The sound of rain wasn't real, but the static hiss of his cheap room fan spinning on low made it feel that way. Outside the window, the modern city blinked like a restless circuit board—glass towers, neon veins, distant sirens humming beneath the surface like a constant warning no one ever listened to.
Inside, the apartment was painfully ordinary. The kind of place you could walk through and forget you were ever there. Cream-colored walls stained slightly from old posters long since peeled off, furniture bought secondhand from online marketplaces, and lighting that never quite made it to the corners of the room.
The only room that lived was the one at the end of the narrow hallway.
There, clutter reigned. The desk was buried under notebooks—some open, some closed, some filled with frantic handwriting in all directions. The walls were a storm of sticky notes and taped-up printouts: lore, names, timelines, maps, skill trees, dialogue quotes. A murderboard of fantasy—though the only death here was of time.
And in the middle of it all, hunched in front of a humming, square-jawed computer that looked like it belonged to 2008, sat a man. Twenty-one years old, maybe. Hood up. Head down. Eyes flickering beneath tired lids like he was processing more than just the screen.
His fingers moved in rhythm, the keys clicking in uneven bursts. Lines of text crawled across the display. Sometimes code, sometimes dialogue, sometimes just a lone word he'd backspace into nonexistence.
Click-clack. Click-click.
Then—beep. beep. beep.
An alarm exploded from the phone on his desk. He sighed. Not the dramatic kind, just the small, inevitable exhale of someone who already expected disappointment.
He reached for the phone, thumbed off the alarm, and let silence claim the room again.
Then, finally, he spoke. Not to anyone, not really.
But to you.
---
"You ever play a game so long you start dreaming in its dialogue boxes?"
The man stood, stretched, and scratched his head. His face came into view in the mirror by the door—young, lean, with the kind of looks you'd call handsome if he ever bothered to try. Dark eyes with a spark of mischief, and a mouth that smiled like it was used to covering up better things.
"My name's Rony. Just Rony. Not a prince, not a chosen one, not the last anything. Just a guy who forgot to uninstall a game three years ago."
He walked over to the bed, where a beaten-up black backpack waited. He slung it over his shoulder like it was armor. The bed sheets were tangled, the way a person sleeps when their body gives up before their mind does.
"You're probably wondering what I was doing at that dusty keyboard. Programming the future? Hacking into government secrets? Nah." He grinned and jabbed a thumb toward the monitor, where a paused game screen glowed softly.
"I was playing The Chronicles of the Future—ever heard of it?"
He gestured broadly as if he had a live studio audience.
"No? You're missing out. It's this insanely detailed open-world fantasy game. Like, next-level immersive. I'm talkin' NPCs that remember your birthday and lore so deep you need a damn wiki just to go shopping."
He pointed to the wall of notes behind him.
"That's not decoration. That's survival."
Then he walked to the window, pulling aside the curtain just enough to peek at the gray daylight beyond. His face changed—not the smile, that stayed—but the weight behind it shifted. You could almost hear the echo of something heavier just beneath the humor.
"This game... it's based on a novel. A very popular one. 'Chronicles of the Future'—same name. I started reading it back in college when it blew up. Twists, betrayals, ancient gods, kingdoms falling, heroes dying... and the best part? Every character feels real. They've got dreams. Regrets. Secrets."
He tapped the glass lightly, watching droplets race down like tiny comets.
"But then, bam. The author vanished. Poof. Three years. No update. Radio silence. People moved on. But the devs... well, bless their insane hearts, they decided to make a game out of the chapters we did have. Enough to build a world, they said."
He turned back from the window, that sly grin returning like a mask sliding back into place.
"And me? I've been living in it ever since. Mapping every inch. Learning every route. Watching stories unfold, even if they'll never finish. There's something... comforting about knowing how it all ends. Even if the end isn't there yet."
He walked back to the desk, powered down the monitor, and slung the bag more securely onto his shoulder.
"But, y'know what's weird?" He raised a brow, glancing again toward the camera that wasn't there. "No matter how many times I play it, I always end up watching this one guy."
He paused.
"An extra."
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
"Not a protagonist. Not even a side character. Just a face in the crowd. Barely gets any lines. Probably doesn't even have a last name in the script. But... he's always there. Background. Smiling. Helping. Getting punched, ignored, left behind. But never bitter."
He looked down at the old computer one last time.
"And every time I see him... I wonder. How does someone keep smiling like that, when the world doesn't even see them?"
Then he opened the door.
The hallway light flickered once, then steadied.
"Anyway. That's me. Rony. Chronic overthinker. Chronic player. And maybe—just maybe—someone who's about to find out that extras don't always stay in the background."
He walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
And somewhere, on the still-glowing screen he'd left behind, the game loaded a save file.
A character stood in a crowded market square, smiling.
Waiting.