Vincent. Thirty years old, no passions, no future—no upward or
forward momentum. A stagnant swamp of mediocrity festering in the
back bedroom of his mother's house. He'd been a server at two
fast-food joints, a janitor in a shopping mall, and a "rising
streamer" for about three months. Content
creator, not streamer, mum.
Nothing stuck. Nothing ever lifted off. He could have been somebody,
provided he were someone else.
But there he was:
Vincent.
The room smelled of
dirty laundry and stale chips. The walls were plastered with
half-torn posters—games he'd never finished, movies he'd never
understood. On the desk, a PC tower hummed like an asthmatic,
surrounded by empty cans and crumpled delivery slips. The window
looked out onto a parking lot. He hadn't opened it in two years.
And Vincent had just
received an email.
He'd seen it by
chance, scrolling listlessly between two YouTube videos on farming
techniques he'd never apply. The subject line simply read:
"Congratulations."
No sender name. Just
an alphanumeric address that looked like a copy-paste error. He'd
almost deleted it. Then he clicked. Because it was easier than
continuing to scroll.
"Congratulations.
You have been selected for the closed beta of TRAUM?."
He didn't understand
much—not the full-dive VR, not the rest—but he'd grasped the
essentials. A million dollars. That was the number that mattered. If
you reached level 100, if you cleared every quest, you walked away a
millionaire.
The system was simple.
Every level meant money: level x 100 dollars. [Level
1]:
100 dollars. [Level
50]:
5,000 dollars. [Level
100]:
10,000 dollars.
But the real jackpot?
The milestones. Every ten levels, special quests unlocked the big
money. 10k at level 10, 20k at level 20... all the way to 100k at
level 100. There was a catch, though—the higher the level, the more
quests you had to chain together. One at level 10, two at level 20,
three at level 30...
Vincent skipped the
math and focused on the bottom line: level 100 equals one million
dollars. I
fucking deserve this. Haven't I suffered enough?
He imagined walking
home, slamming the money down on the kitchen table. Gonna
set my old lady up, yeah. That's why I'm doing it. Only for that. And
then after, a car, a flat, finally bagging some girls.
In other words, a
get-out-of-jail-free card, the end of broccoli gratin every Thursday,
victory by default.
He'd skimmed the terms
and conditions, just as he skimmed everything in his life. Words like
"synaptic synchronization," "psychic tolerance,"
"medical liability waiver"—he'd scrolled through them
like one crosses a minefield with their eyes shut. He clicked
"accept" while gritting his teeth—not out of bravery, but
because no one ever saw a "good plan" that started with
"taking your time."
The headset had been
delivered by drone two days later. No logo on the box. No brand. Just
a black box, heavy, smelling of new plastic and something
else—something organic, vaguely metallic. Vincent had unpacked it
while holding his breath, as if it were about to explode.
The headset itself was
massive. Not elegant. Not sleek. Just functional, with thick straps
and sensors that looked like mechanical leeches. He turned it over in
his hands, looking for a power button, a manual. Nothing. Just a
USB-C port and an unsettling silence.
And two days later,
Vincent lay in bed, his eyelids damp, telling himself he was going to
get rich playing a video game. A sentence uttered by millions of
losers before him.
The TRAUM_a
interface looked nothing like a game. No music, no animated logo, not
even a cursor. Just one word: TRAUM_a.
White on a black
background, with the final "A" blinking like a legal
warning.
Vincent waited in the
dark, eyes wide open but seeing nothing but that word. He felt the
headset tight against his skull, the sensors cold against his
temples. A slight vibration ran through the device, almost
imperceptible, like a pulse.
Then he grumbled:
— Is that it? This
is the welcome for the testers? Even Korean MMOs have cinematics...
Nothing replied. Then,
slowly, a line appeared. Not typed—imprinted, as if the letters
were being engraved directly into his field of vision.
Connection
established.
Psycho-sensory
synchronization in progress...
Pain
calibration: realistic level.
Cerebellum
partially integrated.
He frowned. What
was this "integrated" business? And why "partially"?
He tried to lift his hand—the one in the game, not the one in his
bed—but nothing moved. He tried to call up the menu, but no
response. No HUD. No health bar. Nothing.
He bitched at the
void:
— If I wake up with
a stroke, I'm suing you. This isn't legal. I want my contract. I
clicked, I didn't sign.
Still nothing. Then,
without warning, the floor vanished beneath him.
Spawn.
The word was too
generous for what greeted him.
Vincent opened his
eyes—for real, this time—in a disgusting forest where everything
seemed to be sweating in reverse. Skinny, skeletal trees with skin
instead of bark. A pale, translucent skin, veined with dark green,
which quivered at the slightest breath of wind. A grey, vein-filled
light hung from the ceiling of the sky like a dying bulb. The ground
was spongy, wet with an indeterminate liquid—not water, not blood,
something in between that clung to the non-existent soles of his bare
feet.
And there he was,
standing in the middle of it, with the standard body of a generic
character. No race selection, no gear, no customization. Just a pale,
waxy, and featureless silhouette, vaguely masculine. Not even ugly.
Erased. Like a studio project someone had forgotten to finish.
He looked down at his
hands. Flat. Smooth. White as a new candle, with that strange waxy
texture that seemed to catch the grey light in an unsettling way. Not
quite his own, but not quite anything else either. He tried to move
his fingers—they responded, but with a slight lag, as if the signal
had to cross a swamp before arriving.
Alright. Basic
starter body. Makes sense for a beta. Probably unlocks customization
at level 5 or something. Smart design, actually. Keeps the file size
down. I would've done the same.
The interface
flickered into view slowly, almost reluctantly, as if the game
regretted having to notify him.
Username:
EchoZero
Level:
0
Class:
None
Integrity:
100%
Psyche:
100%
Hunger:
Abstract
He tried to open a
class menu. Nada. He tried yelling "menu!",
"skill!", "interface!",
then "you
bunch of pricks!"
just to be sure. Nothing. Not a sound, not a response, just the thick
silence of the forest and the wet sound of his footsteps on the
spongy ground.
Minimalist UI.
Hardcore mode. I get it. For the real gamers. The casuals would quit
already, but I'm built different.
So he walked. Because
it was the only thing that seemed permitted. And as with everything
in his life, misfortune was not long in coming.
The thing surged from
nowhere. A heap of composite flesh, insectoid segments grafted onto
pig legs, human mouths sewn into its back—all open, all silent, as
if they had forgotten how to scream. It oozed coding errors,
unplanned content, a walking bug.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Vincent froze. Not out
of courage. From paralysis.
— What the hell is
this? — he whispered first. Then louder:
— WHAT THE HELL IS
THIS?! This is a beta, I'm level 0, there isn't even a tutorial, you
guys are insane...!
The creature emitted a
soft sound, a cross between a pacifier sucking a void and the cry of
a cow on Xanax. Then it lunged.
Vincent tried to flee,
tripped over a root that hadn't existed a second before, and sprawled
out at full length. The impact slammed his face into the spongy
ground—it tasted of mold and dead earth.
The creature landed on
him.
[-72%
Integrity]
[Simulated
internal hemorrhaging]
[Vertebral
contusions]
[Psyche
deterioration: -40%]
The pain exploded. Not
simulated. Real. Every nerve ending screamed. He felt his ribs crack
under the pressure, the taste of blood in his mouth—a metallic
taste, too real to be a texture. Air refused to enter his lungs. His
vision blurred, narrowing to a grey tunnel bordered by black dots.
He shrieked—a
high-pitched, involuntary, disgusting cry that sounded like nothing
he had ever produced. He thrust his hand out in front of him,
pathetic, trembling, as if that could serve any purpose.
This isn't fair.
This is bad balancing. Level 0 mobs shouldn't hit this hard. This is
obviously a bug. I'm reporting this.
The enemy raised a
shredded limb to finish him. Vincent closed his eyes.
Then, the weight
lifted.
Not metaphorically.
The actual physical pressure crushing his ribs suddenly eased.
Vincent gasped—a horrible, wet sound—and air flooded back into
his lungs. It burned, but he was breathing.
He opened his eyes.
The creature was still there, still on top of him, but it wasn't
moving anymore. It was twitching, spasming. One of its limbs hung at
an unnatural angle, torn halfway off. Dark fluid leaked from multiple
wounds across its segmented body. Its mouths hung open, silent,
frozen mid-scream.
[Enemy
Status: Critical]
[Enemy
Integrity: 8%]
Vincent stared, his
brain struggling to process what he was seeing. The creature
shuddered once more, then went still.
[Enemy
Defeated]
[+35
EXP]
[Combat
participation: Minimal]
[Survival:
Confirmed]
See? See? I baited
it. Drew it in, let it overcommit, then... environmental damage
proc'd. Calculated. That's high-level play right there. Most people
wouldn't have thought of that.
He had not thought of
that. He had simply screamed and waited to die while something else
had killed the creature for reasons unknown to him.
Vincent lay there for
a long moment, not moving, not thinking, just existing in a state of
pure animal relief. Then the pain caught up. Every nerve ending that
had been screaming before screamed louder now. His ribs felt like
broken glass grinding against each other. His back was a sheet of
fire. Blood—his blood, he was pretty sure—pooled warm beneath
him, soaking into the spongy ground.
He tried to move,
managed to roll onto his side. The world spun.
[Integrity:
28%]
[Critical
state]
[Multiple
internal injuries]
[Regeneration:
Insufficient]
Okay. Health is
low. That's fine. Just rest. Let it regenerate. Standard survival
mechanics.
He waited. Ten
seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
[Integrity:
28%]
Nothing changed.
Come on. Regen.
That's how these games work. Dark Souls, Elden Ring, even fucking
Minecraft has passive regen.
[Integrity:
28%]
[Natural
regeneration: Inactive]
[Restoration
requires: Resource input]
Vincent stared at the
notification. Resource
input? What the fuck does that mean? I don't have any items. I'm
level 0. This is broken. This is bad design.
He tried to sit up.
Failed. Fell back with a grunt of pain. The grey light pressed down
on him. The forest breathed its wet, organic breath. And
somewhere—close, too close—he heard something else moving through
the undergrowth.
Fuck. I can't stay
here. Need to find a safe zone. Need to—
[Hunger:
Rising]
The notification
appeared suddenly, overlaying his vision. Not in the corner. Dead
center. Impossible to ignore.
Hunger? Now? I'm
dying and you're telling me I'm hungry?
But as soon as he read
the word, he felt it. Not in his stomach. Deeper. In his bones, in
his cells. A hollowness that had nothing to do with food and
everything to do with depletion, like his body was a battery running
on fumes.
[Hunger:
Rising → Urgent]
[Integrity
restoration requires: Organic matter
][Available
source: Detected]
Vincent's eyes
drifted—almost against his will—to the creature's corpse. It lay
there, still steaming, still warm. Pieces of it torn open from
whatever had killed it, exposing wet, glistening tissue beneath the
carapace.
No. Absolutely
not. That's disgusting. I'm not... that's a monster. That's not food.
[Hunger:
Urgent]
[Current
Integrity: 28%]
[Estimated
survival time: 8 minutes]
His stomach cramped.
Not a hunger pang. Something worse, something that felt like his
organs were trying to consume themselves, to turn inward and
cannibalize whatever energy remained.
[Hunger:
CRITICAL]
[Integrity:
26%]
[Warning:
Biological shutdown imminent]
Vincent looked at the
corpse again, at the exposed flesh, at the way it still glistened,
still looked soft and yielding.
It's just a game.
It's just code. This is obviously the survival mechanic. Eat to heal.
Like... like those survival games. Rust. ARK. You eat raw meat.
That's normal. That's game design. I'm not weird for this. The devs
want me to do this.
His hand moved.
Reached out. Touched the creature's flank. Warm. Solid. Too detailed,
too textured. He dug his fingers in, tore off a piece smaller than
he'd intended—his hands were shaking too much for precision.
He brought it closer
to his face. It smelled organic, meaty, with a chemical undertone
that was almost negligible.
Just exotic
cuisine. Street food. People eat weird shit all the time. Balut.
Hákarl. This is fine. This is normal.
He bit. The taste
exploded across his tongue—not good, not bad, just functional.
Salty, fatty, with a texture somewhere between raw fish and
undercooked pork. But his body didn't reject it. His body welcomed
it.
[Organic
matter consumed: 6%]
[Integrity:
+2%]
[Hunger:
Slightly reduced]
[HP
Stock: +8]
The pain in his ribs
lessened. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice. A new notification
caught his eye—HP Stock. He didn't understand what it meant, but
the number sat there in the corner of his vision, quietly
accumulating.
See? It works.
It's a mechanic. I'm playing the game correctly. This is smart. This
is adaptation.
He ate more. Not
because he wanted to, but because the pain was unbearable and this
was the only way to make it stop. He ate until his hands were slick,
until his mouth tasted of iron and salt, until the notifications
stopped screaming at him.
[Organic
matter consumed: 31%]
[Integrity:
54%]
[Hunger:
Minimal]
[Status:
Stable]
[HP
Stock: 34]
He sat back, breathing
hard, staring at his blood-slicked hands—his smooth, waxy, pale
hands—and felt something he couldn't quite name. Not quite
satisfaction. Not quite horror. Something in between.
I survived. That's
what matters. I adapted. That's high-level thinking. Most players
would've logged out already. But I pushed through. I'm built
different.
The system said
nothing. Offered no judgment, no moral commentary, no "Are you
sure?" prompt. It just recorded the data, logged the choice, and
waited to see what he'd do next.
Vincent stood slowly,
legs shaking, vision still blurred at the edges, but alive and
functional. He looked down at what remained of the corpse, at what
he'd done.
It's just a game.
Just mechanics. Just survival.
The forest didn't
answer. But deep in the code, in the adaptive algorithms and machine
learning systems that powered TRAUM_a's procedural horror, something
noticed. A pattern. A tendency. A choice.
And the game began to
adapt.