A black luxury car slid down the highway.
Inside, a man sat—tall, sharp-featured, suit pressed so tight it looked tailored straight onto his skin. At first glance, he could've passed for one of those rich playboys you see in soap operas. The reality? Way less glamorous.
In front, his chauffeur kept his hands tight on the wheel, weaving through traffic like it was just another Tuesday.
The man, though? He wasn't even glancing out the window. He didn't care. His attention was glued to the laptop balanced on his knees, the bluish glow of the screen reflecting off his dark eyes.
Building schematics filled the display—precise lines, endless measurements. A new apartment complex, this time. Some big-shot client waiting on his approval. Technically, he didn't have to check it himself. His team already triple-checked everything before it even reached his desk. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, all he needed to do was slap his signature on it and call it a day.
But he wasn't built that way.
Every line, every corner, every tiny error that might shave a fraction of a percent off structural integrity—he caught them. Because if he didn't? What else was there to do?
At twenty-nine years old, his life was so clean it squeaked. No wife, no girlfriend, not even a vague "someone" lurking in the background. Everyone he knew was either married, engaged, or halfway there. Him? He couldn't even fake interest.
It wasn't about money. He had plenty of that. It wasn't about looks. Objectively speaking, he was a catch. It wasn't about "not trying." God knew his parents had tried to fix him enough times.
It was something deeper.
Something he'd carried with him for as long as he could remember.
The doctors had a name for it: Schizoid Personality Disorder.
A fancy way of saying he couldn't connect to people. Couldn't feel strong emotions like normal folks did. Love, rage, jealousy—it all passed through him. He wasn't depressed in any way. He just wasn't wired the same.
Friends drifted away. Lovers never stayed. Family only kept in touch out of stubbornness or guilt. And he... he didn't blame them.
He didn't blame anyone.
He just didn't care.
That didn't mean he spent his nights drinking away. No, he had his own version of "fun."
His vice? A medieval fantasy MMO called Old-World Hunter.
Now, if you asked the average player, they'd tell you it was some epic story about kingdoms warring, ancient dragons awakening, prophecies being fulfilled... yada yada.
The man couldn't tell you a single thing about the plot.
He didn't give a shit about saving princesses or slaying demons.
The thing he loved about Old-World Hunter? The system.
It was a madman's sandbox—physics, economics, crafting, city-building—all simulated down to the tiniest detail. And he, the engineer with a mind like a scalpel, ripped it apart.
He found every loophole, every broken mechanic, every way to bend the rules so far they snapped. He'd min-maxed entire economies, reverse-engineered forbidden magic trees, and built cities in uninhabitable zones just to prove he could.
Ten thousand hours logged, and still counting.
He wasn't a hero in that world.
He was a glitch in the matrix.
The glitch that mostly everyone playing that game knew.
And after this stupid meeting today? He planned to get back to it. Maybe test that new blacksmithing exploit he figured out last night.
"Sir Asher..."
His chauffeur's voice cracked through the car speakers, oddly tense.
"A truck is about to crash into us."
...Or apparently not.
Asher blinked, finally tearing his eyes away from the laptop.
Ahead on the five-lane highway, five semi-trucks were barreling straight toward them—wrong side, wrong speed, wrong everything.
The chauffeur didn't wait for orders.
"Sorry, sir!"
He yelped, slamming the car to the left, kicking the door open, and throwing himself over the median barrier without a second thought.
Asher watched him tumble out, mildly impressed.
Then he looked forward again.
The trucks were close enough now that he could make out the panic in the drivers' faces.
Asher just smiled a little.
A tiny, almost invisible smile.
He closed his laptop with a soft click.
Sat back, and said, as casually as if commenting on the weather:
"Touché."
The world exploded around him in a screech of metal and fire.