George staggered through the chill of the night, each step a precarious balancing act as the world rocked around him. The sidewalk stretched out like a tightrope beneath his unsteady feet, the crisp air slicing through his jacket and carrying faint echoes of laughter and music from the dive bar he'd stumbled out of moments before. The night had been an unfortunate blur of too many drinks and even more questionable decisions, his stomach now churning with impending regret.
He knew he should have bailed on his friends and headed home earlier with some semblance of sanity. But priorities had taken a hit alongside those tequila shots.
His driving exam loomed with the cruel patience of a morning hangover. It hadn't stopped him from letting his friends guilt-trip him into one last "celebration" before he spectacularly failed his first big test of independence. Failure seemed a foregone conclusion; after all, George and driving went together like oil and water. Tomorrow promised catastrophe.
"Idiot," he muttered, articulating his frustrations to the empty street as he jammed his hands into his pockets.
The streetlights above flickered like old memories, casting long, stretching shadows on the crumbling pavement. At this hour, the town was a ghost of its daytime self, with only the occasional stray cat showing life as it slinked from one shadowy refuge to another beneath idling cars.
Then the world tilted.
Something struck him hard, square in the face. An unseen force, sharp and precise, drove into his forehead, sending him reeling backward onto the cold ground. The sky and earth traded places as he landed with a jarring thud, knocking the air from his lungs, and setting the world spinning faster than his latest binge.
George lay there, his thoughts as dazed as his body, blankly staring upward.
Had he been attacked? Stunned, his eyes darted around for any sign of an assailant, but found no threatening figure—only the wide open night, eerily empty.
His attention snapped to the sudden burst of laughter nearby.
A group of bar-hoppers stood gathered at the end of the block, their expressions lit with curiosity and humor. One guy, in a half-unbuttoned dress shirt, leaned forward, grinning as he called out.
"Bro, you good?"
George groaned, willing his limbs into action as he propped himself onto his elbows. His forehead throbbed with raw, pulsing pain, but when he gingerly probed the area, his fingers found no trace of blood or bruising. Just the ache.
"I think… something hit me," he muttered, the words tumbling out slow and stupid.
This earned him another chorus of jeering laughter.
"Dude, you passed out on the street! I knew you had too much!" a girl exclaimed, giggling uncontrollably as she clung to her friend to keep from collapsing.
George's frown deepened. Passed out? No. He was certain he felt the impact—a force, sharp and real. But before he could voice his protests, a flashing blue notification lit up before his eyes.
[Congratulations, User! You have been selected for the Life Simulation System.]
[Prepare to experience lifetimes beyond imagination.]
George froze, his breath catching mid-exhale. The glowing text hung in the air, pulsing gently against the backdrop of the dark night. It wasn't coming from a phone, wasn't a reflection in his glasses. It was just… there. Existing.
Panic and confusion tangled inside him as he turned back to the group, his voice shaky. "Do you… do you see that?"
Their smiles wavered, the guy in the dress shirt arching a brow with skepticism. "See what?"
"The—the text! Right in front of me!"
They exchanged looks that walked the line between amusement and concern, all staring at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.
"Alright, man, you're way too gone," one of them said, shaking his head. "You should get home before you start seeing pink elephants."
The guy who'd first shouted took a step back, raising his hands defensively. "Yeah, no offense, bro, but you're acting weird as hell. Take a taxi, alright?"
Before George could argue, the girl grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the curb with surprising resolve.
"Come on, we'll call one for you," she insisted, shooting worried glances at her companions.
George opened his mouth to protest, to rationalize, to tell them he hadn't imagined it, but the text insisted on being real, flickering insistently, waiting. His pulse pounded in his ears, a rapid tattoo of doubt.
Maybe they were right. Maybe he was just, as they said, way too gone.
Maybe.
As the taxi pulled up, he didn't resist when they loaded him inside like a loaded spring. The door slammed shut, the vehicle lurching forward with a rumble, and the last thing he saw was the eerie glow of the System message, reflecting ominously against the glass as it shrank into the night.
***
George woke up feeling like death itself. His head pulsed with every slow heartbeat, a relentless pounding like a bass drum being played inside his skull. Each breath scraped through his dry throat, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest, as if he'd been used as a crash test dummy all night long. He groaned, rolling onto his side as the sunlight cut through the thin shield of his eyelids like a thousand tiny knives.
"Ugh… never again," he muttered to no one, voice edged with gravel.
It took a moment for reality to reassemble itself, for him to notice that he was actually home, sprawled in his own bed. Everything was askew. His jacket was dangling precariously from his shoulders like it had given up halfway on its mission to keep him warm, one sleeve still clutching his arm with stubborn resolve. The familiar weight of his shoes dragged his legs down, and his phone lay on the floor, looking more hopeless than he felt, its screen webbed with fresh cracks.
How the hell had he even gotten here?
The night before was a messy blur. Drinking. Laughing. Getting hit by something? No—his friends had said he just passed out. But that wasn't true. He felt something hit him. He remembered the pain, the shock—
And then… the text.
A cold chill ran through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe. It had to be a dream. A drunken hallucination. Right?
His bladder was screaming for relief, so he dragged himself out of bed, each step a marathon, stumbling like an overgrown toddler towards the bathroom. The floor mocked him, rolling unevenly, or maybe it was just his legs that failed to cooperate. He rubbed his temples, trying to massage away the dizziness and stop the world from doing a merry-go-round.
Reaching the sink, he grabbed his toothbrush with shaky hands and shoved it into his mouth, anything to distract himself from the mess between his ears. His brain was still half-asleep, his thoughts tangled and sluggish, but the memory of the text nagged at him like a headache. He could barely even focus. Maybe he was still dreaming.
And then, he looked up.
He froze.
The text was still there.
[Congratulations, User! You have been selected for the Life Simulation System.]
[Prepare to experience worlds beyond imagination.]
It was right in front of him, blocking the mirror, glowing in faint blue light.
George's blood ran cold.
"No…" he whispered, his breath catching as though panic had reached in and seized it. His hangover fog cleared instantly, replaced by a sharp jolt of terror. It wasn't gone. It was real.
He took a shaky step back, but the text moved with him, staying right in front of his vision, an inescapable apparition. He rubbed his eyes, blinked hard—still there.
This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
"I'm still drunk," he muttered, this time more desperately. "I'm still drunk, I just need—"
He reached out instinctively, trying to swipe it away—
The air around him snapped like a static charge.
Then everything went black.