where had this all come from? This sudden, intrusive knowledge about herself and the world around her?

  This wasn't just a hallucination. Something profound, something utterly inexplicable, was happening. The world hadn't just flickered; it had fundamentally shifted, peeling back a yer of reality she never knew existed. And Era, the unassuming cook at The Rusty Mug in quiet Cibolo, Texas, was somehow at the center of it, bombarded with information that defied all logic and understanding. The sizzle of the bacon on the griddle, the familiar ctter of dishes from the back, the mundane reality of her Tuesday night shift suddenly seemed impossibly distant and irrelevant in the face of the impossible truth unfolding within her very perception. The world had changed, and so, it seemed, had she.