Dear Diary,

  When opportunity comes knocking on the door, are you going to welcome it in for a cup of tea, or are you going to check the peephole, panic, and pretend to be out? For the past few years, Annabell Smith had opted for the latter.

  Now, however, as she ran for her usual hiding space under her bed—just to make sure Opportunity really got the message—the cluttered space rudely refused her presence. Which was a problem, because it was becoming increasingly clear that, if the call to adventure had just arrived at her doorstep, the world had, at last, become even less sane than her.

  Annabell Smith wasn’t sure if that was a world she was brave enough to tackle.

  ***

  Sat cross-legged on her bed, Annabell idly flicked her new copper coin (looted from an unfortunate “debt collector”) into the air. The coin spun, caught the light, and dropped neatly into her palm.

  This was deeply suspicious.

  Annabell had never been particularly good at catching things. Or throwing them. Or, in fact, doing much of anything that required hand-eye coordination. If she attempted to toss a ball, it was a universal truth that the ball would somehow end up behind her, and possibly in a different postal code.

  Yet here was a coin, landing perfectly in her hand every time, as though summoned.

  She narrowed her eyes at it.

  "Wallace," she murmured, glancing at the stuffed bulldog seated beside her, his beady eyes glinting with silent, cotton-filled contemplation. "I think I might have acquired superpowers."

  The plushie did not react. Plushies rarely did.

  She leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "They're going to find me, Wallace. They're going to lock me up and study my brilliance for the rest of my life. The people with lab coats and poky sticks are coming for me."

  A dramatic pause.

  “If they can catch me, that is!”

  With all the confidence of someone who had just declared the laws of physics optional, Annabell leapt to her feet, flung the coin recklessly over her shoulder, spun around, and blindly held out her hand behind her back.

  The coin landed neatly in her palm.

  A moment of stunned silence.

  Then—

  "HAHAHAHAHA!"

  Annabell let out the kind of cackle that villains might consider a bit over-the-top.

  A manic grin spread across her face. She struck a heroic pose, raising the coin high above her head like a legendary artifact of questionable power and great shininess.

  "Behold! I am Lady Coin-Flip! The Shiny always returns!"

  Still cackling like someone who had just discovered a loophole in reality and intended to exploit it, Annabell took a step toward her bed and immediately regretted it. Her foot caught on something (possibly her other foot, which had been lurking there with suspicious intent), and toppled like a flailing windmill. By sheer, dumb luck—or, as she preferred to think of it, raw athletic prowess—she avoided a face-first introduction to the floor with a move that would have looked graceful to anyone who wasn’t actually watching.

  Unfortunately, the coin was less impressed by her performance and promptly slipped from her fingers.

  Logic dictated that it should have clattered to the ground. Or smacked into the wall from reckless propulsion. That was what coins did. That was their job. Instead, it now hesitated midair, made a decision, and reversed direction, plopping itself snugly back into her hand like an exceptionally loyal boomerang.

  ***

  Somewhere beyond the apartment walls, the local undead—who were mostly minding their own business, which occasionally involved eating other people’s business—would later speak in hushed, gurgling tones about the unsettling sounds that followed. Echoing through the early morning hour were high-pitched peals of laughter and the occasional wild yell about “UNFATHOMABLE POWER!”

  It was, by all accounts, a bit much.

  ***

  “Deliver your report, Sergeant Wallace,” Annabell commanded in the official tone of someone who had absolutely no idea what an official tone sounded like.

  Sergeant Wallace, sat atop her head, did not reply. Possibly because he was a stuffed bulldog.

  Pushing herself up onto her tiptoes, Annabell squinted out the stairwell window. Below, at the entrance to her apartment complex, a small crowd had gathered. A crowd of them.

  The undead carriers-of-shinies.

  When her WiFi went out, Annabell had fully accepted that the world was over. Not metaphorically, not in an "Oh no, I can’t binge-watch my favorite show" kind of way, but in a very real, civilization-has-collapsed, society-is-doomed, stockpile-the-snacks-and-weep sort of way.

  Now, there was only the System screen to guide her through this new dark age, a glowing, slightly smug rectangle that had yet to explain exactly why reality had decided to update itself without her permission. But if the System wanted to direct her toward acquiring more shinies without requiring any actual work, who was Annabell to complain?

  Chocolaty Mana Bar Consumed. Rolling for Boon...

  Energy Boost Obtained:

  Endurance: +1

  Sticky Fingers Obtained:

  Everything thou touches shall bear the holy chocolate print!

  Annabell nodded solemnly as she tossed the crumpled chocolate wrapper over her shoulder. She then licked the remaining chocolate off her fingers and began creeping down the hallway with all the stealth of a cat burglar who had just discovered roller skates.

  From her highly scientific estimation—based on counting until she got bored—there were at least eight hovering health bars and name tags down on the street. Probably no more than fifty, and each belonging to a different member of the local undead welcome committee who were currently engaged in a vigorous, if a somewhat uncoordinated, effort to bang their hands against the apartment complex’s entrance.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Safe Zone Invasion Imminent

  Time Remaining: 22:04:13…

  A plan was, traditionally, a very good thing to have in situations like this. In most situations where it came down to dealing with a horde of ravenous undead, in fact. The problem was that Annabell didn’t have one. Yet. Perhaps there was a spare one lying around somewhere?

  “Isn’t this all a bit convenient, Wallace?” she mused, testing door handles as she meandered down the hallway. “Just earlier tonight, I was wondering how to make money, and now, it’s like the universe leaned over and said, ‘Hey there, pretty young lady, here’s an exciting new career opportunity you can do without leaving home!’ It’s almost—”

  One of the handles gave under her fingers, and she paused mid-thought.

  “Say, if the apocalypse has happened, then surely no one will mind if I claim this entire complex as my new home, will they? I mean, my own apartment was starting to feel a bit cramped…”

  Wallace, from his esteemed position atop her head, offered no objections. This was precisely why she trusted him.

  With a shrug, she shoved the door open.

  Instance Entered: Rotting Phil’s Final Resting Place (Level 2)

  “Oh, lucky,” Annabell said, stepping inside. “Looks like no one’s been living here for years.”

  This was obvious from the way the shoes inside were arranged in neat, orderly rows. No one—and Annabell could not stress this enough—no one put their shoes like that if they intended to wear them again. Ever. It was a known fact that human nature dictated shoes should be kicked off in a chaotic jumble, preferably somewhere they could be tripped over later.

  “So, technically,” she continued, “even if what I’m doing right now could be considered trespassing through some weird legal loophole, there won’t be anyone left to press charges…right?”

  Wallace, as always, remained judiciously silent.

  “Fine, fine,” Annabell groaned. “I’ll be polite about it.”

  She took a deep breath and then, in her most professional tones, called out:

  “Hello~? Anybody home~? The world outside has gone a bit weird, so I was wondering if I could ransack your place in my quest for a great fortune of shiny coins? Hello~?”

  She waited.

  Nothing.

  “Well,” she said, stepping inside, “that’s legally binding enough for—”

  A low, guttural groan came from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, followed by the unmistakable sound of something shuffling, stumbling, and then colliding with a door.

  “—me.”

  Annabell chewed her lip for a moment. “Thump twice if you mind me being here?”

  A singular thump echoed through the apartment.

  “See, Wallace? That was only one thump. They don’t mind,” Annabell said, nodding with the smug certainty of someone who had just won an argument no one else was having. “Now, where was I…”

  A second thump rattled the walls.

  Annabell let out a groan. That was definitely two.

  Either she was locked in here with a disgruntled elder who was going to litigate against their uninvited guest, or—her eyes sparkled at the thought—“Another shiny to be collected.”

  She gasped theatrically.

  “Hold on, old friend! Rescue is on the way!” she bellowed as she turned to hurriedly shut and lock the door behind her, then continued in a sinister whisper, “I’ll definitely save you from the clutches of whatever wrinkly old hands are keeping you from me, my precious shiny.”

  A mad cackle.

  Setting Wallace down with great reverence (his tactical advice was needed elsewhere), she immediately launched into a series of cartwheels down the apartment’s short hallway, lined with family photos and faded wallpaper.

  Most people, upon locking themselves inside a confined space with what was probably a flesh-eating horror, would do something practical, like formulating a plan. A particularly wise person might even do this before shutting and locking any doors.

  Annabell Smith was neither most people nor particularly wise.

  She was beyond such feeble concepts.

  She was a visionary.

  So, if she had a skill labeled Emergency Escape, she would use it to charge directly toward the very door that was now shaking ominously, because said skill also included something about Cartwheels. In Annabell’s eyes, that was both a highly entertaining and an incredibly efficient way of traveling down hallways.

  Which was how she now found herself outside the apartment’s single bathroom—Emergency Escape: 01:53 before next use—giggling wildly from the tumbling experience. The door rattled from within. Perhaps in quiet protest toward the bowl of keys and poorly balance vase that had, rudely and quite loudly, sacrificed themselves in an attempt to block her intrusion.

  They had failed.

  With Wallace left to guard the entrance—to ensure Phil didn't run away from his rescue—Annabell kicked the bathroom door open and bellowed, “Bring me my shinies, you old miser!”

  Instance Boss Encountered: Rotting Phil (Level 2)

  Rotting Phil—once just Regular Phil, a man whose most exciting adventure had involved shaking his fist at teenagers who walked too close to his hydrangeas—had been flirting with the concept of ‘living death’ even before his unfortunate demise. With wrinkles that’d now taken on an unhealthy shade of grayish-blue; watery eyes locked in an eternal scowl; and white hair having long since faded into a half-forgotten, patchy memory; he wasn’t the most intimidating figure even in zombie form.

  Unfortunately, that was how Phil had been fooling people for years. And slipping on the bathroom floor, hitting his head, and subsequently being resurrected as a shambling dungeon mob with all the grace of a damp breadstick had not improved his temperament—it had merely removed his need for hydration.

  Now, Annabell’s triumphant demand was met with a gurgling snarl as the hunched-over undead elder lunged—or at least, leaned forward with intent. Apparently, even as the entire world became a Dungeon, some parts of reality remained as cruel as ever.

  To Annabell, it introduced itself by means of an aluminum walker slamming directly into her shins.

  “Ah, shoot!”

  With a pained yelp, she staggered backward as a holographic notification informed her she had just lost 1 of her 9 precious HP.

  She glanced at Phil’s health bar. 11 HP, all intact.

  That was a rather disappointing ratio.

  Also, a deeply concerning one, given how enthusiastically Rotting Phil was now hobbling toward her.

  Annabell had barely scuttled further down the hallway, nearly tripping on the rug, before the elder came at her with all the unrelenting determination of a pensioner who had just spotted an unclaimed seat on public transport.

  His walker led the charge, and a stumble later, Annabell found herself pressed up against an antique secretaire, decorative porcelain rattling and arms locked in an increasingly desperate struggle against the aluminum menace.

  “Hey, that hurts, you old bugger!” she huffed, as Phil continued to snarl and snap at her face.

  The undead elder responded with more guttural sneering and a renewed attempt to bite her to death.

  "That's how you want to play, huh?" Annabell wheezed, leaning back as far as she could without actually achieving spontaneous levitation. "Then take... THIS!"

  Might Check…

  A holographic die materialized before her eyes, rolling through the air with an ethereal shimmer. It landed on a 3.

  Good Enough!

  With a battle cry that sounded something like “Ho-RA!”, she shoved the entire walker sideways.

  With a noise that was one half surprise and the other half very surprised, Rotting Phil lost his balance and toppled like a decayed domino.

  He hit the ground in a heap of cracking joints and wrinkled flesh, releasing a dramatic, warbling gurgle.

  Rotting Phil HP -3

  "HAHA!" Annabell cackled, throwing her head back in the universally recognized posture of villainous triumph. "Fear the Mighty Lady Coin-Flip, you old bag of bones!"

  Rotting Phil did not.

  Still snarling and sprawled on the floor like a scarily determined rug, Rotting Phil snatched for the one thing within range—her shins.

  "Ah, hey, stop that!" she yelped, attempting to extract herself from the situation, only to be blocked by an inconveniently placed wall.

  Rotting Phil did, in fact, not stop that.

  "Wallace, HELP!"

  Wallace did not help.

  The stuffed bulldog continued to watch from the doorway, radiating the quiet disinterest of… well, frankly, a bored plushy.

  “Emergency Escape: ACTIVATE!”

  Strangely enough, yelling out the skills name didn’t do anything about its cooldown.

  With 00:37 remaining, Annabell’s attempted cartwheel ended up entirely dependent on her own physical abilities.

  Which might have been why, instead of performing a dazzling, acrobatic retreat, she merely propelled herself directly into the same secretaire that’d been blocking her earlier retreat with the velocity of a launched potato. The porcelain collectibles carefully lined on top? Tragically lost to the Great Clatter.

  She had barely bounced off the lacquered surface with a yelp as Rotting Phil latched onto her foot with the enthusiasm of a teething infant.

  Luckily for Annabell, prior to his death, Rotting Phil had been the sort of man who left his dentures in a glass of water at night.

  Unluckily for Annabell, this meant that, rather than the sharp bite of undead teeth, she was instead subjected to the horrific, squelching horror of ancient, rotting gumming—treating her foot like an undead pacifier.

  Annabell HP -2

  "WALLACE! HELP ME!"

  Wallace did not move.

  Wallace did not blink.

  Wallace merely observed.

  Per his decree, the epic battle between Annabell and Rotting Phil had merely begun.

  Annabell HP: 6/9

  Rotting Phil HP: 8/11