The first thing Seo Haneul noticed when she opened her eyes was that the ceiling was way too clean.
Smooth white panels stretched endlessly above her, seamless like someone had photoshopped reality. No flickering fluorescent lights, no cracks, no coffee stains from office leaks. Just… perfection.
That was suspicious.
She blinked, once. Twice.
Still perfect.
"Okay…" she muttered, voice raspy. "Either I'm dead or someone actually cleaned the office ceiling for once."
Her throat hurt. Her head throbbed. Her body ached in all the familiar ways of overwork—stiff wrists, sore back, shoulders that felt like solid code blocks.
But everything else felt wrong.
She turned her head.
No desk. No monitor towers. No half-eaten convenience store triangle kimbap.
Instead—sleek glass walls, soft light strips, and a hovering blue holographic panel humming quietly beside the bed.
Her breath hitched.
"Uh… Did I win the lottery while unconscious?"
The hologram blinked to life.
> [Welcome, Developer.]
She froze. "…Excuse me?"
> [Initializing Game Creation System.]
[Please remain calm during calibration.]
"Oh, I'm calm," Haneul said automatically. "Totally calm. Just casually hallucinating after dying of overwork. Happens all the time."
Her sarcasm bounced off the sterile air.
The holographic text shifted again.
> [User Verification: Seo Haneul confirmed.]
She sat up too fast and nearly toppled off the bed. "Wait, what?"
The panel pulsed gently, like a living thing.
> [Syncing memory traces… 72%. 85%. 100%.]
[Environment compatibility: 93%. Minor adaptation recommended.]
The hum around her deepened. The glass wall shifted to reveal a view—
—and her entire mind blue-screened.
City.
A whole city, but not one she knew.
Skyscrapers climbed like crystal monoliths into the clouds, their exteriors flowing with digital streams of color. Neon lines traced along the skyline in motion, like living code patterns. Cars—no, pods—glided silently along levitating rails. A drone zipped by carrying coffee.
Down below, crowds moved through holographic crossings, advertisements appearing midair: "MindDive 4.0 Now Available!" and "Full-Sync RPGs: Live Another Life!"
"...I'm either in a sci-fi movie," she whispered, "or I overslept by a century."
> [Time Synchronization Complete.]
[You are currently located in Seoul Metropolis, 2137.]
Her jaw dropped.
"…Two thousand—? No. Nope. Cancel that. Exit program. Log out!"
> [Command not recognized.]
"Of course not," she sighed, pressing her palm to her forehead. "My hallucination doesn't even have a help menu."
The hologram flickered again.
> [Would you like to begin the System Tutorial?]
"Tutorial," she repeated weakly. "Sure. Why not. Let's pretend this isn't the weirdest Monday morning of my life."
She swiped at the panel cautiously. Her finger didn't pass through—it reacted, soft and tactile, like warm glass.
> [Initializing Tutorial Mode…]
[Welcome, Developer Seo Haneul.]
[You have been selected as the Operator of the Game Creation System.]
[Purpose: Develop, Manage, and Distribute Interactive Experiences.]
"Uh-huh," she muttered. "So, it's… Steam, but I'm God."
> [Incorrect. You are not God. You are a User.]
"Wow, it talks back," she said flatly. "Perfect. I've always wanted a passive-aggressive AI."
The voice—or rather, text—paused, as if offended.
> [Tone registered: Sarcastic.]
[Adjusting communication protocol.]
"Hey, no need to—wait, you can adjust tone?"
> [Yes. Default tone: Professional.]
"Make it less professional. I don't need another project manager in my life."
> [Acknowledged. Tone adjusted: Casual.]
There was a faint digital clearing of the throat.
> [Yo, Haneul. Sup.]
She stared at it, deadpan. "…Change it back."
> [Tone adjusted: Professional.]
She exhaled, rubbing her temples. "Okay, okay. Breathe. Step one—figure out if this is real. Step two—don't panic. Step three—definitely panic later."
Standing, she expected her usual worn jeans and company T-shirt, maybe some coffee stains.
Instead, she was in an oversized white shirt and soft shorts—comfortable, spotless. Her hair was longer, too, the strands falling to her shoulders like she hadn't cut it in years.
"Mirror?" she asked automatically.
A wall lit up, forming a reflective surface.
Seo Haneul stared at herself. Same face. Same dark eyes. Maybe healthier skin. But… her old self hadn't looked this rested since her early twenties.
She squinted. "So, I've been upgraded. Great. Can I downgrade back to my apartment now?"
> [Apartment data not found.]
"Figures."
She wandered through the apartment—or penthouse, really. Minimalist layout. Glass kitchen. Humming appliances that responded to voice commands.
The fridge opened when she walked past.
It was stocked with neatly organized boxes labeled NutriMeal. Each one glowed faintly.
"Classy," she said dryly. "Even the food looks like software updates."
She picked one up and scanned it. The label changed language automatically.
> "Balanced Meal 4.2 – For healthy developers who forget to eat."
Her lips twitched. "Yeah. That's… oddly specific."
Then came another chime.
> [New Objective Generated.]
[Objective: Create a Game Prototype.]
[Reward: Basic System Calibration.]
Her eyes widened. "Wait, create a what? Right now?"
> [Affirmative. Access the console to begin development.]
A new panel opened midair, displaying an interface eerily familiar to her—a coding window, design tabs, resource tracker, even a simulation test button.
It was her dream dev environment. Except it floated in midair.
"Okay," she murmured, walking closer. "I'll play along."
Her hands hovered over the virtual keyboard.
She typed a few lines, curious.
It reacted instantly—autocompletion, debugging, even suggesting game logic.
Her pulse quickened. This wasn't some prank. This was functional.
She wrote a quick test: a simple 2D paddle game.
> [Project: Untitled-001 Created.]
[Processing assets… Rendering complete.]
[Would you like to test it?]
"Sure," she whispered. "Let's see what you can do."
A small holographic display appeared above the console—two paddles, one ball.
She grinned. "Classic pong. My masterpiece."
The ball moved. The paddles responded.
Then the entire thing exploded in static.
> [Error: NullReferenceException.]
"Ha!" She laughed, short and bitter. "Even in hallucination, my code still crashes."
> [Would you like to debug?]
"Yes, please. But maybe start by giving me coffee."
> [Caffeine synthesis module unavailable.]
"Figures. What do you have, then?"
> [Nutritional paste.]
"…You really don't know how to make a girl feel special."
A few hours—probably—passed as she experimented.
She tested controls, physics, textures, even mock music. Everything was… too perfect. The tools obeyed her like thought extensions.
But every game she tried to make crashed before completion.
> [Prototype integrity: 23%. Cause: User inexperience with new-world frameworks.]
"Inexperience?" she scoffed. "I've been writing code since I was nineteen!"
> [Frameworks differ significantly. Current era operates on full neural-simulation parameters.]
"…Neural simulation?" Her brows furrowed. "So these games—people think they're real?"
> [Affirmative. Most popular genre: Full-Immersion VR.]
She sank onto the couch. "So… indie devs don't exist anymore, huh?"
> [Correction: Indie developers exist. Success rate: 0.02%.]
"...Yup. Dead industry. Great."
Her mind whirred.
In this world, gaming was probably a multi-trillion-won sector run by corporations. Neural immersion, AI storylines, sensory feedback—how could one person compete?
Still… something inside her sparked.
That familiar, reckless part that refused to quit even when deadlines chewed her soul.
She leaned back. "So, what happens if I make something good?"
> [Then it will be published under your System ID.]
"And if it fails?"
> [Then you will fail.]
She stared at the hologram. "…Thanks for the motivational speech, buddy."
> [You're welcome.]
A long silence stretched.
Haneul glanced again at the skyline outside. Distant drones glowed like fireflies. Below, advertisements screamed perfection—graphics so realistic they bordered on nightmares.
"Perfect games," she murmured. "No bugs, no crashes, no soul."
She chuckled softly, almost bitterly. "Guess someone has to remind the world what fun actually feels like."
> [System Notification: Mission Activated.]
[Main Quest: Develop your first playable demo.]
[Reward: Skill Unlock – Resource Management Lv.1]
"Oh, great," she muttered. "Now it's giving me quests. What next, side missions?"
> [Optional Objective: Consume Nutritional Paste.]
"I hate you."
> [Noted.]
Despite herself, a small smile broke through.
"Alright, fine," she said, pushing herself off the couch. "Let's get to work."
She stared at the flickering console screen.
Her hands itched.
There was a game she remembered from her old world—a simple, warm one. About planting crops, fishing, befriending villagers. Nothing like the hyperreal violence this world worshiped.
A small, peaceful farming sim.
"Something quiet," she murmured. "Something real."
> [Project Template Detected: "Slice-of-Life Simulation."]
[Estimated Popularity Index: 0.2%. Recommendation: Choose different genre.]
She smirked. "Oh, shut up."
> [Understood. Proceeding with unpopular genre.]
"Now you're learning."
She began to type.
Lines of code appeared, shimmering with faint light. Every stroke echoed faintly through the room, like soft keystrokes of the future.
For the first time since waking up, Seo Haneul felt something she hadn't felt in years—focus.
Pure, addictive focus.
Hours later, the city dimmed into simulated night.
Her console flickered one last time.
> [Progress: 42%. System calibration improving.]
[Note: Developer fatigue detected. Recommended rest period.]
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "One more function call and I'll—"
Her head hit the desk softly. The holographic interface dimmed automatically.
> [User entered rest mode.]
The skyline outside pulsed faintly with neon heartbeat.
For the first time in years, Haneul slept without a nightmare.
The first thing that woke her wasn't sunlight. It was purring.
Mechanical purring.
Seo Haneul groaned, blinking against the bluish glow that filtered through her eyelids. "If that's a cat, I swear—"
The sound paused.
Then a small spherical drone hovered into view, humming softly. Its glowing blue lens rotated like an eye.
"...Oh," she muttered. "It's a Roomba from the future."
The drone chirped.
> "Good morning, Miss Seo. Your heart rate indicates exhaustion. Would you like an energy patch?"
She squinted. "No, I'd like a refund."
> "Apologies. Refunds are only applicable for consumables."
"Figures." She sat up, her neck aching. Her head was heavy from code dreams — fragments of syntax, loops, and UI sketches whirling behind her eyes. "Did I… fall asleep coding again?"
> [Affirmative.]
The familiar text floated up near the window. Her system had been patiently waiting.
> [System Notification: Developer Fatigue reduced. Mental stability recalibrated.]
[Tutorial Progress: 23% Complete.]
"Twenty-three?" she repeated. "I worked all night for twenty-three percent?"
> [Progress efficiency was reduced by excessive self-doubt.]
She glared. "Excuse me?"
> [Confidence modifier affects System calibration speed.]
"…So you're saying my anxiety literally makes the code slower?"
> [Affirmative.]
Haneul rubbed her face. "Of course. Of course. Emotional coding penalties. Why not throw in existential dread bonuses while you're at it?"
> [Feature not available yet.]
She snorted before she could stop herself. "Okay, you're funnier when you're not trying to be."
Breakfast was a small packet of NutriMeal 4.2. The texture reminded her of pudding that gave up halfway through life. She grimaced, but ate it anyway — calories were still calories, no matter the century.
"Alright," she mumbled between bites. "Let's check last night's progress."
> [Project: Slice-of-Life Sim Prototype]
[Progress: 42%. Stability: Low.]
The screen displayed a small village — unfinished, floating on a wireframe background. The art style was soft, pastel, human. A tiny farmer character waved mindlessly at nothing.
"Cute," she murmured. "Also cursed."
The character suddenly twitched and fell through the floor.
She groaned. "Okay, that's definitely cursed."
> [Gravity parameter missing.]
"Then add one!"
> [Insufficient points.]
"What points?"
> [Developer Resource Points (DRP).]
[You currently have 0 DRP.]
Haneul exhaled slowly. "Great. I'm broke in two worlds."
> [DRP can be obtained by completing Development Objectives.]
"Fine. Hit me."
> [Objective 1: Produce a stable prototype environment.]
[Objective 2: Market test your game to 10 users.]
[Objective 3: Receive at least one user review.]
She stared at the glowing list. "Ten users? I can barely get one person to beta test, and you want ten?"
> [Affirmative.]
"Fantastic." She clapped her hands. "I'll just wander outside and hand out floppy disks like it's 1999."
> [Floppy disk: Unknown term.]
"Don't worry about it."
After showering — which, thankfully, still worked the human way — Haneul pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and black pants from the apartment's automated wardrobe. The mirror adjusted her reflection automatically.
Her reflection looked a little sharper now. Determined.
Still terrified, but at least the functioning adult kind of terrified.
When she stepped outside, the hallway lights adjusted to her footsteps. The building itself seemed alive, humming faintly with power.
"Wow," she murmured. "Luxury future apartments — one star, too quiet."
A holographic sign at the exit scanned her wrist automatically.
> "Resident Seo Haneul — Access Granted."
She froze.
Her name was registered here. Her identity already existed.
Which meant whoever this version of her was, she wasn't… gone.
Just missing.
Her chest tightened briefly. "You had a nice life here, huh? Sorry for crashing your save file."
Outside, the air was impossibly clean.
Vehicles glided silently above magnetic lanes. Glass towers shimmered like daylight holograms. Pedestrians wore wrist displays that projected data as they walked.
No one looked at her twice.
That, somehow, was comforting.
"System," she muttered under her breath, pretending to talk on an invisible call. "Any idea where people play indie games around here?"
> [Querying entertainment networks.]
[Result: Independent Gaming Hubs exist only on the lower public layers of NetSphere.]
"Translation?"
> [Underground communities.]
"Perfect." She grinned. "The internet's still messy. That's comforting."
> [Note: Access requires NetSphere Console or verified neural port.]
Her smile froze. "Neural… port?"
> [Implanted behind the left ear. Allows neural access to digital space.]
She touched the spot. Smooth skin. Nothing.
"…I don't have one."
> [Recommendation: Visit a Tech Implant Center.]
"Yeah, no thanks. Last time I trusted tech with my brain, it gave me burnout."
> [Technically, you gave yourself burnout.]
"Whose side are you on?"
> [Yours. Statistically.]
She sighed. "Alright. Guess we'll do this the old-fashioned way — manually uploading."
> [Manual upload method detected: Public Terminal Booths.]
"Lead the way, Siri-with-attitude."
Finding the terminal was easy.
Convincing it to let her use it… not so much.
The sleek machine blinked at her, voice soft and polite.
> "User verification required. Please input your DevID."
"DevID?"
> "Registered Developer Identification Number."
She blinked. "Yeah, I don't have that."
> "Then please register with the Game Creators' Bureau."
Of course there was a Bureau. There was always a Bureau.
She sighed, rubbing her temple. "Look, I just need to upload a small test game."
> "Unregistered uploads are prohibited."
"I'll pay!"
> "Please acquire credits first."
She turned to the System hovering quietly behind her. "I hate bureaucracy."
> [Acknowledged.]
Two hours later, she was seated at a café, glaring at the latte she couldn't afford.
She had tried applying for a "temporary upload permit," but that required a citizen verification that flagged her as "on hiatus." Whatever that meant.
"Guess the old me was rich but lazy," she muttered, stirring the foam.
> [Data suggests previous record: Independent VR Researcher. Project incomplete.]
"Researcher?" she repeated. "So that's why this apartment looked like an evil scientist lab."
> [Noted: Your predecessor's unfinished project data is still stored locally.]
"Wait—what?"
> [Would you like to access it?]
Haneul froze.
That was new.
"Access… the old Haneul's data?"
> [Affirmative.]
Her heartbeat quickened. "Yes. Do it."
> [Accessing local archive…]
[Warning: Data corruption detected.]
"Can you fix it?"
> [Attempting repair.]
The air shimmered faintly. For a second, static filled her vision—white noise, then an image: a young woman standing before a glowing console, her expression blank. The same face. Her face.
She was saying something—but the audio was broken, distorted.
Then the image fractured, scattering into fragments of light.
> [Restoration failed. 12% of data recovered.]
[Recovered file: "Dream_Seed"]
"Dream Seed," she repeated. "Sounds poetic. Or pretentious. Or both."
> [Would you like to open it?]
"Yes."
A small holographic file unfolded, revealing concept art — sketches of soft landscapes, a farmer under a tree, a glowing orb hovering above soil. Notes scrawled in shorthand: "emotional resonance," "AI empathy," "shared dream spaces."
Her breath caught.
The other Haneul had been making a game.
And it was almost the same genre she'd started building.
"Guess we really are the same kind of idiot," she murmured. "Making quiet games in loud worlds."
> [Do you wish to integrate recovered data?]
She hesitated. "Will it overwrite mine?"
> [No. It will enhance your prototype with compatible assets.]
"Then do it."
> [Integration complete.]
The System screen flickered.
Her simple farming world bloomed — new textures, better lighting, an atmosphere that felt… alive.
Wind rustled holographic leaves. The farmer now looked upward, as if aware of something.
"Oh," she whispered. "That's… beautiful."
> [Prototype integrity: 67%.]
She blinked, tears threatening. "I didn't even write that code…"
> [You did not. But you finished what she started.]
Haneul laughed weakly. "You know, you're dangerously good at emotional manipulation for an AI."
> [Acknowledged.]
Night fell again.
The city below glittered like circuitry — flowing, brilliant, cold.
Haneul leaned against the glass, nursing her second cup of cheap vending-machine coffee.
"So let me get this straight," she said quietly. "I'm living in the future. The me who used to live here vanished. I have a sarcastic system and a ghost of someone else's dream project. And somehow, my to-do list is still the same: fix bugs, find players, survive."
> [Correct.]
She chuckled softly. "Figures. New world, same crunch."
> [Objective Reminder: You still require ten players.]
"Yeah, yeah." She waved her hand. "How am I supposed to market something nobody cares about?"
> [Unknown. Suggestion: Improvise.]
"Helpful as always."
> [You're welcome.]
Hours later, she was back at the console.
Her eyes burned, but her hands moved automatically.
She added a new function—Dream Sharing Mode, inspired by the recovered notes.
If users couldn't find her game, maybe she could bring it to them.
> [Warning: Function exceeds User authority.]
"Override it," she muttered.
> [Override denied.]
"Come on, just a small test run—"
> [Override denied.]
[System safety protocols engaged.]
"Fine," she hissed. "Manual coding it is."
She dove into the structure, typing like her fingers were on fire. Every failed command pushed her harder. Lines of code filled the air, glowing with faint light. The System's warnings stacked faster and faster.
> [Warning. Warning. System instability increasing.]
"I said run!"
The room flashed white. For one breathless second, the holographic world rippled — and then she saw it.
A brief flicker of another world layered atop hers: a vast, calm field under a sky full of stars.
Then it was gone.
Silence.
Her console smoked faintly.
She stared. "...Did I just break the universe or invent a new genre?"
> [Both are possible.]
"Comforting."
> [Unauthorized code executed successfully.]
[Feature unlocked: Prototype Connection Bridge.]
"Bridge?" she echoed.
> [Allows temporary connection between developer environment and external perception streams.]
"So… I can show people the game without them downloading it?"
> [Correct. Duration limited to one hour.]
A slow smile spread across her face.
"Well," she whispered, "looks like we just found our marketing strategy."
She leaned back in her chair. The soft hum of the console filled the air. Her tired reflection flickered across the glass — hair messy, eyes alive.
For the first time in forever, Seo Haneul didn't feel like she was lagging behind the world.
She was building something that mattered again.
> [Prototype Status: Active.]
[Next Objective: Connect 10 Users.]
"Ten players," she murmured. "Let's start with one."
She glanced at the city glowing outside her window and smirked faintly.
"Alright, Seoul 2137. Let's see if you still remember how to play."