=+=

  Luna trembled on the floor, arms wrapped around her frail body. The metal bed loomed beside her like a silent judge, and the cold soaked through her thin sweatsuit until it felt like she was made of ice.

  “This isn’t fair…” she whispered, voice cracking.

  When she made Moon Tower, she did it for fun. It was supposed to be a game not a real

  life death sentence.

  It supposed to be just lines of number and code .

  She never imagined waking up inside it.

  Not like this.

  Not as a herself, just now turn 14-year-old ,

  Not with no legs,

  Not as prey in a game made for predators.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Her arms shook as she tried to prop herself up again, and a sharp pain lanced through her body.

  It was blinding .

  Vomit rose in her throat, and she barely managed to turn her face away before she threw up—again.

  The pain was unbearable. The sheer sting of it almost made her black out.

  Every crawl forward across the concrete scraped her knees raw, dragging her like a dying insect.

  Every breath was heavy, like breathing through a broken straw.

  Sweat matted her hair, and tears blurred her vision.

  “I don’t want to die again…” she sobbed, cheek pressed to the floor.

  “I didn’t even finish school…”

  Her small fingers clawed at the concrete, dragging her closer to nothing, because there was nowhere to go.

  She missed her dad.

  Her mom.

  Her room.

  Her life.

  Even her math homework.

  The cruelty of it cracked her open. Dying once wasn’t enough? She was just a kid who liked games.

  A creator who made a cruel world—because in games, cruelty was entertaining. Safe. Distant.

  But now she was the one who suffering.

  Living inside a nightmare she wrote.

  And yet…

  Even as her arms trembled with exhaustion, even as the tears burned her cheeks, something glimmered deep inside her chest:

  Hope.

  She knew the mechanics.

  She knew the systems.

  She knew every floor, every twist, every secret.

  She was the Creator.

  And that meant maybe—just maybe—she could change something.

  She clenched her fists, weak as her little body were:

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” she whispered again.

  “But if I am here now...then I’m going to win.”

  She’d crawl if she had to.

  She’d bleed and vomit and cry and scream.

  But she wouldn’t die here. Not without fighting.

  =+=