The interrogation room door opened again, but this time, the person who walked in was not a uniformed law enforcement officer. Instead, it was a young man in simple casual clothes, his expression calm, with even a trace of the weary look typical of a tech obsessive.
Wilson's gaze settled on the newcomer's face. For the first time, the composed smile on his own face wavered ever so slightly, like a pebble dropped into a still lake. A genuine flicker of surprise, interest, and amusement passed through his eyes.
"Hello. My name is Medici."
The young man sat down across from him, relaxed, his tone as casual as if he had come for an ordinary interview.
The smile on Wilson's face returned to normal, becoming even livelier than before. He tilted his head slightly and spoke as though chatting with an old acquaintance.
"Oh, of course I know you. The famous... Warhammer designer."
He deliberately placed a little extra emphasis on Warhammer.
"I'm genuinely interested in the game you made. The grim universe, the grand narratives of sacrifice, the ruthless deconstruction of humanity and divinity... fascinating."
He paused, then adopted the mildly regretful, critical tone of a veteran player offering feedback to a developer.
"It's just that the gameplay is a little... hmm, monotonous? Aside from those massive battlefield spectacles, it seems to lack some smaller, more intricate 'games' that truly test an individual's intelligence and taste. Of course, that's merely my humble opinion."
With those few words, he had both expressed his "appreciation" for Medici's work and subtly displayed his own "taste" and "intellectual superiority." At the same time, he had quietly shifted their relationship away from interrogator and suspect and toward creator and sophisticated connoisseur.
Medici seemed neither surprised by the evaluation nor drawn into Wilson's framing. He merely gave him an enigmatic smile tinged with curiosity.
"What a coincidence," Medici said slowly, leaning slightly forward. "The people at the Municipal Enforcement Bureau, Brightlight Road Branch didn't ask me here today to discuss game design."
"They said... you seem to be getting a little bored in here?"
Wilson raised an eyebrow without answering, but the interest in his eyes deepened.
"So," Medici spread his hands, his tone as casual as though he were introducing a newly released DLC, "they asked me to see whether I could... find you a 'game' to play."
Wilson's smile instantly brightened.
It was the excitement of a hunter discovering unfamiliar prey.
He gave an exaggerated little "Oh?" of surprise, his voice filled with theatrical delight.
"What an honor. A game designer personally creating a 'game' just for me? Then I'll definitely have to... give it a proper try."
He said the last few words lightly, but they carried an unmistakable sense of challenge and anticipation.
He knew perfectly well that this was probably a trap, an elaborate piece of psychological warfare.
He did not care.
It was far more interesting than dealing with police officers who could do nothing but recite laws and preach morality.
Playing a "game" against the creator of the game himself?
That was practically the highest possible compliment to his intelligence, as well as the perfect challenge.
---
What followed went far more smoothly than the law enforcement officers had expected.
At Medici's "suggestion," Wilson was transferred to an even more specialized room.
It resembled a high-tech medical observation chamber, except that in the center stood a specially modified immersive experience pod. Its casing bore no brand markings, only clean lines and interface ports.
"Private server. No login required. Just lie down."
Medici gestured toward the machine, speaking as casually as though he were introducing an ordinary game console.
Wilson did not hesitate in the slightest.
With the expectant expression of someone about to embark on a grand adventure, he even cooperated in having the unnecessary restraints removed before gracefully lying down inside the pod.
Before the hatch closed, he even gave Medici and the law enforcement officers watching through the one-way glass what could only be described as a gentlemanly smile.
The light inside the pod dimmed.
The neural interface activated.
---
When Wilson's "consciousness" became clear again, he discovered that he was not standing on the smoke-filled battlefield or inside the dark cathedral he had expected from something resembling Battlefield: Warhammer 40k.
Instead, he stood in a cold, solemn starship corridor filled with Gothic pointed arches and heavy metal passageways.
The faint hum of the circulation systems lingered in the air, accompanied by a subtle scent of ozone and something else: a barely perceptible mixture of unsettling incense and blood.
He was no longer wearing casual clothes.
Instead, he wore a perfectly pressed black uniform, immaculately tailored and decorated with silver skulls and the Imperial Aquila. Over it was a heavy dark-gray greatcoat, its collar and cuffs trimmed in deep crimson.
At his waist hung a bolt pistol of classical design, radiating a dangerous energy signature. On the other side was an Inquisition-pattern power staff equipped with a sophisticated device for recording judgments and punishments.
In his hand was a cold data-slate, encrypted directives and crew files scrolling across its screen.
A figure appeared before him like a ghost.
It was an old man with a gaunt face and eyes as sharp as a hawk's. He wore a coat of similar design, though his was older and covered in countless faint scars.
Pinned to his chest was an emblem of a burning sacred flame intertwined with a sword.
The symbol of the Inquisition.
The old man offered no greeting.
In a dry voice like sandpaper scraping against stone, yet filled with unquestionable authority, he addressed Wilson, or rather, the "character" Wilson was now playing.
"Inquisitorial Acolyte, 'Wilson.'"
"Listen carefully. You have no time to adjust, and no room for mistakes."
"This vessel, the Pilgrim of Terra, emerged from its Mandeville Point three hours ago and returned to realspace after a seven-year voyage through the Warp. However, scans indicate an abnormal decline in life signs throughout the ship. Multiple surveillance nodes are offline, and unauthorized Warp-energy residue and signs of corruption have been detected in several sections."
The old Inquisitor stepped closer.
His clouded yet razor-sharp eyes locked onto Wilson, every word seeming to hammer itself directly into his consciousness.
"According to our preliminary assessment, infiltrators belonging to a Chaos cult have taken root among the crew and perhaps even the passengers over the course of this long voyage.
They have defiled this sacred pilgrimage and intend to drag the entire vessel, along with the thirty million faithful souls aboard it, into the abyss of eternal corruption."
"You are a newly appointed agent of the Inquisition whose identity has not yet been compromised. You have been dispatched here under my direct command."
"Your current mission is not public judgment. It is not an armed purge. Either would alert the enemy and drive the true mastermind deeper into hiding."
The old Inquisitor pressed a red-glowing encrypted data-crystal into Wilson's hand.
"Your mission is simple: infiltrate, observe, investigate, identify."
"Use your authority to examine crew files and voyage logs. Observe the behavior of passengers and crew for anomalies that contradict Imperial doctrine or simple logic. Investigate areas containing energy residue and analyze traces of corruption. Make 'innocent' contact with key individuals and draw information from them..."
"And then," the old Inquisitor continued, lowering his voice until it carried an icy killing intent, "secretly submit to me the list of traitors you are certain of, the chain of evidence proving their corruption, and your conclusions regarding the core members of the cult."
"Remember, the Inquisition does not want suspicion. It wants conclusive evidence of heresy."
"Every judgment you make may decide whether an innocent person lives or dies. And every mistake may allow a true monster to escape."
"This starship is your board."
"Every person aboard it may be a piece... or a hidden enemy."
"The Emperor watches you, Acolyte. Do not betray His trust. And do not... allow Chaos to taint your soul."
"Your mission begins now."
"You have seventy-two standard hours."
"When that time expires, regardless of your results, the armed forces of the Inquisition will intervene and conduct an indiscriminate purge. At that point, any 'heretic' you have failed to identify correctly will be reduced to ash along with this entire ship."
"For the Emperor."
With that, the old Inquisitor disappeared down the corridor as swiftly as though he had melted into the shadows.
Wilson was left alone in the cold, empty metal passageway, surrounded by invisible pressure.
He lowered his gaze to the Inquisitorial uniform he wore.
He touched the bolt pistol and power staff at his waist, then looked at the heavy data-crystal in his hand, a symbol of authority over life and death.
The old Inquisitor's words seemed to echo beside his ears.
"Your judgment decides who lives and who dies."
"Do not betray that trust."
"Do not allow Chaos to taint your soul."
A thrill unlike anything Wilson had experienced before surged through him, a mixture of overwhelming excitement, the shiver of having his desire for control completely satisfied, and the rush of adrenaline that came from confronting an extraordinarily difficult challenge.
This was no longer about watching or critiquing someone else's work.
He was personally stepping into the role of someone who wielded absolute authority in a dark universe, engaging in a precise battle of intellect.
A "game" about hunting down "traitors" and passing "judgment."
And his opponent could be anyone.
The rules were unclear.
Time was running out.
And the price of failure was suffocatingly high.
This was simply...
Perfect for him.
Wilson slowly raised his head.
The black greatcoat of the Inquisition stirred gently in a breeze whose source he could not identify.
For the first time since entering this "game," a smile appeared on his face.
It was no longer the calm, restrained smile of a young aristocrat.
It was the cold, focused pleasure of a hunter stepping onto the perfect hunting ground.
The Pilgrim of Terra...
A Chaos cult...
The Inquisition...
Seventy-two hours...
Wilson began walking.
The heels of his boots struck the metal floor with clear, steady echoes as he headed deeper into the dark, unknown corridors ahead.