Masquerade of Dreams: Shattered.
It sounds like the kind of game where you drown in sparkles and soft violin music while pretty boys fight for your hand, which it is.
It'a popular otome game made by some mysterious studio that practically prints money with the millions of players it had. It's so big that it got merch, a fandom, an anime and a mobile spin-off where you collect chibi versions of your favorite heartbreakers. Seventy five percent of the player base are women. The other five percent are either ironic males like me or closeted romantics who pretend they're here for the "lore."
I didn't even know this glitter bomb of heartbreak existed until my university friend shoved it in my face.
"You have to try it," she said, with the kind of conviction people usually reserve for religion or multilevel marketing schemes. I laughed but eventually, after months of persuasion, I gave in.
So I tried it and then I tried it again. And then suddenly it was four in the morning, I had an exam in five hours, and I was crying because a fictional prince with abs of steel and daddy issues finally told me I was "his light." Thanks a lot, Rina.
Rina was the one who introduced me to it. She was the kind of person who went all in on everything she loved, whether it was study notes that looked like art pieces or in this case, a video game where your choices decided whether you got a kiss or a knife in the back. Her account was worth more than my entire gaming rig.
She died of chronic illness.
One day we were arguing about who had the best route and the next, she was gone.
A few days before she passed, she gave me her account. I didn't get it at the time or why she'd want me to have it. But, I kept it and logged in every now and then. At first it felt weird, like I was trespassing in a shrine. But after a while, I think I just wanted to remember her. Or maybe I just didn't want to admit that this dumb, sparkly, melodramatic game had become fun.
So here I am, sitting in my shoebox apartment, surrounded by instant noodle bowls and half-written essays I'll probably ignore, tapping away at my phone at 2 AM like a lovesick teenager. I could be studying, sleeping or having a life but no. Tonight I'm attending the "Masquerade of Midnight Promises," a limited-time event with fireworks, flowing gowns, and enough angst to fuel a K-drama marathon.
The event ends with the usual fanfare: Fireworks exploding across the pixelated night sky, violins swelling, and my perfectly dressed avatar holding hands with Thales like we're on the cover of a romance novel. He whispers something smooth and tragic, the screen fades to black, and the event is complete. Rina's account, once again, was showing me what it feels like to have a lot of resources.
I lean back in my chair, stretching until my spine sounds like bubble wrap.
"Well, that was… something."
My room is dead silent except for the hum of my computer fan and the shame of knowing I just spent four straight hours grinding for imaginary affection points. But hey, at least Rina's account gets results.
That's when it happens. A little pop-up flashes on my monitor, bright white with text in elegant cursive font:
[Did you enjoy The Masquerade of Dreams: Shattered?]
This has never popped up before.
I check the corner of my screen. There are no notifications or update logs, just this weird survey box floating in front of me like it owns the place.
"Uh… sure?"
Out of sheer reflex, I move my mouse over to Yes and click. Immediately, the box morphs into a glowing five-star rating screen. I stare at it.
"Wait, what the hell? I didn't even..m ugh, fine."
After a lot of questions about the game and the updates since release, I give it good ratings because, why not? The game's ridiculous but it's good.
Another text box appears:
[Thank you for your feedback. Please answer a few more questions.]
"Oh my God, it is a survey. What are you guys, desperate for validation?"
But my mouse hand has already betrayed me and before I know it, I'm answering questions.
Favorite character? – "Cool stoic boy, but only because Rina would haunt me if I said otherwise."
Favorite event? – "The one with the horse-riding competition. Don't ask."
Would you recommend this game to a friend? – "Too late, it already ruined my life."
And then, the final question:
[If you could change one thing about the game, what would it be?]
I freeze. Huh. That's… actually a decent question.
I lean forward, tapping my chin. The events are fun sure, but half the time they drown out the actual plot. Rina used to complain about it all the time too.
So I type:
"Focus more on the main story instead of the events."
I smirk, hitting enter.
"Not like the devs are going to care anyway. Probably just some poor intern tallying answers in a spreadsheet."
Except… the screen doesn't go back to the game. Instead, my monitor flares.
A blinding, white light bursts out like someone shoved a supernova into my cheap desktop. I reel back in my chair, arms over my face.
"Holy... what the hell is going on?!"
It's so bright it feels like it's burning through my eyelids, branding the inside of my skull with pure radiance.
I open my eyes and I'm not in my room anymore. There is no desk, no noodle cups or amy laundry pile judging me from the corner. It's just endless white stretching in every direction like someone deleted reality and forgot to paste it back in.
There's no ground beneath me or ceiling above me. My heart lurches in my chest.
"Okay… either I died of vitamin deficiency from too much instant ramen, or… this is one hell of a graphics glitch."
Before I can panic properly, something massive materializes in front of me. A hologram, bigger than a house, shines with blinding letters made of light.
[WELCOME TO MASQUERADE OF DREAMS: SHATTERED.]
My stomach drops. Underneath, more words scroll across, each letter slamming into place with a metallic clang:
[You are the 110,635th Outer to join.]
"What the…"
My voice comes out weak, half swallowed by the whiteness. I try to speak louder and ask what the hell is happening but before I can even form the words, the void shifts. The ground, or maybe just gravity itself, disappears.
Suddenly I'm falling.
The white space cracks around me like glass, shattering into shards of light as I plummet faster and faster. My stomach is in my throat. My limbs are flailing uselessly. I try to scream but the wind—or whatever it is—snatches the sound right out of my mouth.
Everything turns black.
-----
I woke up with a groan.
My body felt heavy like I've been buried under sand. The first thing I saw is a ceiling, not the cracked plaster of my apartment ceiling with its water stain shaped like a duck. This one is grand.
It's a high, arched ceiling painted with golden swirls and delicate frescoes. Chandeliers glitter above me, the crystals catching the light in a way no student apartment could ever dream of.
"Oh, crap."
I pushed myself upright, trying to shake the fuzziness out of my head. My hands pressed against the smooth sheets. My gaze dropped to my hands.
They're… not pale.
They're dark tanned and muscular in a way mine never were. My nails are clean, my knuckles are broad and my veins are standing out. These are not the hands of a caffeine-addicted college student who lives off instant noodles and procrastination.
Slowly, I flex my fingers, staring at them like they'll explain themselves.
"No way. No freaking way…"
And that's when it hits me. The ceiling. The bed. The hands. The survey. The light. The hologram.
I'm in the game.
I'm actually in Masquerade of Dreams: Shattered.