ETHAN DRAKE: WORLD HORIZON GAMES

The screen hummed with pale blue light, its faint buzz like a mosquito too small to swat. My fingers flew over the keyboard, every motion a calculated move. On the monitor, a pixelated avatar dodged an incoming projectile, rolled behind cover, and fired. A precise headshot. The screen erupted in neon celebration.

"Gotcha," I muttered, leaning back as the chair groaned beneath me. Victory should've felt better, but adrenaline had a funny way of overstaying its welcome. My eyes darted to the timer in the corner. 2:43 AM. Sleep was an abstract concept these days.

Then it hit me—a faint, acrid tang that clawed its way into my nostrils. Smoke. Not the cozy, "someone's burning toast" kind. This was sharper, heavier, with a metallic edge that tasted like panic.

I yanked off my headset, ears attuned to the muffled world outside. Distant voices mingled with the rise and fall of sirens.

"Burning? Where—?" My words trailed off as I stood, scanning the dim room.

Curtains drawn. Desk cluttered. The glow of the screen casting restless shadows. Everything seemed... fine. But that smell—

The window offered clarity. Flames clawed hungrily at the building across the courtyard, their orange tongues licking at the sky. A third-floor apartment. Figures below milled in frantic disarray, bathed in the strobe of red and blue lights.

"Not just one place," I murmured, my chest tightening.

---

[INT. Ethan's Apartment – Living Room]

My boots slapped against the hardwood as I moved with purpose. The bag was on the couch where I'd left it, half-packed with the essentials. Wallet. Passport. A folder with backup IDs. No time to grab anything else.

The hallway beyond my apartment door was chaos. Smoke hung thick in the air, blurring the lines of the cracked walls and overturned furniture. Somebody had bolted in a hurry. Shoes. A baby stroller. A toppled potted plant—its soil scattered like a breadcrumb trail.

I stepped cautiously, every creak of the floorboards a warning. Somewhere down the hall, a cough echoed—a deep, hacking sound.

---

[INT. Ethan's Apartment – Bedroom]

The closet door swung open with a groan, and I pulled out the small safe hidden beneath a stack of clothes. The dial turned beneath my fingertips, muscle memory guiding me. A sharp click, and it was open. I grabbed a bundle of cash, shoved it into the sling bag, and hesitated.

My phone's screen glared at me from the bed: No Signal.

"Perfect timing," I muttered, tossing it into the bag anyway.

A sound behind me. Not a cough, not footsteps—something heavier. Like the building itself shifting its weight.

The ceiling.

---

[INT. Ethan's Apartment – Hallway]

I barely made it into the hallway before the crack above me spread like a spiderweb. My head snapped upward.

"Not good," I muttered, already stepping back.

The ceiling gave way with a deafening crash, plaster and wood splintering onto the floor. Dust exploded into the air, coating my throat with grit. I stumbled, my boots skidding on loose debris.

And then came the wardrobe.

It must've been tipped when the ceiling collapsed. The hulking wooden mass leaned forward like a predator sizing me up. I dove, but not fast enough. It caught my legs, the weight pinning me to the ground.

The first thing I felt wasn't pain—it was heat.

"Move, damn it," I snarled, my palms pressed flat against the floor as I tried to shove the wardrobe off. My arms shook with effort, every muscle straining. The air thickened with smoke, stealing what little strength I had left.

Another groan from above. The building was angry now, its protests louder. A second shower of debris rained down.

I felt it before I saw it—a searing heat licking at my side, the fire finally catching up.

---

Everything blurred. Shapes and colors bled together. My head lolled to the side, and I caught the faint outline of boots stomping toward me. Shouts. A light cutting through the smoke.

"Over here! He's alive!"

Alive. Barely.

I coughed, the sound scraping against my throat like sandpaper. A face loomed over me, framed by a fireman's helmet. His voice was distant, distorted by the mask.

"You're gonna be okay. Stay with me."

I wanted to laugh. Or maybe I did. It came out as a wheeze.

"Guess... game over," I rasped, my vision tunneling.

The last thing I saw was the ceiling above me—cracked, blistered, holding on by a thread.

And then, nothing.