James sat at the kitchen table staring at the empty shepherd's pie dish.
His eyes were red from crying. His throat hurt. The flat was quiet except for the clock on the wall. He had been sitting there for twenty minutes without moving.
A key scraped in the lock.
The door opened and his mother stepped inside carrying two shopping bags. She was wearing her cleaning company uniform, the plain blue shirt with her name tag still pinned to it. She looked exhausted, with deep lines around her eyes from three days of no sleep.
Her eyes went to the kitchen table and she froze when she saw James.
The bags dropped from her hands. Groceries spilled across the floor. A can of beans rolled under the table. Bread landed next to her feet. She didn't move to pick anything up. She just stared at him.
James stood up.
His mother rushed forward and grabbed him. She pulled him into a hug so tight he could barely breathe. Her whole body shook while her hands pressed against his back.
James wrapped his arms around her and held on.
She didn't say anything. Neither did he. They stood there in the middle of their cramped flat while groceries lay scattered on the floor and the clock kept ticking.
His mother pulled back and grabbed his face with both hands.
Tears ran down her cheeks. She touched his hair, his shoulders, his arms, checking for injuries.
"Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"
James shook his head, but she was already lifting his shirt before he could answer. She saw the pink scar across his abdomen and went still. Her fingers hovered over it without touching.
"What happened?" Her voice cracked on the words.
James pulled his shirt down. "Got stabbed. System healed it when I came back."
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she slapped him across the face.
Not hard, but sharp enough to sting. James's head turned slightly from the impact, but he didn't pull away.
"Three days," she said. Her voice shook. "Three days I prayed and worked and waited and didn't know if you were dead. And you come back with a stab wound."
James met her eyes. "I'm alive."
"Barely."
She slapped him again, lighter this time, then pulled him into another hug. She cried against his shoulder while her hands gripped the back of his shirt.
James let her hold him and didn't say anything else.
They sat across from each other at the kitchen table.
His mother had made tea with shaking hands. The cups sat between them steaming. She stared at the scar visible where his shirt rode up slightly.
James told her about the Tutorial in broad strokes.
Five people went in. Four came back. Someone named Liam died in the first fight. He didn't give details about goblins or screaming or how Liam's chest got torn open by a wooden spear. He just said that one person didn't make it and the System sent the body home.
His mother's cup rattled when she set it down.
"And you're going back."
It wasn't a question.
James nodded. "Floor 1. Then Floor 2. All the way to 300."
She closed her eyes and took a slow breath.
"I can't stop you."
"No."
"You're just like your father. Stubborn and stupid and brave." She opened her eyes and they were wet. "He thought he could beat it too."
James's jaw tightened. "I'm not Dad. I won't die on Floor 18."
"You'll die somewhere else instead."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'll make it further than anyone and we won't have to live like this anymore."
His mother looked around the cramped flat. The peeling wallpaper, the broken heating, the water stains on the ceiling. She looked back at James.
"I'd rather have you alive in this flat than rich and dead."
"You might get both," James said quietly.
His mother reached across the table and grabbed his hand. She squeezed hard enough that her knuckles went white.
"Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't take stupid risks."
James squeezed back. "I promise."
They both knew he was lying, but she needed to hear it anyway.
James changed into his least worn-out clothes.
He pulled on jeans with small holes in the knees and a faded jacket that used to be black but had washed out to grey. His boots were scuffed with the soles coming loose on one side, but they were the only pair he owned.
Registration at the Tower Resource Bureau was standard procedure for all Tutorial survivors. He needed his official Challenger ID before he could buy gear for Floor 1 or sell any loot he earned later.
His mother watched from the doorway with her arms crossed.
"Where are you going?"
"The Tower Resource Bureau. I need to get registered."
She nodded slowly. "Will you be home for dinner?"
"I'll be back by then."
He walked to the door and she followed. She grabbed his arm before he could leave.
"James."
He turned around.
She looked like she wanted to say something important but couldn't find the words. Her mouth opened and closed twice. Finally she said, "Be safe."
James nodded and walked out.
The door closed behind him. He stood in the hallway of their building for a moment. Graffiti covered the walls in layers of spray paint. The light fixture overhead had been broken for months. The air smelled like piss and mold.
He headed down the stairs toward the street.
Dublin Tower was visible from anywhere in the city. The black spire rose into the sky, tall enough that James had never once seen the top of it. He walked toward it.
The Tower Resource Bureau building sat three blocks from Dublin Tower.
It was modern glass and steel construction that looked out of place among the older brick buildings surrounding it. Government money had built this while leaving the rest of the neighborhood to rot.
James walked through the front doors into a lobby with polished floors and white walls. Everything was clean and bright and cold. Signs pointed to different departments: REGISTRATION, LOOT APPRAISAL, CURRENCY EXCHANGE, LEGAL SERVICES, GUILD LICENSING.
He followed the arrow to REGISTRATION.