The Golden L twisted in John’s hands.

  The metal warped, folded, and finally snapped into the shape of an ace.

  Not a card this time.

  A symbol.

  A key.

  The stadium lights flickered.

  The cheering crowd faded like bad reception on an old television.

  John sighed.

  “Here we go again.”

  The ground disappeared.

  Gravity politely excused itself.

  Then—

  thump.

  John landed on a sticky floor.

  Music was playing.

  Loud.

  Distorted guitars screamed from a stage somewhere across the room.

  The air smelled like old coffee, wet flannel, and a thousand cigarettes that had gone out badly.

  John sat up.

  A dim neon sign buzzed above the bar.

  WELCOME TO SEATTLE

  1993

  John blinked.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Oh no.”

  The people around him were leaning against walls, sitting on cracked couches, staring at the stage with expressions that suggested mild boredom was a full-time profession.

  Nobody clapped.

  Nobody cheered.

  They just… watched.

  A band finished a song that sounded like a lawnmower fighting depression.

  The singer dropped the microphone.

  The crowd nodded slightly.

  “Pretty good,” someone muttered.

  John stood up and dusted off his jacket.

  “This place feels familiar.”

  A cosmic notification flickered faintly above the bar.

  REALITY LAYER DETECTED

  GRUNGE UNIVERSE

  John squinted at it.

  “Let me guess.”

  He pointed around the room.

  “Nobody tries?”

  The message updated.

  CORE RULE

  Effort = FailureApathy = Success

  John groaned.

  “You’re kidding.”

  A guy in a flannel shirt walked past him carrying a guitar.

  “You new?” the guy asked.

  “Yeah.”

  The guy shrugged.

  “Cool.”

  Then he kept walking.

  John looked around the club again.

  The band started another song.

  It was worse.

  John climbed onto the stage.

  The guitarist stopped playing.

  The singer stared at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  John grabbed the microphone.

  “I’m gonna show you how to win this.”

  He started playing the guitar.

  Perfectly.

  Fast.

  Technical.

  A flawless solo.

  The kind of thing that would melt faces anywhere else.

  The crowd stared.

  Then someone booed.

  “Try-hard.”

  Another person groaned.

  “Sellout energy.”

  The cosmic notification appeared.

  RESULT: PLAYER FAILURE

  John lowered the guitar.

  “Oh.”

  Right.

  Trying too hard was losing.

  Which meant…

  John slowly put the guitar down.

  He walked over to the microphone.

  And shrugged.

  “Whatever.”

  The band looked confused.

  John strummed one lazy chord.

  Missed the next one.

  Let the guitar feedback scream for thirty seconds.

  Then he dropped the instrument and sat on the edge of the stage.

  The crowd nodded approvingly.

  “Authentic,” someone said.

  The cosmic notification appeared again.

  RESULT: PLAYER SUCCESS

  John sighed.

  “Great.”

  In the Loserverse he had to lose.

  In the Grunge Universe he had to not care.

  He leaned against an amplifier.

  The singer lit a cigarette.

  “You want to join the band?” he asked.

  John shrugged.

  “Sure.”

  The singer nodded.

  “Cool.”

  Nobody else reacted.

  John leaned back and looked at the ceiling.

  Somewhere far away, beyond the haze of cigarette smoke and distorted guitars, the House was watching again.

  The anomaly had entered another system.

  Another rule set.

  And once again—

  John Six Aces was already figuring out how to play it.

  Even if he looked like he absolutely didn’t care.