Page 2 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Beau! Get over here!”
I groaned internally, my brief moment of triumph evaporating like mist in the morning sun. Craig’s voice had that particular edge to it—the one that screamedincoming disasterlouder than a foghorn in a library. What now? Another impossible customer? A system meltdown? Or had someone finally snapped and started a cubicle uprising?
With the weight of a thousand unanswered emails on my shoulders, I reluctantly removed my headset. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete as I contemplated the trek to Craig’s desk. Part of me wondered if I could fake a sudden onset of spontaneous combustion. But no, even that wouldn’t get me out of whatever fresh horror Craig had in store.
I took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of willpower I possessed—which, admittedly, wasn’t much after eight hoursof customer service. Time to face the music—or in this case, the discordant symphony of office chaos that was undoubtedly waiting for me.
I ambled across the room, dodging coworkers like they were landmines in a particularly peppy war zone. Craig, our floor manager, was leaning against a desk, his face a mask of barely contained panic—his default expression since taking this job.
“Abby’s out sick. I need you to cover her shift.”
I frowned, a mental image of my bank account flashing before my eyes—numbers redder than a bullfighter’s cape with a sunburn. The extra cash would be nice, sure, but so would a night off. I weighed the prospect of overtime against the allure of my couch, cold pizza, and my scheduled raid in Enolyn. Tough choice: virtual monster slaying or real-life soul crushing?
“Sure, Craig. I’ll stay.” The words left my mouth before my brain could tackle them to the ground. My inner responsible adult had won again. Damn him.
Craig’s relief was palpable. “You’re a lifesaver, Beau. Thanks.”
“No problem,” I lied, mentally canceling my evening plans. “What’s another four hours of my life sacrificed to the corporate gods, right?”
Craig chuckled nervously, clearly not sure if I was joking. “Right. Well, just take over Abby’s station. You know the drill.”
I nodded, trudging back to my desk to collect my things. As I passed Veronica, she gave me a pitying look that somehow managed to be condescending at the same time.
“Overtime again, Beau? You must really love this place.”
I flashed her a smile that was all teeth. “What can I say? I live for the thrill of explaining to people how to reset their passwords.”
The next four hours crawled by with all the speed of a snail on tranquilizers. I fielded calls from the irate to theincomprehensible, each one chipping away at my will to live. By the time my extended shift finally ended, I felt like I’d aged a decade.
The office had emptied out, leaving me alone with the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the cleaning crew. I gathered my belongings, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me like a lead blanket. My stomach growled in protest, reminding me that I’d missed dinner for this.
“Patience, my friend,” I muttered, patting my belly. “Pizza awaits.”
As I made my way to the elevator, I checked my phone. Three missed calls from my roommate, Tyler, and a text that simply read:Dude, rent’s due tomorrow. You got your half?
I winced, doing quick mental calculations. With tonight’s overtime, I’d just barely make rent, but that meant no pizza. The universe truly had a sick sense of humor.
The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ding that seemed to mock my misery. Inside, I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for a brief moment. The descent to the lobby felt like a metaphor for my life—a slow, controlled fall with no clear destination.
Outside, the night air hit me like a slap to the face, cold and unforgiving. New York City never truly slept, but at this hour, it had at least dozed off a bit. The streets were quieter, the usual cacophony of horns and shouts reduced to a dull murmur.
Hours later, I slipped out of OpenSesame’s corporate maw and into the New York City night. The subway swallowed me whole as I found a seat among the tired faces and questionable smells. My stomach grumbled in protest over the missed dinner, performing an impressive impersonation of a hungry bear with a megaphone.
Out came my phone. First stop—checking my bank balance and wincing at the digits that were far too low for comfort. Next—because self-torture is apparently my hobby—I searched my name online. Because who doesn’t love a good dose of public humiliation before bed?
“The Sexy Voice from OpenSesame.” My jaw dropped at the blog title glowing back at me. Clicking through revealed voice clips ripped from calls and written odes to “the sultry tones of Beau.” Comments ranged from “OMG, I want him to read me bedtime stories” to “Is it weird that I’m turned on by his warranty explanations?” I was flattered and horrified in equal measure. Tomorrow’s project: learn how to take down a website. Or change my name. Or move to Antarctica. Decisions, decisions.
Trying to distract myself from my newfound, unwanted fame, I flipped toEnolyn: Build Your Empire. Here, in this digital realm, Beau didn’t exist. Instead, I was Lucien Noir, King of Darkness—because if you’re going to have an alter ego, why not go full emo? My domain, Iferona, was an expanse of shadow and sinewy demons under my command. Level ninety-nine and counting since age fifteen—that’s what happens when you replace your social life with pixels and power-ups.
Azrael, my loyal butler—because every King of Darkness needs a manservant with a name that screamedI’m definitely not evil—had sent a message about some unrest among the demon generals. Great. Even in my fantasy world, I couldn’t escape workplace drama. I could almost see him now, Azrael the Merciless, Harbinger of Despair, probably ironing my cape with the same meticulous care he used when disemboweling my enemies. Talk about a diverse skill set.
The Ironstriders guild always caught my eye; their strategy and strength were things of beauty in this digital realm. But it wasn’t just their gaming prowess that had me hooked. No, the real draw was the guild’s illustrious leaders: Caspian and Zephyr. These two weren’t just digital demigods; they werewalking, talking Greek statues come to life, complete with chiseled abs and brains that could put supercomputers to shame.
In the game, they were unstoppable. Their tactics for bringing down monsters were like watching a chess grandmaster play speed chess while blindfolded—impossibly clever and maddeningly effective. But in real life? They were Professor Wes Sinclair and Dr. Cole Holloway, the dynamic duo who lectured at my university.
I’d sit in their classes, trying desperately to focus on the intricacies of business strategy or computer science, all while battling the urge to drool over Wes’ golden locks or Cole’s piercing gray eyes. It was a losing battle, really. How was I supposed to concentrate on market analysis when Wes’ biceps were right there, straining against his fitted shirt as he wrote on the whiteboard?
My obsession didn’t stop at the classroom door. Oh no, I’d gone full stalker mode—in the most pathetic way possible, of course. I’d spend hours scrolling through their social media, analyzing every post, every photo, like some deranged digital detective. Did Wes prefer lattes or cappuccinos? Was that Cole’s cat in the background of that one blurry photo? These were the pressing questions that kept me up at night.
