Every hero has an origin story.
Thankfully, Max never made the mistake of thinking they were the same.
Knowing where they came from and how exactly they got tangled in all this mythic nonsense is worth a look for the casual reader.
And the not-so-casual ones who suspect there’s more going on behind the curtain.
So here it is. Told in their own words.
With a bit of help.
A little interference.
A few complaints from Leif, who insists this montage undermines narrative structure.
The city was humid, and the rent was due. The granola bar was stale, and the metaphor was worse.
But the detective was on the case.
Even if they didn’t know what the case was yet.
Welcome to the beginning.
Or at least—the part Max is willing to tell you.
It was a Tuesday. A cursed Tuesday.
The kind of Tuesday that slinks into your apartment uninvited, eats your cereal, and reminds you that your rent’s overdue and your dignity’s on a long-term vacation.
Don’t oversell it. It was just raining.
Shut up.
It was a muggy day.
The blinds were drawn. The lightbulb flickered like it owed me money. Somewhere on the desk, a half-eaten granola bar was making friends with a stack of unopened mail. My laptop hummed like an accomplice. All in all, the room had the vibe of a haunted startup—and I was the ghost who forgot to pivot.
No one talks like this.
Detectives talk like this. Cool ones.
I was down to my last metaphor and half a cup of cold tea. My to-do list had turned into a novel-length horror manuscript, and I’d read none of it. Laundry: ignored. Therapy homework: ghosted. My reflection: avoided at all costs.
Which brings us to the crime.
A job board.
The sleaziest kind. Sketchier than a cursed tome left in a discount bin. I scrolled past scams, unpaid internships, and listings that were one typo from summoning a demon.
Then I saw it.
Remote Research Assistant.
Must be detail-oriented. Comfortable with irregular hours, vague instructions, and potentially eldritch content. Pay negotiable. Discretion vital.
No company name. No logo. Just those five lines and a red button that said’ Apply Now.’
Don’t click it. It’s a trap.
Admiral Ackbar?
It seemed appropriate…
I clicked.
A new screen popped up instantly:
Immediate Interview Available. Connect Now?
I narrowed my eyes.
This is the part in the movie where the detective walks into the warehouse alone, wearing a trench coat that flaps in the wind, carrying a loaded gun, and with a broken heart. Only I didn’t have a trench coat or a weapon—just anxiety and questionable Wi-Fi.
I clicked again.
The Zoom window opened.
And then, he appeared.
Older man. Salt-and-ash beard. Eyepatch. Corduroy jacket, like he taught history in a school no one remembered. And behind him? A plastic raven. On a bookshelf. Perched like judgment itself.
He looked directly at the camera. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.
He looked like a man who’d seen too much and filed it alphabetically: a relic, a riddle, a potential war crime with good taste in lighting…
Hey! My story, remember?
Sorry, just paraphrasing what I saw that day. Please continue.
Then he spoke.
“You’re monologuing.”
I froze. “…What?”
He tilted his head. “You’re narrating your life like a bad detective novel. I can hear it. In your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes. They’re doing the thing. The… haunted gumshoe thing. It’s deafening.”
Who even are you?
You’re just embarrassed I called you out. Continue.
I cleared my throat. “So, uh… You’re the mysterious employer?”
He sighed. “Let’s not flatter the moment. I’m Leif. You applied to work with me about… thirty-seven seconds ago.”
“I—right. Yes. Cool. Normal.”
He leaned forward slightly. One eye is as sharp as winter. “And you are Max.”
“Last I checked.”
“No last name?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Someone who doesn’t care.”
“…Fair.”
He looked at something offscreen, muttered to himself, then returned his gaze to me.
“You sent me a reel,” he said, like he was listing war crimes. “Edited footage of one of my lectures. With animated runes and sarcastic subtitles.”
“It got views,” I said.
“It also summoned a very confused bird spirit.”
“…Cool?”
He didn’t laugh.
“I was going to delete it,” he said. “But then I watched it again. And again. And I realized something.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not just some digital gremlin. You’re a craftsman.”
He said it like a verdict.
My mouth opened. Closed. “That’s… generous.”
He waved a hand. “Don’t let it go to your head. You still use Comic Sans for sarcasm.”
“Only ironically!”
“There’s no such thing as ironic font choice.”
Okay, this guy’s unhinged.
And you’re about to work for him.
I haven’t agreed to anything—
“You’ll take the job,” he said.
“I—wait, that was the interview?”
“That was the interview.”
“You didn’t ask anything!”
“I watched your work. I read your metadata. I consulted three ravens and a coffee stain. It’s done.”
“You consulted a what now?”
He ignored that.
“You’ll start tomorrow. I’ll send the first assignment via encrypted archive. Could you not open it in public? Or on a full moon. We’ll go over pay after you survive.”
“Survive what?”
He smiled. It wasn’t comforting.
“I like you,” he said. “You’re weird. And you don’t flinch.”
Then the Zoom window blinked out.
Just gone.
No goodbye. No end call. No Zoom sound effect. Just me, in my hoodie, staring at my screen like it owed me answers.
I looked around the room. Still messy. Still silent.
Still mine.
On the back of my door, a sweater hung. Not cursed exactly—but close.
Soft, femme, not quite my size. I’d never worn it outside, never worn it at all.
But tonight?
I got up. Walked over.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered. “Maybe the detective tries it on.”
The next morning smelled like coffee and self-doubt.
I hadn’t slept. Not because I was anxious.
You were anxious.
No, because I was anticipating an opportunity.
You reorganized your sock drawer at 3 a.m. to avoid thinking.
That’s called preparation.
I checked my inbox.
There it was—a single email.
No subject. No text. Just an attachment titled:
“First Assignment – Do Not Open on a Full Moon.”
I looked out the window. Daylight.
No howling. No silver. Just a cat giving me judgmental side-eye from the balcony.
I clicked.
The archive unfolded like a cursed scroll.
There were five folders, each named in a language that resembled Wingdings, with a breakdown. When I hovered over one of them, it immediately played a low hum, like monks chanting underwater.
That’s not ominous at all.
I picked the safest-looking one. Clicked.
Inside: a series of heavily redacted documents. Military files, maybe? One had the word “Vampyr” scribbled in the margins.
Another folder held a single clip: grainy footage of a church from above, timestamp 1984. In the corner, a shadow moved against the light.
I sat back. Blinked.
What the hell did you sign up for?
Then—caw.
I jumped. Whipped around.
My open window now featured a giant raven on the sill.
It stared at me.
I stared back.
“Shoo,” I said.
It didn’t shoo.
It hopped onto my desk. Tapped the keyboard.
Nope, nope, nope, nope.
“Okay, uh. You’re real?”
The raven tilted its head.
Then it spoke.
“You’re bad at organizing your files.”
I screamed.
Just a little.
Zoom opened itself.
No, seriously. It opened itself.
I know. I opened it. Who do you think sent the raven?
Please don’t spoil it for the audience!
…Apologies.
The raven clacked its beak, and suddenly, my laptop camera lit up. Leif appeared mid-sip of what looked like tea brewed in an ancient forest full of regrets.
He didn’t say “hello.” He said, “I told you not to open that one.”
“You sent it to me!”
“I assumed you’d have better instincts.”
“I’m a tech person, not a tomb raider!”
“Semantics.”
Behind him, the same raven from my desk casually fluttered onto his shoulder.
“Is that—how are you in two places?”
Leif shrugged. “I’m not. The bird likes you.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It shouldn’t be. She only likes the problematic ones.”
I slammed my laptop shut.
It didn’t close.
I tried again. Nothing.
“Did you—did you hack my hinge?!”
Leif’s voice came from inside the speakers now.
“Max,” he said patiently, “you opened a door. Doors don’t un-open just because you want to nap.”
“I didn’t ask for doors! I asked for a job.”
“No,” he corrected. “You challenged a god.”
“What?”
“You rewrote one of my stories. Animated it. Added subtitles. One said, ‘This man collects cursed coins on Etsy.’ That’s not just editing. That’s invocation.”
Oh gods. You summoned your boss! Sorry, I’m trying to lean into the suspense thing.
Just…Stop speaking.
I exhaled. Ran both hands through my hair. The sweater on the door still hung there, judging me.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“I didn’t mean to rewrite anything sacred,” I said. “I was just trying to make rent. And maybe prove a point.”
Leif’s voice softened—barely.
“You did both, so I’m offering a second file. This one... less dangerous. More foundational.”
“Foundational?”
“For you. Not the myth.”
The screen blinked. Another file downloaded itself. This one was titled:
“Start Here.”
I hovered over it.
“Will it yell at me?”
“No. But it might recognize you.”
Why does that sound worse?!
It usually is…
“I’m not ready for this,” I muttered.
Leif said nothing for a beat. Then:
“No one is. That’s how we know it’s real.”
The raven on my desk fluffed its feathers, let out a judgmental click, then flew out the window without ceremony.
The Zoom call ended.
No fanfare. No exit sound. Just absence.
I stared at the file.
Took a deep breath.
Double-clicked.
Scene 3 – In Which the Detective is Seen
There are files you open because you have to.
And then there are the ones you open knowing that something will break.
You’re being dramatic.
That’s the job description now: dramatic tech gremlin with boundary issues.
Fair.
I double-clicked the folder.
It didn’t open.
Instead, my screen went black. Not powered-off black—intentional black. Cinematic black—the kind that says we begin at the beginning, even if you don’t know what that is.
Then, a single line of text faded in.
“Who are you?”
I froze.
Rude.
Cliché.
...Accurate.
The cursor blinked beneath it. Waiting.
I typed: Max.
The text didn’t change.
So I added: Max [REDACTED].
Still nothing.
Maxine?
Don’t you f**ing dare.*
Max. Just Max. That’s the name that fits when no one’s looking.
I hit Enter.
The screen stayed black for a beat.
Then—
A video started.
It was grainy at first. It was shot on a phone in a home video style. I recognized the timestamp in the corner—five years ago. It was in my old room, with the art on the walls, the shirt, and the one I burned.
It was me.
Sitting on the floor. Laughing.
No. No, no, no.
I reached for the keyboard. Tried to close it. Nothing worked.
On screen, I was talking to someone just off-camera.
“… then she said, ‘You can’t just decide your pronouns.’ And I said, ‘Cool, can I decide to never talk to you again?’”
Laughter. Genuine. Easy.
The camera panned just slightly.
Revealing someone beside me.
A girl. Sharp eyeliner, frog earrings.
I would’ve remembered meeting this dame, but I had not.
You will though…
Shhhh!
And there it was—
The moment.
That feeling.
The way I looked at her in the clip.
Like I already knew.
Like I was about to fall.
How—how the hell is this here?
The video paused.
Then glitched—once, twice—before fading into white. Another line appeared.
“You are not broken. Just badly archived.”
My chest tightened.
I tried to laugh. Noir voice. Something flippant. But the words didn’t come.
Don’t cry. If you cry, he wins.
Who?
I don’t know. The metaphysical job fairy?
A new file opened itself. It was a series of animated sequences—reels made from my old work. This was not the polished portfolio I sent to Leif. This was early stuff—unlisted, half-finished, abandoned drafts.
A scrolling cityscape I built when I was sixteen.
A girl in a trench coat with eyes like mine.
A clip called “Version 3.6.2_FINAL_REALLY_FINAL_MAYBE.mov”
Every single one had been restored. Recolored. Refined.
And tagged.
[CRAFT]
[MYTH IN PROGRESS]
[POTENTIAL: UNSTABLE BUT PROMISING]
I stared at the screen.
Not crying.
Not speaking.
Just staring.
Because it no longer felt like a job application.
It felt like someone had seen me, the real me, through the cracks, through the art and the noise, through the collapsing gender identity, through the sad fridge contents, and the sweater on the hook.
And instead of flinching…
They’d built a folder called “Start Here.”
A soft chime rang from my speakers.
New message.
From: Leif.
You’re doing better than expected. Try not to implode.
Also, wear the sweater. It suits you.
I looked at the door.
The sweater hung exactly where it had been. Only now, it didn’t look like a threat.
It looked like a beginning.
The case wasn’t closed. It had only just opened. And maybe—just maybe—the detective had finally found something worth chasing.
It started, like most things do, with a mess and a deadline.
The mess was on my desk.
The deadline was existential.
I didn’t expect to like the work.
I expected chaos. Vague instructions. A few mildly cursed Google Docs and a boss who quoted obscure authors at me through email signatures.
I got… that.
But also something else.
Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Focus. Stillness. That weird hum in your chest when you’re so deep in a project you forget the time. Forget yourself.
Not peace, exactly.
But traction.
I rearranged my desk four times before I started.
Moved a plant. Re-coiled the cables. Shifted the monitor half an inch to the left.
It didn’t matter.
The detective’s office was small but sufficient. A single lamp. A stubborn fan. A pile of unpaid bills and a string of unsolved metaphors.
And then there was the sweater.
Still on the hook.
Still a question I hadn’t answered.
I didn’t make it a moment. Didn’t light a candle or write a poem about it.
I just… put it on.
It was warm.
That’s all.
Warm, and mine.
The first folder was titled “Rune Logic Substructure – Beta.”
Inside: animated glyphs that blinked when you clicked them.
One screamed when it was deleted.
Another responded to voice input. When I asked it, “What are you?” it glowed and whispered something I didn’t understand in Old Norse.
I made a backup. Named it “screaming_rune_FINAL_ACTUALLY_FINAL_REDO.”
Because I’m a professional.
Is this a montage?
Yes, and it’s perfectly valid.
You’re skipping over necessary backstory.
We don’t have time for a backstory. This is a short story, not The Silmarillion: Tech Support Edition.
The emotional arc suffers.
So does my sleep schedule. Let me have this
Next came the deities folder.
A spreadsheet of minor gods—some with Twitter handles, others with Etsy shops.
One ran a Tumblr blog about haunted basements.
Another was tagged: “Currently asleep under Antwerp. Please do not disturb.”
I made a new column titled “God Tier or Just Weird?”
Added conditional formatting. Color-coded by chaos potential.
You laugh, but that spreadsheet got me through a rough Tuesday.
I worked late.
Nights blurred into each other, marked only by empty mugs and increasingly elaborate playlists.
One was titled “Digital Mythcore for Gay Goblins.”
Another: “Sapphic Blade Vibes (ft. runes).”
I didn’t post them. Just let them loop.
Some songs I never even heard all the way through.
They just held the space open for me while I made things.
And then, of course, came the files I didn’t expect.
Buried in a folder marked “Start Here (No Really This Time)”
Were versions of my work.
Old work.
Abandoned, unfinished, unlisted.
Animations I’d scrapped at 2 a.m., convinced they were garbage.
Loops I never rendered.
I don’t remember recording the snippets of the voiceover.
All… restored.
Cleansed of their rough edges, but still mine.
Each tagged.
[POTENTIAL]
[WORTHWHILE]
[TRY AGAIN]
[DO NOT DELETE THIS TIME]
I stared at those tags for a long time.
Tried to laugh.
Tried to make a joke.
Almost succeeded.
You left pieces of yourself everywhere.
I didn’t think anyone would pick them up.
You didn’t think you were worth collecting
Shut up
There were still funny bits.
Leif still sent me assignments like:
- “Please re-edit this footage to remove all evidence of the Thunderbird.”
- “I need a presentation slide titled ‘How Not To Join a Cult Accidentally.’”
- “Which Greek god would win in a Mario Kart tournament? Cite sources.”
I replied to the last one with a 6-minute animated video and a thesis.
He sent back a thumbs-up emoji.
And a tea sampler.
Progress wasn’t a straight line.
Some days, I woke up with fire in my chest.
Some days, I didn’t wake up until 4 p.m., only because the raven knocked over my mug.
But I kept going.
And that mattered more than I ever thought it would.
The first time I finished a project and didn’t immediately hate it… I didn’t celebrate.
I just closed the window.
Sat back in my chair.
Watched the sun hit the floor in a way that made my room feel real again.
The detective didn’t solve the case that day.
But maybe… they stopped running from it.
Leif’s email came six minutes later:
“You did well, Dvergr.”
“Even if you mislabeled the audio layer as ‘vibes.wav.’”
“Also: sleep. You are still semi-organic.”
I replied:
“Bold of you to assume I’m still mortal.”
He replied:
“You’re not. You’re archived.”
That may be the point.
Not that I was healed.
Not that I was whole.
Just that I was catalogued.
Not lost. Not broken. Not forgotten.
The case wasn’t closed.
But it was mine now.
And that made all the difference.
It was almost 3 a.m.
The kind of hour where time goes soft at the edges. You start questioning whether clocks are real, or if we just made them up to stop the screaming.
My latest render has just finished.
Seven hours of processing, and it was still slightly off-beat.
The detective stared at the footage like it owed him a confession. The shadows flickered wrong, and the glyphs pulsed too slowly. Something was missing—something that was always missing.
I sat there.
Wearing the sweater.
Headphones askew.
Raven was on the windowsill again, because of course she was.
And I asked the question out loud before I could stop myself:
“What are you, Leif?”
The file on my screen blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Zoom opened itself.
Of course it did. Didn’t we already establish this?
Yes, you can do that now with your scary abilities. We know.
It’s just a simple Python script. See what you do is…
MY. STORY…
He didn’t appear immediately.
Just his voice.
Low. Dry. Familiar.
“You could’ve just asked,” he said.
“I did.”
Pause.
“I mean, without the existential edge.”
“That’s how I talk.”
“Fair.”
His camera flickered on.
Just his office.
Books everywhere. Candlelight flickering against an ancient map.
He wasn’t in the frame.
“I’m not going to give you a satisfying answer,” he said. “You know that.”
I nodded. “Still want one.”
“Of course you do. You’re mortal.”
“…Are you?”
The camera shifted.
He entered the frame.
Wearing the same damn corduroy jacket. Raven is on one shoulder now, but is not plastic this time. Real. Breathing. Watching.
One eye behind the eyepatch. The other was as sharp as flint.
He sat down. Looked straight at me through the screen.
For the first time, the detective met someone who didn’t blink when the lights flickered. Who sat across from the truth and didn’t flinch.
Please leave the narration to me.
Aw. Let me have that one. That was dramatic.
….Fine.
“I’ve been called a lot of things,” he said.
“Liar. Relic. Witness. Bard. Bastard.”
A soft pause, one could cut like a knife.
“Allfather.”
Another pause allowed me to take it all in and realize the importance of the last pause.
“Most of them are true. Some more than others.”
“Are you a vampire?”
He smiled. “Sometimes.”
“Are you a god?”
He leaned forward. “Does it matter?”
I stared. Said nothing.
“…No. I guess not.”
He nodded. “Good. You’re learning.”
I picked at a fraying thread on the sleeve of my sweater.
“Why me?”
Leif tilted his head. Thought about it longer than I expected.
“Because you’re real,” he said. “Even when you’re pretending.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It will.”
The raven cawed softly, like punctuation.
“Do I need to… pledge something?” I asked. “Make a blood pact? Sign in runes?”
Leif laughed. It was short and sincere.
“No,” he said. “You already did.”
The detective didn’t remember the ritual, but the craft remembered him.
Now that’s a bit overdramatic. I can assure readers that my lawyer does not allow me to sign contracts in blood.
It’s meant to be poetic!
Ah. Is THAT what we call that these days…
Why did I agree to this…
Another file appeared on my screen.
This one said:
“Field Work (Start When Ready)”
“Sleep first,” Leif said.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You’re going to anyway, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
He nodded like he was proud. Like he expected it.
“Goodnight, Max.”
“…Night, Allfather.”
The call ended.
I sat back.
The room was quiet.
The file waited.
The case was open. The detective had a lead.
And maybe, just maybe… the story wasn’t his anymore.
Perhaps it never was.