Evan West hated long drives at night.
Not because he was scared of the dark or the quiet, but because that's when his mind wandered too much. The longer the road stretched ahead, empty and endless under yellow highway lights, the more space his thoughts had to take over—thoughts about what he was doing with his life, where he was going, and what his future would look like.
His old rust-red sedan hummed down the highway, the only other sound a low classic rock track playing from the car's aging stereo. The kind of music his dad used to listen to.
"Three hours up, three hours back," he muttered.
He didn't regret visiting his sister. He never did. It was his day off—and he didn't get many chances to visit his sister at Binghamton University. The spring semester had ended, but his sister - just finishing her first year - had already found a summer internship at the university, and had decided to stay.
The look on her face when he surprised her was worth the drive, the long shift the day before, and the overtime he picked up to cover it all. Then she tried to give him grief about sending money again, but he brushed her off like always.
She didn't understand. Sure, the scholarship covered her immediate expenses. But he wanted her to enjoy college—to go out with friends, to live a little without constantly worrying about money.
He'd tried handing her the $500 in cash. She refused, told him to keep it for once and spend it on himself.
So it was still in his wallet, folded tight and stuffed next to a worn-out photo of the two of them, taken years ago before the accident.
Before the weight of everything had come crashing down. When he used to dream about the same things he wished for her now, until real life hit at sixteen and didn't let go.
That was the year their parents died. Car crash. Fast and final. After that, the house they'd grown up in—the one their parents were still paying off—got taken. Bills piled up like bricks. He dropped out before junior year even started. Construction jobs were the only ones that didn't ask too many questions or require a diploma.
Four years later, here he was. Twenty years old, no high school degree, barely scraping rent for a one-bedroom in Hell's Kitchen. The place still smelled like the last guy's cigarette habit. But it was theirs. It kept them warm. And it was close enough to the work site to walk when the subway went on strike again.
The fuel gauge blinked red.
Evan sighed and took the next exit, the sign pointing toward a 24-hour gas station about a mile down. The road narrowed, winding through a quiet stretch of nowhere. No streetlights, just the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional flicker of wildlife crossing signs.
The station appeared like a mirage—neon lights buzzing, one flickering weakly above the door. A single car was parked near the pumps. Evan pulled in, parked, and stretched before stepping out into the crisp air. The silence felt… still. Too still.
Inside, he grabbed an energy drink and some chips, half to keep himself awake, half because he hadn't eaten since noon. The guy at the register didn't look up as Evan paid, just grunted and nodded toward the door. Back outside, Evan started filling up the tank, eyes drifting toward the sky.
It was one of those rare nights where you could almost see stars over the smog.
Back in his car, Evan sighed and leaned back in the driver's seat, letting the engine idle. The dashboard clock blinked 11:34 PM. He'd be back in the city by one.
Then his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
A black sedan had pulled into the station. Parked behind him. Lights still on.
Another vehicle, a dark blue pickup, rolled in from the other entrance and stopped ahead, blocking the exit.
Evan's fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
"Seriously?" he whispered, throat going dry.
His car door opened before he could react. A man in a black hoodie leaned in, the brim of a baseball cap pulled low over his face. He didn't look wild. Didn't even seem angry. Just… calm. Too calm.
"Get out," the man said flatly. "Nice and slow."
From the pickup, another guy stepped out—bigger, bulkier. Wore gloves despite the mild weather. His stance was deliberate. Confident.
"Alright, alright…" Evan got out, keeping his hands visible.
He reached into his wallet and pulled out the $500 he hadn't given his sister. "This is all I've got. Take it. Just leave the car."
The man took the money, barely glancing at it. He shoved it into his pocket and jerked his head toward the sidewalk.
"Keys. Walk."
Evan blinked. "Come on, man. It's not worth much. The paint's peeling, one window doesn't roll down. It's old. It was my dad's."
The man didn't respond. He raised a hand, and the second guy started toward Evan.
Something in Evan cracked.
He wasn't a fighter. He'd been in a few scraps growing up, sure. But something about watching this stranger reach for his keys, like he was entitled to them—like Evan was nothing but an obstacle—it twisted something in his chest.
He swung first.
It wasn't clean or smart. Just raw instinct. His fist hit the guy's shoulder, barely moving him. Then pain exploded across his ribs as he took a punch that lifted him off his feet.
Stars danced behind his eyes. A boot struck his side.
He couldn't breathe.
The next one was fast— an elbow to his jaw.
He staggered, head spinning. Then another blow to his ribs, then a kick that dropped him to the ground.
The asphalt scraped his palms. His mouth tasted like iron.
The voices blurred.
"You stupid or just stubborn?"
"Should've walked."
Another kick. Then hands on his jacket, dragging him up, slamming him against the hood.
Everything spun. Lights. Darkness. Pain.
His body screamed, but some part of him refused to let go. Refused to collapse.
The pain built up in his skull, pressure behind the eyes. His breath hitched.
And then—
The world stopped.
Just like that.
No warning.
No transition.
Time froze.
The man holding him was suspended mid-shout, mouth open. The hum of the car's engine halted mid-pulse.
Something flickered in front of him.
A glow in his mind's eye. Like a vision—but not quite.
A rectangle of light hovered just inches from his face.
It looked like… foil? A wrapper?
No—a pack.
The imagery on the front was strange: a dragon surrounded by a ring of symbols in gold.
The Legend of Blue Eyes White Dragon.
Then the top was split open and nine rectangular shapes slid out, they floated in a gentle arc before him. Intricately designed, though unlike anything he recognized. Cards, each etched with symbols and glowing borders that shifted as he tried to focus on them.
He didn't understand what they were.
Didn't know what this meant.
Each one shimmered with its own energy. Inked illustrations—beasts, warriors, magicians. But none of it made sense. Each had a name, in a language that felt almost familiar but wasn't, yet understandable all the same.
His eyes locked onto the first card.
It almost seemed to be… watching him.
A figure in a black tuxedo stood grinning from the art. Red skin. Green eyes. A devil's smile.
The name: not one he knew, but he could read it clearly.
Witty Phantom
The moment his gaze focused on the card, the others vanished in a burst of light.
Then the quiet shattered.
And he screamed.
The world came rushing back with a crash of noise and breath.
His back hit the hood of his car. His attackers jolted—as if something had shoved them both back a step.
Evan sat up fast.
"What the—" the taller man said, but his voice cracked.
Something else was there now.
Something beside him.
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