Page 2 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

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 the incomprehensible, 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 to Enolyn: 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 screamed I’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 were walking, 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.

In class, I could challenge their ideas and engage in debates—that academic armor gave me confidence.

But the moment the discussion veered toward anything personal or the bell rang, that courage evaporated.

The thought of applying to join the Ironstriders?

Terrifying. Asking them about anything beyond coursework?

Impossible. So I remained in my self-imposed exile outside of class discussions, admiring from afar, dreaming of a day when I might work up the nerve to connect with them as people rather than just professors.

I was so lost in thoughts of my professors—ahem, I mean, guild leaders—that I almost missed my stop. Scrambling to my feet, I just barely made it through the doors before they closed. The station was nearly deserted, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space as I made my way to the exit.

Emerging from the subway into the night’s embrace, thoughts of food and my hopeless crush haunted me more than any ghost could. My mind churned with pizza toppings and ridiculous scenarios where I somehow impressed Wes and Cole with my wit and charm. Yeah, right.

The streets were surprisingly busy for this time of night. New York, the city that never sleeps—or at least has a severe case of insomnia. I navigated through the crowds, my stomach leading the way toward the nearest pizza place that might still be open.

That’s when I heard it—a screech of tires that cut through the night like a knife. My head snapped up, eyes searching for the source of the sound.

A cacophony of honks sliced through the air like a knife through my cheese-filled, crush-laden daydreams. The world snapped into sharp focus as I spotted a woman and her child frozen like deer in headlights—an oncoming truck barreling toward them with unyielding momentum.

Time seemed to slow. In that moment, I wasn’t Beau the awkward nerd.

I was Lucien Noir, the King of Darkness, faced with a real-life boss battle.

Without processing the decision fully, I darted forward.

My legs, usually reserved for shuffling between my bed and my computer chair, pumped with a strength I didn’t know I possessed.

I reached the pair just as the truck’s headlights illuminated their terrified faces. With a grunt that was far from heroic, I shoved them clear, feeling a rush of relief as they tumbled safely onto the sidewalk.

But physics, that cruel mistress, wasn’t done with me yet. My moment of triumph was cut short as I realized I was now in the direct path of two tons of speeding metal. The truck horn blared one final warning, a banshee wail heralding my impending doom.

Pain exploded across my body as I was thrown into the air.

For a brief, surreal moment, I had a perfect view of the night sky, the stars twinkling indifferently at my plight.

Then gravity remembered I existed, and I came crashing down.

The cold pavement kissed my cheek with all the tenderness of a jackhammer.

Dizziness took hold as colors danced before my eyes, the world spinning like I was trapped in some sadistic merry-go-round. Not exactly how I planned to end my night, but at least it wasn’t another phone call.

As darkness crept in, I realized it wasn’t just my skin that was pale—the world itself had lost its color.

Regrets filled me—why hadn’t I eaten? Would OpenSesame deliver to the afterlife?

If reincarnation was real, maybe next time I’d be someone who lived life fuller—someone like Lucien Noir.

Or at least someone who remembered to have dinner before playing hero.

My last conscious thought wasn’t of the life I’d saved or even of my beloved Wes and Cole. No, in true Beau fashion, it was, “I really wish I’d had that pizza.” At least there’s no overtime where I’m going.

As the world faded to black, I couldn’t help but think, if this was the end, it was a pretty anticlimactic way to go. No epic boss battle, no legendary loot drop—just a splat on the pavement and a grumbling stomach.