The air in the room was thick and still, a hot, sticky blanket woven from July humidity and the faint, metallic scent of the medical clinic across the street. Even with the window blocked by a cheap vinyl sheet, a single, vicious shaft of sunlight managed to pierce a tear, slicing the gloom and illuminating dancing motes of dust.
Beep... Beep... Beep...
A persistent buzz came from the small, scratched utility table. It was an automated reminder from the hospital's collections agency.
Six months left.
Deadline: Eda's kidney transplant fund.
Required: $2.1 million.
Current: $17,400.
Consequences: Disconnection.
Leo swiped the glowing display, killing the sound. The number was always the same, a crushing weight that stole his sleep. For a nineteen-year-old high school dropout working kitchen cleanup, $2.1 million was a sum only seen in the lottery—a lottery he didn't have time to play.
He picked up the thing lying on the bed: a sleek, black Immersion Helmet. It wasn't standard consumer tech. It was heavy, jury-rigged, and felt unnervingly cold against his palm.
Taped to the side was a single, crimson data chip, slightly smaller than his thumbnail. It contained the entire game world, and it had cost him the last of his meager savings, plus everything he could get for his deceased father's watch.
He pressed the chip firmly into the slot of the headset. Click.
There was no friendly start-up jingle, just a guttural mechanical cough from the headset's internal speaker. This wasn't a game you bought at a store. This was Pandemonium.
He knew the legend, circulated among the city's desperate gamblers and the truly hopeless: Pandemonium delivered 100% sensory replication. If you died in the simulation, the uncapped neural feedback scrambled your brain into permanent shutdown. The original beta test ended with more body bags than survivors, making the game instantly illegal. But the rumor that kept it alive was the guarantee: the only place where ultra-rare, high-demand resources spawned, selling for millions in real-world currency.
Leo didn't need to be convinced of the risk. His grandmother's life was already on the line; he was just changing the arena. Die here, or watch her die slowly.
He fitted the helmet over his head, the foam pads smelling faintly of disinfectant and ozone. He closed his eyes and lay back on the mattress, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Let's go," he whispered.
A flat, digital voice spoke into his ears:
// User Authentication: Confirmed. Leo Vance, 19, Unaffiliated.
// Financial Status: Critical.
// Loading: Zero-Tolerance Module: Pandemonium.
// Entering Solo Trial: The Abandoned Quarantine Zone.
[Mission Briefing: You have been dropped into the ruined perimeter of Sector Gamma. The area has been overrun by raiders and scavengers. Find a way to secure enough resources to buy safe passage out. Time is limited.]
[Objective: Survive for 72 hours. (0/72)]
[Optional: Locate the Black Market Cache deep within the zone. Hint: Trust the shadows.]
The message faded. Then, a blinding, white flash that felt like a sharp crack behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut, a nauseating lurching sensation pulling his stomach to his throat, like dropping out of a plane.
When the sensation stopped, Leo opened his eyes.
He was on a floor of cracked concrete, and the first thing he saw was a worn leather boot, severed cleanly at the ankle.
He tracked his gaze upward, and his breath hitched. Barely a foot away lay a human corpse, splayed across a heap of rubble. Its uniform was shredded, revealing a pale, bloody cavity where its chest should have been. Its face, frozen in a silent, desperate scream, was staring directly up at him.
Panic clawed at his throat. The smell—copper, damp concrete, and decay—was overwhelming. His first instinct was to scramble backward, which he did, hitting the rough texture of a concrete wall behind him with a painful thud.
The sharp pain was a lifeline.
"It's not real. It's a copy," he gritted out, the words shaking. "This is just a game."
He had to ground himself. He'd read the tutorials on the dark web—look for the system window.
"Status," he forced out, his voice hoarse.
A faint, blue holographic overlay materialized in his vision, steadying his world.
[Name: Leo Vance]
[Age:19]
[Affiliation: None]
[Health: 100%]
[Stamina: 100%]
Leo scanned the next window, the attributes that would determine his survival.
[Strenght: F]
[Agility: F]
[Vitality: F]
[Focus: F]
[Wits: F]
And the final page
[Skills: None]
[Gear: None]
[Inventory: Empty]
[Rating: Unarmed Civilian. Expect immediate, terminal failure]
The insulting rating didn't matter. The system was real, which meant he was in the game. And in a game, a corpse wasn't a horror; it was a loot container.
Holding back a sickening wave of nausea, Leo edged closer to the body. He ignored the dead eyes and focused on the only thing that mattered: survival. He needed a weapon, food, anything. He began to search the tattered uniform pockets. His fingers brushed against something stiff, rectangular, and tightly strapped to the small of the man's back. It was a utility pack, cinched down hard, almost invisible against the rubble.
Hope, cold and absolute, sharpened his focus. He yanked the pack free, securing his first potential prize.
The utility pack was small, designed for field-ops and tight storage. Leo wasted no time with ceremony, ripping the main zipper open.
The contents were meager. A roll of gauze, still factory-sealed; a half-full bottle of disinfectant, its sharp chemical smell a relief from the stench of decay; and three foil-wrapped Field Rations.
It was disappointing. His mind had raced with dreams of high-powered tech or stacks of tradable currency, yet he'd pulled barely enough to survive a weekend camping trip.
Then, the cold logic of the game asserted itself. This was the Quarantine Zone, the drop point. No system in its right mind would drop multi-million dollar equipment in the hands of a Level 1 survivor. He was in the Beginner's Village, and this was the standard starter kit.
He placed the supplies on the cracked floor and picked up the last item: a tattered, waterproof Ledger.
When he touched it, the system confirmation flashed:
[Item: Scavenger's Ledger]
[Type: Document]
[Rarity: Worn]
[Contents: Fragmented Notes and Coordinates]
[Notes: A collection of desperate thoughts and hidden stashes. Heavily soiled, use caution.]
He carefully flipped through the pages, the handwriting erratic, sometimes smeared with what he hoped was mud.
—Day 5. Hunger is the true enemy. Heard the Brutes moving outside the West tunnel. Too large for the access hatch. Only place safe enough is the first drop point, near the collapsed highway segment. The one with the dead man—I hope the ravens left him. I hid the kit deep in the wreckage. Can't risk carrying it.
—Day 6. I'm out of water. The well is tainted. Must make it back to the highway. If I can just get the crowbar and the mask, I can breathe in the lower levels. The mask is key.
—Day 8. Mistake. The Brute found the well. Lost two fingers getting away. Too weak. Can't go back for the kit. If I die, maybe someone else finds it. It's underneath the support beam, right where the body is, where the concrete cracked.
The final entry was a scrawl. The ledger confirmed what his gut had told him: the real prize wasn't in the pack. It was right here, in the rubble.
He turned back to the corpse. The fear was still a hard knot in his gut, but it was overshadowed by a sharper instinct: the need to live. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the slick, cold grime. He started meticulously running his fingers along the base of the broken support beam mentioned in the ledger, near where the body's legs had been angled.
The body itself was incidental now; it was just a landmark.
His hand scraped against jagged rebar, then slid onto something smooth and cold that didn't belong to the concrete. He pulled.
It was heavy. A rusted, solid length of metal.
[Item: Reinforced Crowbar]
[Type: Blunt/Pry Weapon]
[Rarity: Damaged]
[Attack: Moderate]
[Attributes: Increased Leverage (Utility)] [Notes: Crude but reliable. Use wisely.]
A weapon. His hands, which moments ago were fumbling with rations, now tightened around the cold steel. The Crowbar felt solid, heavy, and real. It felt like hope.
He found one more item taped securely to the shaft: a small, functional Headlamp with a solid, elastic strap.
With his meager supplies tucked into the scavenger pack on his back and the crowbar clutched firmly, Leo was ready to leave. The fading light outside the room's entrance was his only clock. The shadows were lengthening, turning the ruined corridor into a black throat.
As he reached the doorway, a sudden, muffled cry echoed down the hallway, followed by a sound like a heavy sack hitting the floor.
Leo froze, pressing himself flat against the cold stone frame, his crowbar held low.
A coarse, gravelly voice boomed with cruel pleasure, "You got something you shouldn't, little bird. Hand it over, and maybe I leave you with one working leg."
"No! I earned this!" a female voice screamed back, raw with terror.
The footsteps were heavy, slow, and deliberate, stomping into the corridor. Leo peered around the corner. A massive man—a true Brute, armed with a club wrapped in razor wire—was casually advancing, blocking the entire width of the hallway. The smaller figure was pressed against the opposite wall, defenseless.
The Brute was focused entirely on his prey. His back was exposed, and he was taking his time, savoring the fear.
Leo's mind raced. If he did nothing, the Brute would finish the smaller figure, then turn and spot him. He was trapped. He wasn't a hero, but he couldn't afford to be seen. He couldn't afford a fair fight.
He took one silent, painful step forward. The brute was two yards away, his heavy boot pausing, his back a massive, inviting target. Leo raised the crowbar, focusing all his desperation and fear into a single, ugly swing.