Chapter Two:

  “Start New Game”

  The woman lowered her hood.

  She didn’t glow. She didn’t float. There were no wings or sparks or halos.

  She just looked at him. And smiled.

  John didn’t recognize her face, but it made his stomach twist anyway.

  It was like being seen—not through, but into.

  "I’ve been waiting for you, John," she said, and her voice was exactly what he feared it would be: familiar. Warm. Like someone who already knew how he took his coffee.

  "You’re not real," he said.

  She grinned. "That depends on your definition. I’m as real as your heart. As real as this realm. I hold both in my hands."

  He kept his silence.

  "It’s always strange, meeting me for the first time," she went on, pacing slowly around the chamber. Her movements were graceful but grounded—like someone mimicking human motion just well enough to make it unnerving. "I go by many names in many Realms. Mia. The Goddess. But here…"

  She stopped in front of him. Held out her hand.

  "Call me Gameweaver."

  John didn’t shake it.

  She dropped her hand with a little smirk, unfazed. "Suit yourself. This isn’t a recruitment. You’re already in the game. I just thought it was time we met face to face."

  She walked toward the vehicle—Realmweaver—trailing her fingers along its curved frame like it was a pet.

  "She likes you. That’s rare. Most people wouldn’t have heard the signal, much less found the gate. But you did. That makes you interesting."

  John stared at her. "What is this place?"

  "A doorway," she said. "A gift. A challenge. Maybe all three. You’ll understand soon."

  She turned back toward him, smile fading into something more measured.

  "You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That pull. That itch behind your thoughts. Like you were built for more than just existing. Like the world was missing a piece, and you were supposed to find it."

  John said nothing. His mind was buzzing—part disbelief, part recognition. He wanted to call her a liar, a glitch, a hallucination. But deep down, something darker whispered that she'd always been there, waiting for him to notice.

  She didn’t need to ask. She could already see it behind his eyes.

  "Good," Gameweaver said, watching him the way a sculptor might admire a crack in the marble—unexpected, but promising.

  The chamber hummed softly, the lights around Realmweaver beginning to pulse again.

  John took a half-step back.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Gameweaver just smiled wider.

  "Let’s begin your tutorial."

  Realmweaver stirred.

  Not with sound, but with presence.

  The lines of its chassis brightened, like nerves waking up. The metal caught the chamber’s blue glow and warped it into shifting waves that glided across the floor as if they had somewhere to go.

  John stepped closer, drawn by something he didn’t have a name for.

  "She’s beautiful, isn’t she?" Gameweaver said from behind him.

  He nodded before he could stop himself.

  "She’s not mine anymore," she continued. "That part’s important. I designed her, yes. Forged her between Realms. Grew her in places where time isn’t linear. But I built her to choose. And she chose you."

  John ran a hand along the side of the vehicle. It was warm now. Humming under the surface like a heartbeat.

  "She’ll take you places even I can’t follow. That’s what makes this so... fun."

  He turned. "Why me?"

  Gameweaver shrugged, smiling. "Because you’re awake. You listened. You came. Most don’t."

  A quiet chime sounded as the doors eased open. Its interior was dark at first, then lit with thin lines of soft orange light, forming into an interface that adjusted and flowed in quiet rhythm to John's presence.

  Gameweaver continued. "She knows not where you want to go—but where you need to."

  John hesitated. "What does it do, exactly?"

  Gameweaver circled the vehicle once, running her hand along its spine.

  "It weaves through Realms," she said. "She moves between the spaces others pretend don’t exist. Past and future, yes. But also, sidewise. Between. Beneath. Places built and broken, stories forgotten, games abandoned. New games to be started."

  John stared at the open driver’s seat.

  "And if I get in?"

  "Then you go."

  She tilted her head, almost wistful.

  "But once she jumps, I will... forget, about you, her, all of this. That’s part of the deal. It’s not a trick. Total freedom."

  She smiled again.

  "I’ve already programmed your first destination. I do hope you enjoy foxes and cherry blossoms."

  John didn’t move.

  The air in the chamber had changed. It wasn’t colder or heavier—just... loaded. Like the moment before a storm. Like the hush in a story right before the climax.

  Gameweaver leaned against the side of Realmweaver as if they were old friends. Maybe they were. Maybe she had built it the way a god carves a myth from bone.

  "There’s something you should know," she said, eyes half-lidded now, voice softer. "As I said, once she jumps, you vanish. From me. From the system. From everything."

  John blinked. "What do you mean vanish?"

  "I won’t know of you," she said. "No menus. No interface. You’ll drop off my board completely."

  She let that sit for a moment.

  John glanced back at the open vehicle. The orange light inside glowed like a sunset—inviting… but final.

  "You’re saying I’d be... free."

  "Yes. And alone... well sort of alone."

  He exhaled, slow and shallow, like his body was only just catching up. "Sort of?"

  Gameweaver smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes.

  "You'll see soon enough."

  She pushed off the side of the vehicle and began walking into the dark.

  "Good luck, John."

  And then she was gone.

  No portal. No glitch. Just... gone.

  Only Realmweaver remained, its engine humming low. Waiting.

  And the question that had been forming in his mind finally took shape.

  What if I don’t get in?

  The silence felt alive.

  John stood alone in the chamber. Gameweaver was gone. No spark. No final message. Just the low, steady presence of Realmweaver and the hush of a moment stretching longer than it should.

  He turned to the vehicle.

  The cabin glowed, waiting.

  He stepped forward slowly, placed his hand on the edge of the open doorframe.

  He looked back, once.

  Not at anything. Just at the idea of back.

  Then he climbed in.

  The seat adjusted instantly, cradling him. The interior sealed with a soft click. Lights drifted across the dash—lines, symbols, maps he didn’t recognize.

  Then they quieted.

  Realmweaver spoke, calm and clear:

  "Welcome, John. Destination locked. Standby for jump. Please maintain full acceleration for 8.8 seconds. Any deviation will result in jump failure."

  There was a pause, as if the car considered him.

  "Hello again John, Did you know that the number is not arbitrary? Gameweaver has an affection for late-20th century pop culture. You may notice... references."

  Another pause. The soft lights faded from orange to blue.

  "The tunnel ahead provides adequate distance to achieve this. Barely. If you hesitate, we will not clear the stone wall ahead. I recommend resolve."

  The interface before him reconfigured, glowing lines forming into the outline of a countdown dial.

  He gripped the wheel.

  Took one breath.

  "Let me face my fears," he whispered.

  He hit the accelerator.

  The chamber blurred.

  Light didn’t just bend—it screamed. The world tore open behind them, not with violence, but with a terrible grace. Space folded in layers, curling into itself like burning film. Violet and gold bled through the seams as Realmweaver carved its path into elsewhere.