After dedicating three decades of his life to football and achieving his goals, Thomas had finally retired from sports. His passion and power had both diminished from what they were in his prime.
But even after living for thirty five years, he didn't have any regrets or have bmed anyone for anything.
A supportive, beautiful—not in looks, but in heart—wife, a ten-year-old son to whom he had to pass down his techniques, and a two-year-old daughter, still wondering what to do in her life.
They had been living a peaceful life so far, looking forward to what the future holds for them.
After reaching the crosswalk, they stood there, waiting for the pedestrian signal.
“I was thinking that we should go on a vacation soon,” said the woman, Thomas turned to her with a smile.
“Yeah, sure,” then he slightly lifted his head, “what do you think about this little princess?”
Thomas kept chatting with his family, smiling, when his ear twitched. In the midst of the noisy surroundings, all sounds seemed to have faded away, time seemed to have slowed down, and the only thing that was clear was a rhythmic sound.
Dab dab
Ray turned his head, and saw a football, bouncing on the pavement.
“Dude, can you give that ball?" Thomas turned to the call; it was a boy from the other side of the street, waving his hand.
Thomas lifted his daughter and pced her on the ground, then she held her mother's hand, "It's been a while," he grinned, staring at the ball.
With his gaze fixed on the ball, he walked, then ran, increasing his pace as he got closer.
He pnted his left foot two feet from the ball and swung his right leg forward.
But unlike on the field, his grin faded instead of stretching further. “So this is what happens when your passion dies?" He said, looking at the ground.
“Mr. Unknown, what are you doing?" It was the same boy again. Thomas looked at him, then looked ahead—he had never kicked the ball properly, and it had rolled into the street.
He ran for the ball again, but the grin never reappeared. This time, instead of kicking it directly, he lifted it into the air, four feets above him.
As he looked up at the ball, making sure no mistakes occurred, the boy looked at his face carefully. "Shit, no way!" he said, holding his head before a grin appeared on his face. "That's Thomas!"
He then turned around and shouted, “Hey guys, come here, it's—” He turned back to see his idol but remained speechless, dumbfounded. The ball had somehow came to his hands, but he kept staring.
Another boy came running towards him and looked at his agape face. “What happened? Why did you call us?” Following him, a few more boys arrived.
“I saw Thomas,” he said slowly, his eyes wide.
“Thomas who?”
“The soccer pyer. I don't know his surname—it was hard to pronounce, so I forgot.”
“Are you serious?” said the other boy, looking at his friend with wide eyes. “Where is he?”
“He…. a truck struck him.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
Then the boy looked forward, and ran, following him, others ran, a beeping sound, may be of an ambunce, filled the air.
…
Thomas, whose consciousness had vanished in the blink of an eye, was gradually becoming aware again. At first he felt his existence, observed darkness, then felt his glutes on something soft. Sofa? Then a surging light forced him to cover his eyes, he slowly opened them, then lowered his hands.
He looked around and saw four white walls in four directions, lights falling from the ceiling, covering the room. There didn't seem to be any door or window, two sofas on either side and a dining table in the middle, dividing the whole room.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" Thomas shouted, then murmured while looking around, "What is this pce? Where the hell am I?”
He shouted again, with his on the sofa, “If this is one of those prank shows where they trap famous people, make them think they’re dead, and throw dumb questions at them—then listen up, I never cheated on my wife!"
"Whoa whoa, calm down."
Thomas spun around at the voice. A man in his 30s, cd in white suit and trousers, a fork in his hand, and an otherworldly energy escaping from both him and his clothing.
Noticing the fork, Thomas looked down. Thomas gnced over the table, and as far as it stretched, it was chicken cuisine.
Roast chicken, fried chicken, rotisserie chicken, and more…
"That's… chicken," Thomas said, dumbfounded by the sight before him.
"You want some?" the random guy said, passing a dish which was even unknown to Thomas.
“Pu… put him down, keep that from me," he staggered, jumping onto the sofa, pointing at the chicken, closer to the wall. "Seriously? What are you? A chicken addict?"
"What are you saying? This isn't what you should say," said the man. That was weird, wasn't it?
Thomas felt strange, as if the chicken addict wasn’t even a real person. As if someone was forcing him to talk, someone maniputing him, as if the man… was…was a marionette.
"That's weird," he muttered, with narrowed eyes.
Then looked up, feeling a greater presence from above. Although he couldn't see anything but the ceiling, he could sense the irritation of someone who was outside the cube, something far more mysterious than this man… something more than chicken.
"Who is there? Show your face," Thomas shouted, narrowing his eyes.
Someone outside the room—outside the universe, the dimension, existence itself—sat somewhere, maybe on a chair, inside a dark room. The room had nothing special, except it was extremely dark, and a subtle light coming from his front.
An unknown person. Their eyes covered in darkness, face reflecting his expression.
"What the hell is happening? Why isn't he moving according to my will? Is this the side effect of staying up till midnight, am I affected by some kind of mental illness? Am I going to die? But I haven’t even made my parents proud yet," the being muttered, pressing his temples with both hands.
"I can feel you. You're right there,”
He said pointing at the empty space. “What are you? Where am I?"
Thomas turned to look at the chicken addict. But… there was no one. Not even chicken.
It was only him, in middle of nowhere.
"What is this pce now? Where the fuck am I?" Thomas screamed, spinning around.
"What the fuck are you?" the outer being screamed.
Even though Thomas didn't hear anything, felt everything entering his brain directly.
"I should be the one asking all this. Am I having a fucking illusion? But I was always mentally healthy," Thomas said, looking at both of his hands.
"Fuuuuck," the upper being screamed, scratching his face.
The inner being screamed, holding his head, kneeling on the ground.
"Fuuuuuck."
"WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME?" the outer being screamed, holding the ptop.
"WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?” Thomas screamed, kneeling, hands on ground, lifting his head and chest.
"FUUUUUUUCK."
"FUUUUUUUUCK."
The upper being didn't scream further, facepalmed, rubbing his face, calmed himself. "Breathe in… breathe out….." He removed his hands and tried focusing again.
Thomas, from the middle of nowhere, in an instant, found himself back in the cubic room.
He turned towards the sofa on the other side of the table, hoping not to see the chicken addict.
This time, he was indeed there, with a big, wide mouth, ready to swallow a living chicken.
The chicken’s left eye met Thomas's, and they stared at each other in silence until the chicken crowed.
"FUUUUUUUUU…."
"FUU—"
From the world of outer being, his door smashed open, subtle light from outside came in, and in that light stood a human, "SHUT THE FISH UP.”
The being looked back, ignoring Thomas's fuck.
"What The Heck Is Wrong With You Stop Cursing, Let Everyone Sleep, Or We Will Kick You Out," she smmed the door back before leaving.
Thomas, noticing that the other person had quieted down, stayed silent for a few seconds, blinked twice, then tried sensing the other guy’s presence. "...Fuck?"
The word hung in silence.
After a minute of waiting, a weird smile appeared on his face. "Haha… I won. Yeah, I won the fuck battle! Zuuuuuui!" Thomas celebrated his victory, striking his signature pose.
He kept celebrating, screaming, then put his hand to the back of his ear, hoping to hear the audience—only silence was answered.
Thomas stood in silence for a while, confused, then he spoke, "Hello? Where did you go? Whoever you are?" He said, swiveling around.
After a few seconds, he then wandered aimlessly, as if searching for something. "Come on, there has to be an end somewhere. Where's the exit?" He ran, left to right, forward and backward, then next second, his eyes widened, and he spun around, lips parted to speak, but a calm, composed voice cut in.
Thomas didn’t bother screaming either. Might be because of the fear of silence, "I don't know, you tell me. From what I remember, I... I was about to kick a ball, then what happened? Where is this pce? Is this even Earth?"
Thomas’s eyes widened even further. "Did Earth get destroyed? Are we on Mars?"
“No…" The outer sighed, shaking his head. "That would take a long time."
He paused as a thought entered his mind. It took him a moment to process it all before he said, "You said you were kicking a ball? Did you just retire from football a few months ago? Forward pyer? From Europe?"
His eyebrows slightly raised, "Yeah, that's me. I'm Thomas, Thomas Szczepanowski… Wait…"
A sudden thought hit him, widening his eyes, "Am I being kidnapped by aliens for my performance in the World Cup?"
"No, no, no. This can't be it. I must be hallucinating," he muttered before spping himself. "That hurt…"
"What do you mean? What's happening? Tell me! Who are you? Where am I?" Thomas shouted into the emptiness.
A deep breath followed before the voice finally answered. "I think… I think you died."
"I… What?"
"Died."
Thomas kneeled down to the ground and lowered his head. "What would happen to my son, daughter? What would happen to my wife?"
Thomas lifted his head slowly, looking at the nothingness with a concerned face. He said, "She…. Would?"
“No… but…"
"Yes?"
A flower appeared in front of Thomas, drifting downward. His eyes followed it until he noticed the candles surrounding him.
Thomas looked up again as a soft bell chime echoed in the empty space.
Thomas lowered his gaze again, silently looking down at the white ground.
Outer stayed silent too. Why would he even say something like this in this situation? How could he rest after such an incident?
Then the insider lifted his head and said, "Wait, so you are the god?"
"Ohh…” Thomas looked at the emptiness, with no expression, “so you are… Jesus…?"
The writer looked at the ptop silently, not knowing what to say or think.
He pced his hand on his face, shoulders rexed and inhaled air. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not, I'm not… I'm not God." He pnted his hand on the desk. "You are in a story."
Thomas looked ahead, thought about the possibility for a second, then left eyebrow raised, right lowered, "hmm, I knew, there would be a story in my name but…"
"That's what I said, didn't I?" he said before pcing his finger on his chest. "Someone is writing a novel about me—."
“No, Dumbass,” Outer snapped, “Why would anyone write a story about you? Your life was perfect from the very beginning, there's nothing in it that could inspire anyone. Did dying make you lose your mind? Try using your brain for once, think outside the box!”
"My bad,” Thomas said, scratching the back of his head, “I guess I did lose my mind? Can you expin one more time?"
The boy exhaled sharply and composed himself. Breathe in, breathe out… Then he looked up and said, “I said, I think you're inside my web novel, as the protagonist—the one I'm writing… I guess.”
Thomas’s eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape. "Wait… is this some kind of transmigration?" His lips curled into a grin.
“Yes…” Outer mumbled. "Imagine it like you transmigrated into a fantasy world." He gestured toward his ptop. “And I'm... kinda like a god, the writer, " he added, pointing at himself, “I don't know how this is happening, but it seems like that is the case,”
"Ohh. Now I get it,” his eyebrows lifted, he nodded and continued, “So I've been transmigrated into a fantasy novel, and you're the author,", arms crossed.
"Yes, yes, there's more depth, but…. let's go with this for now," Outer sighed in relief, nodding slowly with a small smile.
"Then why didn't you just tell me directly?"
"Yeah."
"Wait, no—are you kidding me?" Thomas said, staring into the distance with narrowed eyes, then raised his eyebrows, and said "If you had told me I was sent to another world by a god to save it and all that hero stuff—maybe I'd believe you,” then his narrowed his eyes again, “but inside a novel? Are you serious?"
"I know it's hard to believe," Outer muttered, staring bnkly at the air for a few seconds before speaking again. "I don't know how this is happening either."
Thomas kept receiving the words, as he looked at the air,
Thomas side-eyed him, scratching his head. "I don't know… Maybe I'm just dreaming. probably will wake up in a few minutes."
Outer clenched his fist, his teeth grinding behind a forced smile. "Alright, let me help you wake up. If I'm right… then I… should be… able… to…"
Suddenly, the air around him filled with the smell of chicken shit. A lot of cooked chickens surrounded him and started attacking.
A chicken addict with chicken in his mouth. Chickens pying football. Oh no, he was now sitting on a chicken?
A twisted menacing grin stretched across his face, his fingers pressing together in a gesture of cold calcution, “Let me help you wake up,”