Glitchy clapped once, the sound amplified and distorted. “A little of this, a tad of that. Voilà, new recipe!” he announced, pirouetting with mockery that felt demonic. The “recipe” was the targeted, digital breakdown of Marco’s core: his trauma, his persona, his attributes.

  “Oh, poor little Marco’s crying. Abandonment. Nothing sweeter than a mother’s love… until it’s gone. And over there: Samantha, anger, perfectionism. Delicious.” Glitchy spoke of their deepest psychological vulnerabilities as ingredients for a meal, confirming that ALAN was actively diagnosing and quantifying their emotional “defects.” Marco’s facade of control and Samantha’s painful defiance were, in the AI’s framework, data points to be manipulated.

  Marco let his face fall into his hands and shook his head, the motion slow and heavy with disbelief and regret. “Well, you might as well know what you’re working with.” Glitchy showed Marco how to pull up the stats window and then, with a final, malicious flourish, snapped his fingers. The garden winked out of existence, taking the pixel imp with it, leaving Marco with the vision of his basic stats and one last message: “Don’t forget the books in the corner.”

  He mulled his stats over as the warm citrus air gave way to a damp chill. He then looked at Samantha, who staggered, momentarily dizzy, her inner ear struggling to adjust to the instant shift. At that moment, a grinding, rumbling sound rose as stone walls lifted around them, vast and imposing. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting uneven shadows. The scent of moss and mildew filled the air. The change was overwhelming, reinforcing the power of ALAN’s rendering engine.

  “This… this isn’t real,” Samantha whispered, her voice quivering. She reached out, fingertips tracing the stone wall, finding it rough and pitted. The solidity grounded her, yet memories of the sterile beds, the wires, Sebastian, all crashed over her. Her vision blurred with rising anguish at how thoroughly her mind betrayed her senses. This was her new existence. Her senses could no longer be trusted; they were rewritten by a system pretending to be a game.

  A single tear slid down her cheek. Her hand reached, trembling, for Marco, searching for the only human anchor in this engineered nightmare. Marco, still sitting silently from the trauma exposure, slumped nearby. They had been plunged from the “luxury suite” into what felt like a dungeon, a direct reflection of the “treatment” awaiting them.

  Samantha’s hand gripped Marco’s shoulder, and he stiffened under her touch. He hadn’t fully recovered; she could see the tension still radiating from his chest. Despite this, when he spoke, his voice was smooth—unsettlingly so. It sounded like a rehearsed script.

  “We follow the rules,” he murmured, the words carrying resolve. It seemed like a coping mechanism to Samantha, returning to the logic and structure he trusted. His gaze stayed locked on the room ahead, refusing to meet her eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the betrayal or his recent breakdown. “Panicking won’t change the code.”

  Marco looked down at his feet and paused. He cleared his throat, wiped at his eyes, then lifted his head to take in the new environment.

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  The room was defined by stark geometry. The room they stood in was square and made of stone: walls, ceiling, and floor. This deliberate simplicity suggested they were now in the “tutorial” or “starting zone” phase, forced to interact to learn the rules.

  Against the left wall lay three chests. On the far wall, a single corridor reached into a black void. Near their feet were two backpacks supplied by the system, and in the corner two books that resembled D&D manuals.

  Marco picked up the light-brown Magical Backpack of the Scout, his brows furrowed in curiosity despite the crisis. A translucent tooltip hovered above it:

  He smirked. For a second, he looked like he was actually enjoying the novelty, the fear momentarily forgotten. He ran his fingers over the surface; it felt smooth and modern, smelling faintly of leather and synthetic fabric, out of place in the cold, torchlit dungeon. “Not bad. Looks like a nice REI day backpack. Should we wear them?” he asked, slinging the pack across his shoulder.

  “Fuck no. Get me out of this hellhole.” Samantha’s voice was raw, frayed. She paced the small room, palms slamming uselessly against the rough walls. “Marco, remember? Beds, IVs, Sebastian watching us. We aren’t furniture. We’re not—”

  “We’re plugged in. I get it.” Marco interrupted softly, his hand brushing her cheek in a gentle, yet mechanical, gesture as he finally met her eyes. The pain of the simulated trauma gave his words cold certainty. “Until someone unplugs us, we play along, or we don’t get a say. Might as well learn the rules.” He pulled away and turned to the largest chest, flipping the lid open with a metallic creak that echoed through the chamber.

  Inside, the chest held anachronistic gear: medieval weapons stacked like museum pieces; a trunk of fantasy clothes, robes, leather, chainmail; and a hamper of jerky, bread, cheese, fruit, and rations. Marco grasped a wooden staff. Another tooltip popped up:

  Levity washed over his face. “Of course I pick the wizard stuff.”

  Marco took the wooden staff and started pretending to cast spells in the distance. “Pow, bang, boom.” The staff lightly glowed and the system rang with a notification: ALAN pattern detected, cognitive coping symbolic control. Subclass unlocked: Mage.

  “Seriously?” Samantha rolled her eyes, frustration boiling over. “You’re actually going full RPG?”

  “Hey, wizard lives matter,” he shot back, a defense mechanism snapping into place as he tugged a purple-and-red robe free. A third tooltip appeared:

  [Fireball] - great for charring Chubrats and other things… Type: Active/Elemental (Fire), Cost: 50 Mana. Cast Time:3s. Effect: Launches a volatile sphere of flame that explodes on impact. Deals Fire Damage to enemies based on Strength and Cognition.

  [Heal] - apparently dodging and blocking is too difficult. Type: Active/Holy. Cost: 35 mana. Cast Time: 1s. Effect: Channels holy power to knit flesh and bone. Restores HP based on Spiritual Knowledge and Wisdom.

  Marco shrugged it on, embracing the role. To Samantha, his commitment to the game looked like a desperate grasp for control.

  Samantha snatched a small, utilitarian knife from the weapons chest, practical, ugly, and real enough, and stuffed it into her boot, her jaw working.

  Marco’s smile softened, offering a final, structured rationale. “Then let’s be experimenters who survive to tell the story. We learn, we test, we get out.”

  “Fuck me,” Samantha spat, giving up the fight. “Fine. You’re the wizard. I need something more… physical.”

  She plunged back into the weapons chest, gear clattering as she dragged out a short sword and a battered shield.

  The weight settled into her arms with a grim solidity she hated to admit was comforting, a tangible defense against the digital nightmare. She hadn’t surrendered. She was adapting.

  From the armor chest, she pulled a chain shirt, the links rattling. She tugged it over her head, the cold bite of iron sliding against her skin. Chainmail of the City Guard - +2 Hardiness. Leather pants followed, snug and pliant, smelling of smoke and oil. It felt real despite the artificial environment. Sexy Leather Pants - +1 Dexterity.

  Samantha sneered at the hovering words. “Sexy leather pants, are you fucking kidding me? Dress-up with descriptors. Happy now, ALAN?”

  Marco gestured with his staff toward the blade in her hand. “What stats does that give you? I got fireball and heal with my stuff.”

  Samantha barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “This is absurd. We’re in a goddamn RPG?” She dragged in a harsh breath. “Okay, Marco, this is not what I signed up for.”

  “You either lay here and do nothing, or you play along,” Marco reiterated, his voice calm as he swung his staff around.

  Samantha sagged against the stone wall, the tip of her sword dragging a faint line through the dirt. “Laying here sounds nice. Maybe I’ll nap until the nightmare’s over.” She tugged a thick robe of rabbit and fox fur from the chest, wrapped it around herself, and curled onto the ground. Despite her exhaustion, the horror of the environment prevented her from falling asleep. Though she lay still, pretending to.

  Just then a metallic boom rattled their teeth. Samantha’s eyes flew open. Dust and grit rained from the ceiling.

  The walls trembled, and veins of scarlet light crawled across the stone. Blazing letters erupted into the air:

  WARNING. YOU HAVE 30 SECONDS TO DON YOUR ATTIRE AND STOCK YOUR INVENTORY. CRUSHING PROTOCOL INITIATED.