“This is it,” I said, smirking as I slid back from the boss’s last and final lunge. My armored boots scraped across the marble with just enough flair to count as intentional. “Time to say goodbye…”

It didn’t get it. Of course it didn’t. The thing twitched, spasmed, still trying to process why I wasn’t dead yet.

Then came the sound.

A wet, meaty squelch echoed through the hall, followed by a howl. My finisher hit like a divine bug report: overkill, and beautifully broken.

The boss collapsed in a pile of dissolving limbs and demonic goo. My last assignment. Done. Checked off. I’d just soloed the apocalypse.

Again.

 

The system severed my connection to the test environment the moment I closed the notice.

With a grunt, I crawled out of the capsule, joints aching, brain still steeped in lag and artificial light. The world felt wrong, quiet and real.

A voice cut through the fog like a scalpel. “John, thank you for all your hard work. It saddens me that even your turn came up.”

Oh, spare me. I smirked, not bothering to look at him. Like he actually cared. Like I hadn’t watched this same exact speech play out twenty times already, like a corporate funeral on loop.

I didn’t answer. Just let the silence hang there. My eyes drifted across the echoing hall; once buzzing, now a mausoleum of things no longer needed. Rows of dark capsules stretched like coffins. The last few lights flickered, guiding me toward the exit like a final insult.

It used to feel alive here.

Now it was just me, Lucy… and Mr. Empathy, delivering his lines with all the warmth of a shutdown script.

The golden days of the department, hell, maybe the golden years of my life, felt like a half-remembered dream. Something soft and bright I’d blinked away without noticing.

I caught sight of her capsule across the hall. Still lit and still connected.

Good luck, Lucy, I thought, biting down a weird, sharp twist in my chest. My last friend, the last one still plugged in.

“Don’t worry,” he said, that thin, rehearsed smile practically audible in his voice. “I’m sure you’ll find another job.”

I didn’t look at him.

“Save the fake sympathy,” I muttered, my voice raw from whiskey and just done. With all of it, with him. At least there was one upside to being kicked, no more performance reviews from a mannequin in a suit.

I took a step toward the exit, then paused.

“Tell Lucy I’ll miss her.” The words came out flat, but they were the only real ones I’d said in hours.

She deserves better, too.

 

I didn’t look back. Just kept walking, fists clenched, steps steady.

Guess that made me a wolf now.

The streets were crowded with robots, all gliding along their designated routes… delivery drones, sanitation units, synthetic dog-walkers. Precision movement, no eye contact and especially no soul. A few actual people wandered here and there, faces lit by holographic overlays, but no one talked.

Nobody had to talk anymore.

If you weren’t playing the game, or weren’t on holo-net, if you were still going outside, players called you a “wolf.” Lone wolf.

Stray.

Meant you’d unplugged from the system. Meant you still gave a shit about walking under the real sky instead of Rimelion wonderland.

Not that the real one looked any better.

Same as always, I drifted to the bar nestled like a tumor between two polished apartment towers. They loomed over it, glass giants pressing in on either side. No sunlight ever touched its windows. The developer had once called that a feature. “Energy-efficient,” he claimed. “Ideal for day drinkers.”

I smirked at the memory of me and the guys dragging his fancy German car onto the riverbank after he raised the rent.

It hadn’t floated.

The door creaked as I stepped inside; same familiar resistance, same musky air. The kind of smell that said: here, history still breathes. Cheap cleaner, of course, and old wood. Yeah and lingering smoke no filter could fully erase.

Patrick was already pouring.

I slid onto my usual stool like gravity had reserved it for me, nodded at him without a word. Ritual.

Whiskey to fill the silence.

He was past eighty but poured like a machine, more reliable than half the bots outside. Medical nanites, probably. The man should’ve been retired a decade ago, but here he was, stubborn as ever, polishing his bar like it still meant something.

He caught my expression and raised a brow. “It over? They let you go?”

I didn’t answer at first. Just watched the amber liquid swirl in the glass, catching the glow of the ancient bar lights.

Even me.

Eventually, I gave him a tired smile. “Yeah. Guess I’m a wolf now.”

He set down another glass beside mine, slower this time. “Even the last tester of Rimelion?” His voice was low and more tired than pity.

I drained half the whiskey in one go and turned to the window. If you could call it that. Just a sliver of glass framed by rusted steel and darkness. The next building sat inches away, close enough to kill any view or breeze.

Felt like staring into a tomb.

My eyes landed on the faded photo behind the bar. Still there. A young Irish man, all teeth and joy, standing next to some long-forgotten celebrity. The signature was mostly gone now, time had chewed it to a whisper.

I tipped back the rest of my drink.

“Your bar hasn’t changed in a hundred years,” I muttered, throat raw.

Patrick exhaled hard, shaking his head as he wiped a glass that didn’t need it. “Machines took over everything. End of the world, if you ask me. Never thought I’d say it.”

He chuckled, but it cracked halfway through. His eyes didn’t match the sound.

“My sons, grandsons... all locked into that damn Rimelion. Most of my regulars are just names on stones now, they said they isekai’d there. Dead here.” He looked at me, really looked. “You and a couple strays like you are the only reason I keep this place open. You leave, I might just say screw it. Sell the whole thing to that snot-nosed brat in a suit.”

 

I must’ve been at ten drinks. Maybe twelve. Who was counting?

The conversation had looped through its usual routine, how everything used to be better, how humanity sold its soul for convenience, how the world was circling the drain like a stubborn hair clog.

Just your average Friday night.

By then, I was tipsy enough that my mouth moved faster than my filter. “I love Rimelion,” I blurted, thumping the bar with the edge of my glass, “but damn if it didn’t kill the Earth.”

Patrick chuckled, wiping the counter for the fiftieth time. “Told you back then, lad. The Terminator had it right. They’re gonna wipe us all out.”

“Oh really?” I snapped, too loud. My voice echoed in the empty bar. I glanced around, remembered no one else ever came this late anymore. Just me and the ghosts of better decades.

“AIs are everywhere, sure. But did we fight them?” My words spilled like a bad code. “Did we lose some glorious war? No. We just… gave up. Moved into Rimelion. Permanently, some of us. And now communism wins by default… universal income thanks to the AI tax. Not ‘cause it was smarter. Just ‘cause it was the only thing left standing.”

Patrick gave a tired nod. “You’re not wrong. The commies got in through the youth. I watched it happen, the same way I watched jukeboxes vanish and beer get replaced with craft slop in cans. Now I can’t even order a whiskey without some robot’s cold fingers touching it.”

He gave a theatrical shudder, like the thought alone deserved a holy water rinse. “Imagine that… robots. Making whiskey.”

“If I could get into Rimelion without dying,” I said, eyes locked on the amber whirlpool in my glass, “I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

But I couldn’t.

So here I was, pouring my life story out to an eighty-year-old bartender like it was some indie film monologue. “Tester turned reject. Banned from the game I helped. All because I did my job too well.”

Patrick leaned in with that grandfatherly half-smirk. “Back in my day, we worked for our money. Didn’t sit around in coffins, pretending to be elven wizards and whatnot.” He chuckled, but the weight behind it was real. “Best night of my life was me and the wife on a beach in Costa Rica. Real sand. Real waves. Real breeze. No simulation’ll ever match that.”

I sneered without thinking.

He obviously hadn’t played Rimelion. There were places in-game that made Costa Rica look like a kiddie sandbox behind a Walmart and it felt more real than Earth.

“Maybe,” I muttered. “But right now? I’m out of a job. Not one bug in five years, so they booted the best damn exploiter they ever had.”

I took another long sip, letting it burn. Reality didn’t have respawn points. Or patch notes.

People weren’t just escaping into Rimelion; they were choosing to stay there. Like waking up was optional now. “Maybe I should rewatch The Matrix.” I sounded like some washed-up old man yelling at a digital sky.

“So what now?” I said aloud to no one. “I live like a wolf? Scrounging scraps while the world’s off chasing XP?”

I pushed the empty glass toward Patrick.

“Commie tax barely covers—” I squinted, frowned. “—barely covers this.” I tapped the glass.

“More cheap whiskey, please.”

 

After what must’ve been an hour, or five, some scruffy fifteen-year-old punk in a brown coat materialized in front of me like a jump scare.

I blinked. Nope. Done. That’s it. I’ve officially reached a critical whiskey hallucination.

I glanced around for Patrick to settle the tab and get the hell out before my liver gave up, but he was gone. Probably slipped into the back, or ascended to bartender heaven. Bastard.

“Hi there, John!”

What the actual—

I squinted, but the kid stayed in focus. Mostly. His grin was too wide. His hair looked like it had lost a fight with static electricity. “Since when do my delusions talk?”

“Don’t worry about that! I don’t have time. Look!” He shoved both hands forward like he was casting a spell. In his left palm: a red pill. In his right: something green and suspiciously mossy.

“You’ve got a choice! Take the red pill, and I’ll yank ya outta this fake world! MATRIX MAN!”

I reeled back, brain sloshing against the inside of my skull. “Whoa, slow down. What the hell are you talking about? How much did I drink?”

“Easy, man!” he said, practically vibrating. “I’m from the real Earth. This one? It’s fake! Only twenty years in future! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Ugh... I think I’m gonna throw up…”

“Then take the blue pill, and I’ll go bother someone else.”

I squinted harder. “Kid. That’s green. If you’re gonna be a hallucination, at least get your colors right.”

“Aw, man. I was going for full Morpheus! The Matrix is, like, the best historical film ever, y’know?” He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Anyway, take the red one. How bad can it be? You’re broke, banned, hungover, and the gov’s shutting down this magic sim any minute now. But I can transfer you out! With Seed’s help. You get to have a soul now!”

My stomach lurched. The room tilted, swirled, pulsed like a dying hard drive. “Sloooow down, punk. My head is literally trying to escape my body.”

“No time! They’re closing up shop soon. Like soon soon. Hurry!”

I bit my lip to keep from barfing and fixed him with my best drunken philosopher glare. “If we’re all just simulations... what’s the point of living?”

He beamed. Like I’d just passed a vibe check.

“Dude, that’s the deep stuff. I live ’cause I want to. If you care, look up the Ring of Smiling People. We’re— Uh. They’re the ones who kicked the bucket with Rimelion.”

I blinked at him. No idea what he just said. My liver was waving a white flag. “Fine,” I groaned, snatching the red pill. “Whatever. Just shut up already.”

I swallowed it dry.

It wasn’t an aspirin.

Still pounding.

“Hey, punk, what the hell did you—”

“Chill! Sending you back twenty years. Just before Rimelion.”

He threw a peace sign, and vanished. Just gone. Not even a dramatic puff of smoke. Just... boop.

Weird kid.

...Where the hell was a bucket?

 

Darkness swallowed me.

Not the dreamy, boozy fade-out I expected; just clean, calm nothing. No pain, no spinning, no nausea. It felt… weirdly good.

Which is exactly when I knew something was wrong.

I opened my eyes.

A ceiling stared back. Cracked plaster. That water stain that looked like a horse if you squinted.

Wait.

Wait. Wait.

This was my ceiling. My apartment. Grimy, real and undeniably mine.

I sat up fast. No vertigo. No hangover. Just sharp clarity buzzing in my skull like a fresh reboot. I scanned the room, same shitty dresser, same peeling wall posters, same socks of unknown age trying to unionize in the corner.

What the hell?

Did I black out? Did someone drag me home?

I grabbed my holo-phone, thumb trembling slightly. The screen lit up.

And stopped my heart.

The date was wrong.

Not off by a few hours. Not a timezone bug.

Off by decades.

“Oh no. No, no, no.” My voice sounded too loud in the quiet. Was that punk actually legit? Did I take the red pill of doom? Was this… time travel?

I shot to my feet, pacing in three-second laps like a bugged NPC.

This was real. Or real enough. The room smelled like stale pizza and anxiety, and nothing about this was normal.

I’d actually time-traveled. Twenty years.

---

In a spacious meeting room, six men sat around a round table. Nathan, a tall man in his late twenties with a long, pointed chin and an oddly shaped nose, stood up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed members of our organization, it is my pleasure to welcome you to our highly anticipated twentieth rebirth. As previously agreed, we have decided to begin just one day before the game’s launch. Regrettably, Jeffrey, I must inform you that we cannot accommodate your request to start earlier. It would compromise the integrity of fate. Furthermore, during our routine checks, we detected an anomaly that demands our immediate attention.” His gaze swept over the group with a stern intensity, as though searching for a culprit.

“Dear colleagues, we have discovered that, during transportation, an individual was inadvertently brought back with us. I strongly recommend we initiate a thorough investigation and take all the necessary measures to eliminate any potential threats. In this rebirth, the seed will be within our grasp. We cannot afford any missteps; we must act diligently to locate and neutralize the source of this anomaly.”