Tick, tick — the sound of the clock filled the silent room.
A figure sprawled on the bed: Lionel. He lay there patiently, watching the clock until the big hand reached 12 and the small hand landed on 6. Then, he sprang up.
"I better get going," he muttered as he grabbed his car keys.
After fixing his hair in the mirror, Lionel stepped out of his room, his legs carrying him down the stairs to the sitting room.
He reached for the door but suddenly stopped in his tracks when he heard his name.
"Lionel!" The voice called out, and he felt an involuntary tug to turn around. Ignoring it, he moved forward again, but the voice came again, louder and more forceful.
Sighing, he turned to face the source of the voice. Feigning ignorance, he said, "I didn't know—"
His father cut him off. "Yes, you didn't know I would be here. If you had known I'd still be around at 6 PM, you would've waited a while before leaving."
"Oh…" Lionel mouthed, the facade of ignorance wearing off as he crossed his arms, leaning against one of the couches. "And so?"
"Do you realize you're being a pain in the ass? I just want to go out and clear my head," Lionel said, gesturing defensively.
"I'm afraid not. If you want to clear your head, you can make yourself a nice dinner, listen to calming music, and consider signing the form," his father replied.
"Ah…yes, I forgot we're still not over this. I'll just go back then," Lionel said, turning to return to his room.
He mumbled, "And about time I move out."
"Wait," his father called him back just as he was about to leave.
Lionel turned back, his nose flaring, his jaw clenched. His hands tapped impatiently by his sides. Knowing what was likely coming, he handed the car keys to his father without a word.
Briskly, he walked back up the stairs and shut his bedroom door with a hard thump.
Once inside, he quickly removed his jacket and wristwatch, tossing them onto the bed.
"What a mood destroyer," he muttered as he lay back, biting the inside of his cheek, his hands clasped together, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
The truth was, everything hadn't been well since the last time. It wasn't as his friend had said; he wasn't so sure anymore what was real or a dream.
And worst of all, what his friend called a dream kept resurfacing in his mind every time he closed his eyes.
He couldn't eat well—everything tasted bland.
It was more like his bipolar and delusional tendencies were fueling his thoughts and memories, making him believe he was surely turning into a vampire—a character he had created.
He avoided going out in the afternoon because he feared he would be scalded by the sun. And worst of all was this insatiable urge, this hunger, as though he needed to be filled.
No matter how much he ate, he never felt full.
And because of this, he had been trying hard not to use drugs, as they had caused his problems in the first place.
But what if the thing that caused the problem could also cure it?
But his reserve wasn't around, and he found himself stuffing his throat with the same steroids. Ironically, it turned out fine. He slept well that day and woke up the next morning in his bed.
But then, his father had barged in, accusing him of trying to assault the maid.
Assault? Had they seen the maid? He and she practically never had any reason to talk or even see each other. He could count the days he had seen her on one hand, and she had been in the house for three months already.
But as he thought about it, it all clicked.
His memory had initially shielded him from the incident. He had been high, and his nose picked up the familiar smell from the game world. The same feelings of wanting to have a taste had flooded his mind, leading him to the kitchen, where he saw the maid struggling to clean her hand after cutting it with a blade.
He had only wanted to—well, he would say—taste her blood. The thought had flashed through his mind like an instinct he couldn't suppress.
It was as if some ancient part of him, buried deep within, was stirring to life, yearning for something he couldn't quite articulate. Was it hunger? Desire? A compulsion he couldn't control?
Lionel shook his head, trying to dispel the thought. It felt absurd, yet the memory lingered, gnawing at him. What was happening to him? Was he really turning into a vampire? The idea made him chuckle darkly, yet it also terrified him.
"If I don't get to go out, I'm afraid I'll do something worse if it all turns out to be true," he muttered, covering his face with his hands, his sunken eyes pressing into his palms.
"What exactly is wrong with me?" His mind craved answers, but he couldn't find any.
He had initially considered going out to get the popular blood sausages served in some restaurants or just buying live meat and seeing how it went.
As he thought about it, an idea suddenly struck him.
"How about I play it again?" he mumbled.
It had been three weeks since he last played the game, and since then, he had been experiencing all sorts of strange things.
"It's best if I get back there now that it's repaired. I get to escape from all the heightened troubles of this world and solve the problems that arise through that world," he said, his thoughts spiraling.
With his mind made up, he rose from his bed and entered his VR gaming room where he dragged the gaming capsule to the side of the room.
After the update, there had been some noticeable changes—the colors were more vibrant, and the comfort level of the gaming bed had significantly improved. He had specifically requested a remodel with soft padded foam and a sleek purple panel, and it had turned out just the way he wanted.
Running his hand over it, he suddenly stood up and entered the bathroom, his heart thumping hard as panic set in.
"Breathe in, breathe out," he muttered, trying to follow his usual routine.
He continued, affirming to himself, "This time around, I'm not high; I'm not on any drugs. When I go into that game, I only want fun and to solve the problems with my delusions."
"And I'll do anything for it." Nodding to himself, he exited the bathroom and settled into the gaming console.
As Lionel closed the lid, everything suddenly turned dark and eerily silent. A purple panel appeared before his eyes; he could see a login button, along with the same countdown he had seen last time.
But this time, it counted down from three to two. As it neared zero, he quickly clicked on it, and the next words appeared before him.
"Welcome back, Prince Valerius."
And then suddenly, everything turned pitch black again, and he felt as though he were stuffed into a very tight place, perhaps buried underground.