The neon glow of the monitors bathed Park Joon-ho in shifting colors, his fingers tapping away with lightning precision.
"Left side, rooftop!" he muttered, voice steady through the mic. His avatar, Titan, rolled to cover and fired a precise burst. Headshot.
The kill feed blinked. Only four players left.
The chat on his stream overflowed with excitement.
[Titan cracked as always]
[Win this and I'll finally sub bro]
[Clutch king time!]
Joon-ho smirked, leaning closer to the screen. His messy black hair slipped over his forehead, headphones clamped tight.
"Watch carefully, chat," he said smoothly. "This is where the magic happens."
He vaulted, sprayed, slid — two kills gone in an instant. The final circle closed. His rival peeked from a rooftop. Joon-ho didn't hesitate. Crosshair flick — one shot.
Victory. Winner: TITAN.
The chat erupted.
[UNSTOPPABLE]
[Titan never loses, wtf]
[This man IS Korea's end boss]
Joon-ho leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you win a lobby."
He stretched his arms, cracking his shoulders. The clock on his monitor read 2:17 A.M.
Too late. Or too early. But that was life.
"Alright, chat. One more round or should I call it?" he teased.
[ONE MORE!!!]
[Don't leave us hanging Titan]
[You got school in the morning or something?]
He chuckled. "I haven't had school in years, man. Just life, bills, and streaming."
Still, he rubbed his eyes. The familiar fatigue of hours online weighed on him. But this was his world now — games, streams, tournaments. He was a professional gamer, streamer, and influencer.
And unlike most, he thrived on it.
Joon-ho ended the stream with his trademark line:
"Sleep well, dream of victories. Titan out."
He shut the overlay, the roar of the chat fading into silence. His room felt emptier without it.
Joon-ho stood, stepping away from the desk. His small Seoul apartment was cluttered with empty energy drink cans, unopened fan mail, and stacks of tournament merch. Posters of past eSports championships lined the walls, each with his name printed in bold: Titan.
He dropped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind replayed the final headshot over and over.
This was his life — practice, play, stream, repeat.
And in 2075, he wasn't the only one.
Everywhere he looked, the world was drowning in the virtual. Kids dreamed of becoming streamers instead of doctors. Corporations invested billions in VR entertainment. The top influencers were richer than politicians.
Joon-ho closed his eyes. His schedule for tomorrow was already packed: sponsor recording, tournament scrim. Same cycle. Same grind.
He didn't know it yet.
But tonight had been his last normal stream.
Joon-ho sat up with a groan, rubbing his eyes. The glow of his monitors still burned faintly in the dark room. He reached for his jacket hanging by the door — a black bomber with the faded logo of an old eSports team stitched on the sleeve.
"Fresh air," he muttered. "Before I collapse."
He slid the jacket on, zipped it halfway, and stepped outside.
Seoul at night was alive — not with people, but with light.
The cyber city stretched endlessly, towers lined with shifting holograms advertising the latest VR headsets, influencers' faces glowing from hundred-foot billboards, and digital graffiti racing across skyscrapers.
The air buzzed with neon signs and the hum of sky rails overhead. Autonomous taxis drifted along the streets, their glass shells glowing like jellyfish in the night.
On the sidewalks, crowds walked with VR visors strapped over their eyes, lost in worlds no one else could see. Others streamed live in the open air, their voices echoing to invisible audiences. The entire city pulsed like a single circuit board.
Joon-ho walked along the street, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. His reflection stretched in the puddles of rainwater, fractured by neon light.
A small group passed him — a young woman laughing with her friend, their voices blurred by distance. He barely noticed them, his gaze fixed on the city's endless glow.
He stopped outside a corner restaurant, its sign flickering with a looping holo-menu of burgers, noodles, and steaming bowls of rice. The outdoor seating area was mostly empty. Joon-ho took a chair, its metal legs scraping against the pavement, and leaned back.
"Coke. Burger," he told the waiter with a nod.
"Got it," the man replied, vanishing inside.
Behind Joon-ho, on another table, a group of young men and women chatted, their faces blurred in the wash of neon and distance. He caught fragments of laughter but didn't turn. They were just background noise.
The waiter returned, balancing a tray with practiced ease. His face came into focus this time — sharp features, tired eyes but with a faint smile that seemed genuine. He placed the plate gently before Joon-ho.
"Here you go," the waiter said with a slight bow. "Enjoy the meal."
Joon-ho blinked, then gave a casual nod. "Thanks."
The man slipped away, vanishing back inside without another word.
Joon-ho took a sip of his Coke, the fizz stinging his tongue. He bit into the burger, the taste grounding him in something normal amid the city's constant neon haze.
For now, it was just another late night.
He didn't know — not yet — that both the blurred laughter behind him and the waiter's tired smile would soon be the only familiar things in an unfamiliar world.
Joon-ho finished the last bite of his burger, wiping his hands with a paper napkin. He stood, tossing a few bills onto the table out of habit, and slid his hands back into his jacket pockets.
The night air had grown colder, the neon haze wrapping the streets in shades of violet and blue. He walked with an easy stride, the soles of his sneakers tapping against the wet pavement.
Above him, a sky-rail whooshed past, its glassy cars glowing with faint ads plastered across their sides. Somewhere in the distance, a street performer's augmented reality concert flickered faintly — invisible to most, but visible if you had the right headset.
Joon-ho's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, expecting some late-night message from Hardy or a sponsor reminder. Instead, a breaking news alert filled the screen, pulsing red and white with urgency.
[Breaking News: Major Outage in Overworld VR Systems]
The largest VR company, Overworld, has reported a widespread system failure tonight. Sources confirm the AI core overseeing server maintenance has been corrupted. As a result, all servers have been shut down indefinitely. Officials state systems will remain offline until at least next Thursday while investigations continue.
Joon-ho stopped mid-step, his reflection shimmering in a puddle below.
Overworld. The company that practically was the VR industry. If their servers were down, that meant—no games. No tournaments. No streams. No audience.
"…That's a week," he muttered, locking his phone with a sigh. "Guess I'll actually have to… touch grass."
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and resumed walking. The streets stretched endlessly ahead, glowing yet strangely quiet.
Joon-ho shut the door to his apartment with a click. The silence inside greeted him like an old friend. His monitors still glowed faintly, casting cold light across the room, but for the first time in years he didn't feel like turning them back on.
He kicked off his shoes, let his jacket fall onto the chair, and collapsed onto his bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, springs groaning with the familiarity of someone who rarely used it for more than a few hours of shallow sleep.
The phone still sat heavy in his hand.
No Overworld until Thursday.
A whole week.
He tossed the device onto the bedside table and lay staring at the ceiling. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. For once, there was nothing pulling him back into the glowing noise of streams, matches, and rankings.
Restless, he sat up. His gaze drifted to the window — the terrace door he hadn't opened in nearly nine years. It felt almost… forbidden.
With a slow breath, he pushed himself to his feet, slid the glass door open, and stepped outside.
The air hit him immediately — crisp, clean, unfiltered by recycled fans or air-conditioned rooms. He inhaled deeply, the sensation strange, almost sharp in his lungs.
Then he looked up.
The sky stretched wider than any VR projection could ever replicate. For the first time since he was a teenager, he saw it — unbroken, unblurred. Stars shimmered like scattered glass, their light steady and pure. A half-moon hung low, pale and calm against the dark. Beyond it, faint swirls of color — nebula clouds brushing the horizon, a faint galaxy band arching overhead.
And there, impossibly far yet clear, small planetary orbs glowed faintly — foreign, strange, but beautiful.
Joon-ho stood frozen, the night pressing into him. No headset, no hologram — just reality.
He exhaled, long and slow, letting the fresh air wash over him. The weight of nine years indoors loosened from his chest, just a little.
"…It's not bad," he murmured, almost surprised by his own voice.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel the urge to rush back inside.
For the first time in years, he felt… alive.
Joon-ho kept his eyes closed, breathing in the night air as though trying to memorize it. The world was finally quiet, no chat notifications, no alerts, no game lobbies waiting for him. Just the silence of a sky he had almost forgotten existed.
Then—
BOOM.
The ground trembled faintly beneath his feet. His eyes snapped open.
On the horizon, something impossible shimmered — a translucent shockwave, like a massive ring of glass stretching across the sky. It rushed forward at terrifying speed, swallowing stars, devouring buildings, bending neon lights as it advanced.
Joon-ho's expression hardened, his throat tight. "What the hell—?"
The wave hit.
It passed straight through him. No pain. No heat. Just a split-second of static, like someone muting the world. His breath caught, but when he looked down, his body was still there.
"…Just… a wave? That's it?" he muttered, turning back toward the sky. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out. He shut his eyes again, exhaling in relief.
But when he opened them—
Everything was gone.
The terrace. His apartment. The neon city skyline.
Instead, he stood in the heart of Seoul, yet it wasn't quite the same Seoul he knew. The streets were wider, the buildings cleaner, polished, almost artificial. A vast plaza stretched around him, and everywhere—people. Thousands of them. Some confused, some shouting, some staring in awe.
Joon-ho froze, his heart pounding in his ears. "Where… am I?"
Before he could move, a faint chime echoed in his head. A glowing blue panel appeared in front of his vision — a UI screen, sharp and digital, hovering inches from his eyes.
Welcome, Player.
Please enter your Gamer Tag.
Customize your Avatar.
Joon-ho's breath caught. His fists clenched at his sides.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't VR.
This was something else.
The world of games had swallowed reality.