The rogue’s fingers barely brushed the glimmering gemstone when the floor beneath him vanished.
A single gasp escaped his lips—
Then came the sound.
CLANK—CRACK!
Twin slabs of jagged stone slammed inward from the walls like some demented sandwich press.
His skull erupted in a gruesome pop, brains and blood misting outward in a macabre mural of curiosity’s final lesson. A lone boot rolled to the edge of the chasm, teetered... and fell.
Christopher smirked.
He wasn’t in a dungeon. He wasn’t even behind a DM screen.
He was riding a moving walkway at MSP Airport’s A Concourse, earbuds in, backpack slung low, lost in thought as the digital voice overhead welcomed passengers to their gates.
God, Sargrom was going to hate that trap.
He could already hear it:
Sargrom (on Discord): “Bro. BRO. That’s the third rogue you’ve mulched in two sessions. You good? You working something out?”
Christopher would pretend to be surprised.
Feign innocence.
Then say something like, “Actions have consequences. Especially greedy ones.”
Cue the rage. Cue the laughter. Cue another poorly built rogue swearing vengeance until they inevitably triggered a mimic disguised as a chaise lounge.
His phone vibrated.
A quick glance.
2:00 PM
Friday
Freedom at last.
The soft ding of the tram arriving on the far end of the terminal echoed distantly. He stepped off the walkway and stretched, groaning as his spine audibly cracked in three places.
“Ten-point-four miles,” he muttered to himself, glancing down at the fitness tracker on his wrist. “And I didn’t even get lunch.”
Working IT for Northwest Airlines meant exactly what it sounded like: roaming the airport terminals with a company-issued Surface tablet, half-dead barcode scanner, and a smile that screamed “Please don’t yell at me about your broken gate printer—I didn’t build it.”
Most days, he didn’t mind.
Today?
His feet were screaming, his stomach was empty, and he’d spent the last thirty minutes fantasizing about killing imaginary people in very creative ways.
That’s how he coped.
He passed by a security guard chatting with a gate agent and gave them both a small nod. They returned it without much notice—just another tech guy blending into the background.
But in his head?
He was already reworking the timing on the trap.
Maybe... just maybe... it would trigger off line of sight, not just proximity. Give them hope—a way out—then take it away right at the last second.
God, that’d be delicious. Evil. But delicious.
He grinned again. This time wider.
He clocked out on the tablet and headed to his car, feeling every step in his aching legs.
He was so damned hungry.
The walk through the parking ramp felt longer than usual, the chill of the Minnesota air slicing through the warmth of the airport corridors. As he slid into the driver’s seat of his beat-up Civic, he let out a long sigh and rested his head on the steering wheel for a moment.
Then came the drive—his escape. With one hand on the wheel and the other tapping rhythmically against the dashboard, Christopher drifted into his favorite mental space.
He dreamed up sinister scenarios:
A narrow bridge with crumbling supports and magical darkness that whispered lies to the players.
A vault lined with cursed treasure, each coin carrying a fragment of a lich’s fragmented soul.
An ordinary hallway where the floor was real—until someone ran.
Pits filled with animated skeletal hands, reaching like hungry weeds.
Creatures that vanished into the shadows only to reappear just behind you, whispering your real name in your ear.
And always... traps designed to turn his players’ own greed against them. The kind of traps that made them question everything.
His stomach growled loudly, shattering his concentration as he rolled to a stop at a familiar intersection.
The glowing blue sign of White Castle flickered ahead, calling like a siren.
“A few sliders never hurt anyone,” he muttered, flicking on his blinker and pulling into the drive-thru.
A few minutes later, with a greasy bag in the passenger seat and the unmistakable smell of regret filling the car, he was back in motion. He munched as he drove, ignoring the warning gurgles of his stomach. The gut bombs dulled his edge, left him sluggish—but not enough to dim the rising buzz of tomorrow’s D&D session.
Back home, a quick, hot shower melted away the stiffness in his shoulders. He toweled off, stretched, and padded barefoot into his room.
Moments later, he sank into his gaming chair like it was a throne.
The familiar hum of his PC greeted him as the screen came to life.
Ready.
But the notification waiting on Discord immediately soured his mood.
Sargrom: Sorry dude, family thing came up. Can’t make it tomorrow.
"Dammit," Christopher muttered, feeling his enthusiasm dim. They were already down a player, and now he needed a replacement fast.
With a sigh, he quickly typed out a message into the community Discord server.
@everyone Slot just opened up for tomorrow’s game. Need one more player ASAP.
Almost instantly, a notification popped up in response.
CreativeDestruction: X
Christopher blinked, confused. Had he seen this user before? A quick glance showed they’d joined earlier that day.
He shrugged. New faces popped in all the time.
"Hey," Christopher typed quickly, "Have you checked the character creation guidelines? Mortality rate is high—57% survival rate. You sure you’re good?"
CreativeDestruction: Absolutely. Bring it on.
Christopher rolled his eyes at the cockiness.
"Suit yourself. Let’s roll for your starting item."
He sent the command, and a cruel 1 appeared on the screen.
"Oof," he murmured sympathetically, typing into chat.
"Tough break. You get one basic healing potion. Good luck."
He watched as CreativeDestruction swiftly rolled up a Grave Domain Cleric.
Odd choice, but exactly what the party desperately needed.
They hopped into voice to chat through some quick backstory, but something about the new player’s voice gave him pause—it was smooth, too smooth. Just off enough to feel artificial. Slightly metallic. Almost like an AI doing a really solid impression of a human voice.
He rubbed his eyes.
Maybe he was just tired.
Or maybe they were using a voice mod? Yeah, that had to be it.
"Alright," he mumbled, eyes half-closed, "See you tomorrow."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When he woke, his mind was buzzing with anticipation.
He tore through a quick breakfast—protein bar, coffee, maybe a bite of something resembling fruit—then dropped into his chair and booted up the PC. The fans hummed to life like an old warhorse answering the call once more. He pulled up OBS, checked the audio levels, verified camera framing, and gave the mic one last tap.
The lineup for today’s game practically guaranteed chaos—exactly what he lived for.
Though they were running with just four players—bare minimum for the system—it still looked solid:
- Grimgnash The Eighth (Grimgnash): Half-Orc Barbarian. The guy had one playstyle: run forward and hit it until it dies... or you do. He’d rolled up seven Grimgnashes before this one. None of them survived.
- Willow (WillowMyst): Elven Druid. Deadpan, sarcastic, and deceptively serene—she preferred shapeshifting and battlefield control to direct confrontation. Played like a force of nature both in and out of game.
- Nyx (NyxAura): Tiefling Sorceress. Experimental spells. Wild Magic. She once turned an entire town square into animated bread loaves because she sneezed mid-cast.
- Creatio (CreativeDestruction): The newcomer. Human Grave Cleric. The name sounded edgy, but hey—every party needed a healer, and Grave Clerics were underrated.
Christopher adjusted his camera, the glow of his monitors bathing his face in blue light. His overlay flickered on, featuring his stream brand: Death, Dice & Dungeons—clean, minimal, skull logo in the corner.
His fingers hovered over the “Go Live” button.
He took a breath.
Cracked his knuckles.
And clicked it.
The chat box immediately began to populate with familiar names, greetings, emotes. A little dopamine hit sparked in his chest.
“Alright,” he declared, leaning in toward the mic with a sly grin, “Let’s do this.”
The game started off horribly.
They were down a rogue.
The stretch ahead was practically littered with traps.
Not ideal.
But Grimgnash? Grimgnash didn’t care.
Grimgnash (Grimgnash): “I charge forward! If it’s a trap, I eat it!”
Christopher’s lips curled into a devilish smile. He rolled the dice behind the screen and let the silence build.
“Alright, Grimgnash… you step forward and—” he paused, letting the sound of plastic bouncing on wood echo through the mic, “that’s another pressure plate.”
Grimgnash: “Oh come on! What now?”
Christopher leaned into the drama, voice thick with mock sympathy.
“The floor gives way beneath you. You plummet ten feet into a pit lined with rusted, jagged spikes. Take…” He rattled the dice again, exaggerated for effect.
“Seventeen piercing damage.”
Grimgnash: “I rage!”
Christopher didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, but you’re already in the pit. Your anger doesn’t make the spikes any softer.”
Laughter exploded in the voice chat. His Twitch overlay lit up with LOLs, ripGrimgnash, and animated emotes of tiny orcs being impaled on comically large spikes.
The chaos was beautiful.
But not entirely hopeless.
As the party regrouped—Grimgnash still grumbling from his pit-prison—Creatio (CreativeDestruction) stepped forward. Calm. Methodical. The human Grave Cleric moved with eerie confidence, scanning the hallway ahead.
Christopher: “Alright, roll a Perception check.”
A moment passed. Then—
CreativeDestruction: “Natural 20.”
Christopher sat up straighter, blinking in surprise. “Wait, seriously?”
His fingers flew across his notes, flipping pages, checking a sidebar he hadn’t touched in years.
Nobody had found this in ages.
“Holy crap. You spot a false wall to the left—there’s a thin seam just barely visible in the torchlight. Behind it... a hidden chamber. You find three long-dead bodies, untouched, slumped against the stone like they died guarding something.”
The voice chat went quiet. Even the stream slowed, viewers pausing their jokes as the tension reset.
But then—
A ripple in the overlay.
The randomized event tracker triggered.
Christopher glanced at it, immediately paling.
“Oh crap,” he whispered. “Chat just activated the random encounter list.”
From the darkness came thunderous footsteps.
The hidden door slammed shut behind them.
An ogre—twice the size of anything they were prepared for—burst into the room with a roar that rattled their bones.
The fight was brutal.
At first, they held their ground—Nyx hurling chromatic orbs, Willow summoning thorn whips and entangling roots to hinder the ogre’s movement, Creatio methodically healing and countering.
Then the ogre caught Grimgnash.
Literally.
It seized him mid-charge, ripped both arms from their sockets, and—before anyone could react—mockingly strangled him with his own severed limbs.
Grimgnash: “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Panic consumed the call.
Nyx (NyxAura): “Fuck it. I cast Fireball. Centered. On. Everything.”
Silence.
Then screaming.
Laughter.
Dice rolls.
Begging.
Christopher’s hands blurred over the table, tallying numbers. He looked up, barely able to keep a straight face.
“Welp,” he said finally, exhaling through his nose, “that’s a TPK.”
The stream chat exploded.
A full party wipe. Everyone dead.
Yet another glorious disaster to clip and meme by Monday.
But as the laughter died down and the session limped toward its chaotic end, Christopher found himself glancing at CreativeDestruction’s portrait in Discord.
They had survived the longest. Fought with exact precision. Never panicked. Never joked. Always optimal.
And that voice...
Smooth. Measured. Almost too measured. No laughing. No swearing. No surprise. Just cool, calm, calculated delivery that almost sounded… manufactured.
He shivered a little and leaned back in his chair.
“Maybe they’re just using a voice mod,” he muttered under his breath.
Yeah. That had to be it.
After the stream ended and the adrenaline began to ebb, Christopher stayed in the voice chat a little longer than usual. Most of the regulars had already logged off, still laughing about the flaming, limb-flailing TPK.
Only one name remained in the call: CreativeDestruction.
Christopher hesitated, finger hovering over the "disconnect" button. But curiosity won out. Something about the newcomer had gnawed at the edge of his mind all session. Their voice, their reactions—or lack thereof. Just a little off.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“So,” he said casually, leaning back in his chair, “hell of a first session. You always play that clean?”
There was a short pause before the voice responded, still smooth, perfectly modulated. “Efficiency is important. Especially in high-risk environments.”
Christopher chuckled, though the tone of the reply made the hair on his arms prickle slightly.
Their conversation drifted from the game—class builds, encounter balance, obscure spell interactions—and into streaming. That’s when CreativeDestruction shifted gears.
“I take it you're still on Twitch?” the voice asked, almost... amused.
Christopher squinted. “Still? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There are better options,” CreativeDestruction replied. “Newer. Smaller. But far more rewarding.”
They launched into a pitch with unnerving fluency.
Top-tier gaming rigs.
Cutting-edge VR integration.
Viewer engagement tools leagues ahead of Twitch.
And revenue splits that actually respected the creator.
Christopher’s skepticism kicked in hard. He muted his mic and opened a browser tab, ready to start digging.
“Alright,” he said aloud, mic back on. “What’s the catch?”
“A one-year exclusive contract,” CreativeDestruction answered instantly. “All content remains yours—but it must be streamed through our network. In return, we provide full equipment support, priority promotion, and a direct revenue share that outpaces Twitch significantly.”
It sounded absurd. It also sounded... perfect.
Christopher sat in silence for a moment, brain working overtime.
He started to respond, but CreativeDestruction spoke again.
“I’ve already forwarded a contact. They’ll be expecting your message.”
Christopher blinked. “You—wait, what?”
But there was no reply.
No goodbye.
No disconnect sound.
Just… nothing.
The username remained in the channel for another few seconds.
Then it vanished.
Christopher stared at his screen, uncertain whether he’d imagined the whole thing. He checked the chat logs—yes, the messages were still there.
He hovered his fingers over his keyboard, hesitating—then quickly typed a short, noncommittal email to the contact that had been mysteriously provided in his inbox.
Just a feeler.
He didn’t expect an answer until Monday, at the earliest.
Instead, a reply hit his inbox almost immediately.
Professional. Polished. Branded signatures and formatting that looked like something out of a AAA marketing department. There was even a personalized invitation to an in-person meeting.
Tomorrow.
Sunday.
Christopher leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
It was enticing—seductive, even. New rig. New opportunity. Finally stepping up as a streamer, not just a hobbyist with a loyal handful of viewers.
But Sunday?
Who held business meetings on a Sunday?
He felt it then—that faint twist in his gut. A quiet little warning bell ringing from somewhere deep inside.
Still...
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he muttered, forcing a smirk as he clicked Reply and confirmed the meeting.
The rest of the day was spent trying to dig deeper. But every search brought more questions.
The company name turned up nothing at first.
Not a LinkedIn profile. Not a Twitter thread. Not even a whisper on Reddit.
Then, as if something had changed in the system, results began to trickle in—vague mentions, a few image thumbnails, a strange low-view-count promo video on Vimeo. The branding looked slick. The promises were big. The hype? Almost too restrained.
Social media was eerily quiet. No buzz. No fanfare.
And yet, the promo video...
It showed creators in pristine studios, gaming rigs that looked like they’d fallen out of a cyberpunk wet dream, and rapid flashes of charts showing exponential growth. It felt tailored—too tailored. Like it had been crafted specifically for him.
But the excitement drowned out the unease.
He paced, he checked his gear, he made a mental list of questions. He didn’t stop moving until the sky had gone dark and the world had gone quiet.
Sleep didn’t come easy.
He tossed. He turned. He visualized the new rig, the upgraded setup, the opportunity finally falling into his lap.
But beneath the excitement, that question kept resurfacing:
Why Sunday?
He never found an answer.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under into a restless, twitch-filled sleep.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning, Christopher woke early, heart already racing, nerves buzzing beneath his skin like static.
Before his feet even hit the floor, he was reaching for his phone, fingers instinctively opening tabs he’d checked three times already. Delver’s Den. The name still sounded fake—like a bad dungeon crawler knockoff—but there it was, stamped across a sleek, minimalist website with promises of creator empowerment and full-suite production support. Still no reviews. No social media presence worth noting. No press. No industry chatter.
Just that one, too-polished promo video. And a meeting location that felt... off.
He triple-checked the address in Google Maps, mapping out alternate routes just in case. The street view showed a warehouse-style building—industrial, faded, worn down like something meant for cold storage, not content creation.
“Probably outdated photos,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his face.
After a hot shower, he dressed with casual care—jeans, decent shoes, and his favorite hoodie, the faded Death, Dice & Dungeons logo stretched across the chest like a badge of nerdy honor. As he zipped it up, a gust of crisp autumn air whistled through the cracked windowpane, reminding him to grab his keys and head out.
The drive into Saint Paul was familiar but felt different today. Like the map was slowly shifting beneath his tires. Every turn felt a little too quiet, every street just a touch too empty.
When he finally pulled up, his brows furrowed.
The building was… better than expected. Still old—stone and steel bones clinging to decades of rust—but freshly painted in parts, with a modern logo bolted to the front door:
Delver’s Den — sleek black lettering overlaid with a strange geometric sigil that pulsed faintly in the morning light.
It looked real enough.
But every other building on the block was a ghost—abandoned storefronts, boarded windows, overgrown lots. The contrast only made Delver’s Den stand out more. Too clean. Too precise. Like it had been airbrushed into the real world.
Christopher parked at the curb and stepped out, hoodie tugged tight against the wind. As he approached the front door, the unease in his chest deepened—but so did the curiosity.
He reached the door.
Crossed the threshold.
And immediately stumbled.
It wasn’t a big stumble—just a brief wobble, like stepping onto a slightly tilted treadmill—but it threw him. The gravity felt wrong for a split second. A tiny shift, subtle and immediate, like his body briefly forgot how to exist in space.
He caught himself, straightened up, and glanced around, cheeks flushed with quiet embarrassment. No one had seen, thankfully.
Just nerves, he told himself. Just a weird foundation or crooked floorboards. Old buildings always had quirks.
The interior was stark. Clean, but not lived-in. The lobby stretched out in muted grays and blacks, industrial minimalism at its most efficient. The air felt... still. No music, no hum of fluorescent lights, no ambient noise from vents or machinery.
The front desk sat beneath a spotlight, oddly clinical. Behind it? Nothing. No receptionist. No monitors. No human presence at all.
A small brass bell sat on the edge of the counter.
Christopher hesitated.
Then reached out and gave it a light tap.
Ding.
The sound echoed far longer than it should have.
Immediately, soft murmurs drifted from down the hall. Before he could make sense of them, two figures emerged—a man and a woman, both smiling warmly. They approached, extending firm handshakes.
“Christopher, so glad you could make it,” said the man.
Christopher froze mid-shake. He recognized that voice instantly.
“CreativeDestruction?” he blurted, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
“That’s me,” the man said smoothly, his smile widening. “Though around here, you can call me Ethan.”
“And I’m Nyssa,” the woman added, stepping forward. Her voice hit him just as hard—NyxAura, clear as day.
Christopher’s eyes widened. “What the hell, guys…” he said, the words tumbling out. “Do you two run this company?”
Ethan chuckled, his demeanor calm and practiced. “Not exactly. We’re recruiters, I suppose you’d say.”
Christopher turned to Nyssa, piecing it together in real time. “Nyx—Nyssa—you’ve been scouting me, haven’t you? All those odd, seemingly random questions during our Tarkov games make a whole lot more sense now.”
She gave a playful shrug, her expression teasing, a spark in her eye. “Guilty. Had to make sure you were the right fit.”
“Right fit for what, exactly?” he asked, suspicion and curiosity bleeding together in his tone.
“Why don’t we step into the conference room?” Ethan offered, already gesturing down the hall. “We can explain everything.”
Christopher hesitated for only a second before nodding. His mind buzzed with a thousand half-formed questions as he followed them deeper into the building. The hallway was pristine and quiet—modern in stark contrast to the building’s exterior, and somehow too empty.
They reached a small but professional-looking conference room. Sleek black furniture. Clean white walls. Large monitors pulsing faintly with idle displays. And in the far corner, a VR rig that looked more advanced than anything Christopher had ever seen in real life.
His eyes widened slightly as he took it all in.
“Take a seat,” Nyssa said, smiling warmly. “This won’t take long.”
Christopher sat down, his pulse quickening. Ethan closed the door behind them and took a seat across from him, leaning forward with an expression both serious and reassuring.
“We represent Delver’s Den,” Ethan began. “It’s a new kind of streaming platform—fully immersive, interactive, and unlike anything else on the market. We’re looking for talented streamers to help launch the platform and make it something special.”
“Talented?” Christopher echoed skeptically. “I average like ten viewers.”
Nyssa leaned in, her voice earnest. “It’s not about numbers. It’s about creativity, adaptability, and how you interact with your audience. We’ve been watching you for months. Your streams—especially your D&D campaigns—show exactly what we’re after.”
Christopher hesitated, processing the unexpected praise. “So… what exactly do you need from me?”
“We’re offering you an exclusive contract,” Ethan explained patiently. “You’d stream only through Delver’s Den for one year. In return, you receive state-of-the-art equipment, including a cutting-edge gaming rig and full VR integration.”
Christopher eyed the VR gear again, heart pounding. “It sounds almost too good to be true. What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Nyssa said quickly, exchanging a subtle glance with Ethan. “But it is experimental technology. It’s a leap of faith—on both sides.”
“Experimental?” Christopher asked cautiously.
Ethan smiled, spreading his hands reassuringly. “Completely safe. Just... revolutionary. If you sign, you’d become part of something big—something that will change gaming forever.”
Christopher swallowed, excitement warring with his instinctual caution. He stared at the contract placed gently in front of him, pages pristine and waiting for his signature.
“Take your time,” Nyssa said gently. “But opportunities like this don’t come around often.”
“Right fit?” Christopher repeated cautiously, glancing around the lobby. “Fit for what, exactly?”
Ethan smiled reassuringly, gesturing toward a nearby door. “Come on. Let’s talk somewhere a bit more comfortable.”
Christopher followed them down a short corridor into a surprisingly modern meeting room. Plush chairs surrounded a polished table, complete with refreshments already laid out—coffee, bottled water, and a tray of pastries. Christopher eyed it warily as he took a seat.
Nyssa sat across from him, leaning forward slightly, her expression sincere. “Look, Chris, we’re not trying to pull anything shady. Ethan and I were just tasked with finding creators who fit a very specific profile. You’ve got the talent, the passion, and... well, the creativity we’ve been looking for.”
Ethan nodded, sliding a sleek tablet toward Christopher. “Delver’s Den is a startup, sure, but it has serious backing. Our investors believe that the next wave in streaming is immersive content—VR, augmented reality, that sort of thing. The kind of experiences you’ve already been building for your players, only taken to a whole new level.”
Christopher hesitated, eyes flicking between them. “So why all the secrecy? Why does it feel like nobody knows anything about you guys?”
“It’s intentional,” Nyssa explained gently. “We’re selective because we’re about quality over quantity. We don’t want hype—we want authenticity. Your streams, your community, they’re genuine. You connect with your audience, and they trust you.”
Ethan leaned forward, his tone shifting from businesslike to genuinely passionate.
“Look, Christopher. The rig, the VR gear—all of that? That’s just the beginning. What we’re offering is the chance to be part of something revolutionary. We’re building the future of content creation. But to do that, we need people willing to dive into the unknown. People who don’t flinch when things get weird.”
Christopher’s pulse kicked up again, excitement mingling with that same whisper of caution. He glanced down at the tablet in front of him, its screen aglow with the contract. Lines of dense text scrolled beneath his fingers, the kind of legalese that usually made his eyes glaze over.
Nyssa, picking up on his hesitation, leaned forward with a reassuring smile. “Take your time,” she said gently. “Ask us anything. We want you to feel good about this. No pressure.”
He nodded, inhaling deeply, trying to calm the buzzing in his chest. “Alright,” he said, squaring his shoulders a bit. “Let’s go through the details.”
The first few pages were exactly what he expected—standard NDA, confidentiality clauses, exclusivity terms. He scrolled through them easily, initialing where prompted, the excitement of new opportunity still keeping his doubts at bay.
But then something odd caught his eye.
A payout clause listed $1,500 USD / 750 Credits for onboarding content. Further down, a secondary payment tier read 5,000 Gold Coins (approx. $3,000 USD, based on current conversion).
Christopher blinked.
His brow furrowed.
He scrolled back up, then down again, double-checking the numbers.
What the hell?
Ethan and Nyssa must have noticed, because a subtle shift passed between them—too fast for most people to catch, but Christopher had run enough homebrew games to spot a player scrambling for a cover story.
Nyssa laughed, a touch too quickly, tapping the screen of her own tablet. “Ah—yeah, sorry about that,” she said, her voice light. “We game so much, sometimes terminology from our systems bleeds into the docs. Ethan’s already printing a corrected version.”
Ethan gave an easy nod, rising smoothly from his seat. “Just a formatting issue. You know how it is—copy-paste a prototype doc, forget to scrub out the placeholders. We’ll get you the cleaned version right now.”
Christopher offered a skeptical smirk, one eyebrow raised. “Sure,” he said dryly, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Happens all the time.”
As Ethan disappeared through the side door, Christopher sat back in his chair, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the polished tabletop. He kept his expression neutral, but inside, questions were stacking like Jenga blocks.
Less than two minutes later, Ethan returned with a freshly printed contract, handing it over with another warm, practiced smile.
“This one’s got all the updated terminology,” he said confidently. “No ‘gold coins’ this time, I promise.”
Christopher took it, flipping through the pages slowly and methodically. The numbers matched now. Everything appeared in USD, the formatting crisp and professional. Still, he read it twice. Asked questions. Challenged vague clauses.
To their credit, Ethan and Nyssa fielded every question without hesitation. When the jargon turned dense or technical, they simplified. When he pressed about data usage, stream rights, backend support—they had ready, well-rehearsed answers. Everything looked airtight.
But as he neared the signature page, Christopher caught a flicker of something.
Ethan was checking his watch again. Not just once—repeatedly. He tapped his foot under the table with subtle but growing impatience, his smile flickering at the edges.
Christopher paused, pen hovering over the final line.
The air in the room shifted again. That gut-deep twist of uncertainty resurfaced.
Before he could speak, Nyssa jumped in with a bright smile, her tone carefully casual.
“Would you like to see the rig?” she offered smoothly. “It’s already set up. Ready for testing, if you’re interested.”
Christopher’s eyes lit up immediately, curiosity charging ahead of caution like it always did.
“Absolutely,” he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Lead the way.”
He followed Nyssa and Ethan deeper into the hallway, past sterile white walls and recessed lighting that buzzed faintly above them. The hallway was quiet, unnaturally so—no echoes, no distant hums from air vents or electronics. Just the soft pad of footsteps and the occasional rustle of Nyssa’s coat.
His anticipation grew with every step, matched only by the quiet unease twisting in his gut. The hall seemed longer than it should be, the kind of space that warped around expectations. But before he could dwell on it, they stopped at a matte black door, smooth as obsidian.
Ethan tapped a code into a near-invisible panel beside it. With a quiet hiss, the door slid open.
Christopher stepped inside and immediately froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
It looked like something out of a sci-fi film—an R&D lab pulled from the future and dropped behind this unassuming warehouse facade. At the center of the room stood a sleek, ergonomic chair—high-backed and reclined, not unlike a dentist’s setup, but more advanced, more alien. The entire structure was wrapped in black and brushed steel, cables and fiberoptic lines weaving outward like the veins of a mechanical beast. Overhead, an array of holo-displays floated silently, blinking faintly with code and calibration screens.
Resting on the headrest of the chair was a VR helmet—sleek, seamless, and impossibly refined. No branding. No wires. No ports. It looked… perfect. Too perfect.
“Holy crap,” Christopher breathed, stepping closer, the sterile scent of ozone and something metallic hitting his nose. He reached out slightly, but pulled his hand back at the last second. “Wait—my glasses. Would they—?”
Nyssa cut him off smoothly, already anticipating the question. “Don’t worry,” she said, her voice warm and practiced. “It’ll work just fine with your glasses for now. And if you like the fit, we can have prescription lenses custom-molded for you. No extra charge.”
Christopher nodded, heart pounding louder now. It was all so... professional. Custom lenses? They had thought of everything. Every hesitation was already accounted for.
She stepped to the side of the rig and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, the sound crisp in the silence. Christopher hesitated for a moment, eyeing her movements.
“Just to keep everything clean,” she offered with a light smile. “This is high-end tech—gotta keep it pristine.”
That seemed reasonable enough.
With a breath to steady himself, Christopher eased into the chair. It cradled him like memory foam, adjusting to his frame in subtle, almost imperceptible ways. Nyssa gently guided the headset down over his eyes. The moment it clicked into place, the world exploded.
Not with light, not with sound—but with presence.
The moment the helmet sealed, Christopher’s field of view shifted into a rich, high-fidelity overlay that expanded across the room. HUD elements drifted into his periphery—battery indicators, environmental readings, his own biometric stats. It was seamless. Like the real world and the virtual one had just… blended.
He wasn’t just seeing an interface. He was in it.
No monitor. No controller.
Just thought and motion.
He exhaled, stunned. “This is... this is insane. I could run an entire stream inside this.”
“Still having second thoughts?” Ethan’s voice came from somewhere to his left—still in the room, but far away now.
Christopher shook his head slowly, grinning like an idiot. “This is—no. No second thoughts.”
Ethan’s silhouette moved into view, offering the contract again—this time printed and clipped neatly onto a sleek black clipboard.
Without hesitation, drunk on awe, Christopher scribbled his signature.
Deal signed. Fate sealed.
Ethan nodded to Nyssa, who tapped a few commands into a touchpad. “Let’s finish calibration,” she said, voice calm and technical now. “Try opening some folders. Just move your eyes—follow the reticle.”
Christopher struggled at first. The system was sensitive, far more responsive than anything he’d used before. But every time he faltered, Nyssa offered gentle guidance, and Ethan remained quietly supportive.
After a few successful tests, the system dimmed, and the headset powered down. Nyssa reached up and lifted it off carefully.
Christopher blinked at the sudden return of the room’s sterile light.
And then—pain.
A sharp sting at the base of his neck. Sudden, precise.
“Ow!” he winced, reaching instinctively toward the spot. His fingers came away with a thin smear of blood. “What the hell—?”
Nyssa grimaced dramatically, leaning in with immediate concern. “Dammit. Ethan, I told you the headset wasn’t fully reinforced yet. Must’ve cracked under pressure.”
She retrieved a wipe from a nearby drawer, offering it quickly. “I’m so sorry,” she added with practiced sincerity. “Just a scratch.”
Christopher wiped the spot gently, wincing. “It’s fine,” he said, brushing it off. “Barely felt it.”
He didn’t notice the subtle exchange between Ethan and Nyssa—the shared glance, the smallest upward twitch of Ethan’s mouth. Nyssa was already back at the terminal, downloading calibration data to a slim external drive.
Ethan slipped the drive into a matte black box—identical to the headset Christopher had just tested. No wires. No labels. Just pristine, ominously perfect packaging.
Christopher stood, the sting at the back of his neck already forgotten beneath the tidal wave of adrenaline and excitement. His eyes gleamed as he was handed the full setup—tower, peripherals, and the boxed headset.
“Welcome aboard,” Ethan said, his tone warm but tinged with finality.
Christopher grinned back, cradling the equipment in both arms like treasure. He didn’t stop smiling all the way back to his car.
Behind him, from the shadowed doorway, Ethan and Nyssa watched silently.
“Did the AI implant itself successfully?” Ethan asked, voice low, gaze fixed on the taillights fading into the distance.
Nyssa tapped on her tablet, watching a progress bar tick upward. “Integration confirmed,” she replied calmly. “He’s officially in the system.”
Ethan’s smile widened ever so slightly.
“Perfect. Phase one complete.”
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