LPaul's studio was not a place of creation; it was a paper cemetery. Twelve square meters where the smell of instant noodles fought against a persistent dampness. On his desk, a pile of notebooks with tattered covers bore witness to his sleepless nights. Paul called them his "dead children." Thousands of pages written with his guts, filled with monsters and screams that no one had ever wanted to publish.
"Too dark," "Not commercial enough," "The public wants dreams, Paul, not nightmares," he muttered, mimicking his last agent's voice.
He glanced at his mirror: sunken dark circles, a three-day-old beard, and that hollow gaze of someone who had stared too long into the abyss. His only passion was horror video games. It was the only time he felt alive—the only time he wasn't "Paul the failed writer," but a survivor.
Suddenly, his old laptop emitted a piercing sound.
[NEW MESSAGE - PRIORITY: ABSOLUTE]
Paul frowned. The sender was a string of corrupted characters: [email protected].
SUBJECT: TEST YOUR DESTINY.
"Dear Paul. We have read your stories. They lack realism. Do you want to know what true fear is? Do you want your words to finally have weight? Click here to enter REALITY ZERO."
A shiver ran down Paul's spine. How did they know his name? But enthusiasm, that poison of the desperate, took over.
"What do I have to lose? I'm already a ghost here anyway."
He clicked [ACCEPT]. A second email dropped instantly like a guillotine blade:
"WELCOME TO HELL. FIRST CHAPTER: INSPIRATION COMES FROM THE SOIL."
Suddenly, the laptop's fan began to howl. The studio light flickered, then died. Paul didn't even have time to scream. His notebooks flew up in a black whirlwind, and he was sucked into the screen, leaving behind an empty room where only the mouse cursor blinked on a blank page.
The silence lasted only a fraction of a second. Then came the weight.
Paul opened his mouth to gasp for air, but he only swallowed acrid dust and the taste of industrial varnish. His eyes widened, but they met only absolute darkness. A darkness so dense it seemed to press against his pupils.
He tried to bring his hands to his face.
CLUCK.
His knuckles slammed violently against a wooden wall barely inches from his nose. Pain shot up his arm, electric and real. This wasn't a simulation. This wasn't a dream.
"No... no! Get me out of here!" he screamed.
His voice didn't carry. It was instantly muffled by the cheap satin lining surrounding him. The sound was flat, dead.
Suddenly, a blood-red glow began to pulse in the void. Numerical characters floated in the air right in front of him:
[ SYSTEM: REALITY ZERO ]
[ SCENARIO 1: THE BURIAL OF THE FAILURES ]
Objective: Reach the surface.
Time until asphyxiation: 04:21... 04:20...
Skill Unlocked:« Author's Eye » (Rank F)
Effect: Allows you to see the flaws in the plot... or the structure.
"A... a coffin? They really put me in a coffin?"
Panic seized him. Paul began to kick and claw at the lid. His nails tore against the oak, but he felt nothing. Only that number mattered: 03:55.
Thanks to his new skill, he suddenly saw a thin line of light on the wood. A structural flaw. But above it, he heard a sinister cracking sound. The weight of the earth above him was colossal. If he broke the wood carelessly, he would be crushed instantly.
[ EDITOR'S NOTE ]:
"Well, Paul? Not lacking 'punch' this time, are we? Pity there's no one around to write your eulogy."
Paul stopped screaming. His lungs were burning. He had to think like a writer. If he were the hero of this chapter, he wouldn't die here.
He reached into his pocket. His fingers met a cold, metallic object. His old letter opener that he always kept on him.
"You want realism?" he whispered between fits of coughing. "I'll give you realism."
[ Time Remaining: 02:15 ]