Jamie Wentworth was a man of numbers. Formulas, equations, and data points floated through his mind with ease, as would a lullaby through a nursery. And for as far back as he could remember, numbers had made sense. People, emotions, family—they were chaos, impossible to predict. But here, in the sterile quiet of the Wentworth Research Center, he was in his element.
Jamie looked up from the screen, his fingers resting on the keyboard. Rows of data streamed before his eyes, each piece of information leading perfectly into the next, painting a tale of carbon emissions and battery output for the new electric car prototype he had been designing. He glanced over at his notes and ran the numbers once more. They were sound; the calculations made it possible, improbable as it seemed. Higher efficiency, lower cost, smaller environmental footprint; they would be profitable within five years if his father actually listened, though that part was unlikely.
"Jamie," came the voice from behind him, breaking his concentration. It was Dr. Marian Hart, the lead on the project. She was one of the few people here who didn't look at him like he was a freak for working past midnight. "You're still here?"
Jamie blinked. "Had some final adjustments on the hydrogen efficiency model."
Dr. Hart smiled wistfully with a nod, happy for him, sad somehow. "Do you ever take a break?"
Breaks. They were something other people took, weren't they? Jamie shrugged, ignoring the ache in his neck. "This is my break." He said it as though it was a joke, but they both knew it wasn't.
"Well, try to get some rest. You do more than half of the staff here, Jamie. Your work is remarkable—if only the Wentworths cared enough to realize that." She laid a hand on his shoulder, and for a brief moment, he felt that rarest of sensations: warmth.
But as he gathered his things and left the lab, the warmth dissipated, replaced by the all-too-familiar coldness of dread that accompanied him home with unnerving consistency.
It was well after midnight when Jamie finally pushed open the solid, wooden doors of the Wentworth mansion. Towering ceilings, glass chandeliers, and artfully arranged bouquets lent the house an impersonal elegance that spoke of money. Home was not a word that came to mind.
The only light on was in the drawing room, spilling out in a golden glow. He took a deep breath and went inside, steeling himself for the presence of his mother, Sarah Blake Wentworth, reclining indolently on the sofa with a drink in her hand.
"Jamie," she slurred; her voice was husky with fatigue. "You're late."
"Work," he said simply, as he set the bag down. He knew better than to elaborate; her understanding went only so far as to what dollar signs it promised. Anything beyond that was irrelevant.
"Caroline's back," she said, her tone implying she treasured the thought that he should be thrilled to hear this.
On cue, Caroline Wentworth strode into the room—all elegance, the golden child—blonde and ambitious, fiercely competitive, her eyes gleaming with some taunting message every time she and Jamie clashed. He could never look at her very long; she unsettled him, seemed to see through the thin armor of detachment he'd built up.
"Well, well," Caroline said with a smirk. "If it isn't the family genius. Still working yourself to death in the labs? Daddy would be so proud." Her tone, sugar-laced with derision, cut as sharply as ever.
"Someone has to be," Jamie replied, barely looking up. He knew she resented him—maybe feared him a little, too. That was the way it had always been, and he couldn't remember her ever treating him as anything less than a threat.
"Don't be impertinent, Jamie," said their mother, ritually, with no real expectation of change. "Caroline's been doing so well lately."
Jamie managed not to roll his eyes. Success, in the Wentworth household, was measured not by effort or aptitude, but by loyalty to his father's empire. And Jamie, with his half-brother status and socially awkward nature, would always be an outsider.
"Maybe one day you'll understand what it takes to succeed," Caroline sneered, her manicured fingers tapping lightly on her glass. "Or maybe you'll just keep running numbers for the rest of us."
The insult stung, but it wasn't one he hadn't heard a hundred times. He took a deep breath, suppressing the anger it sparked, and instead turned to his mother. "I'll be in my room."
"Suit yourself, Jamie," Caroline called after him, taunting, "the quiet genius, hiding in his tower."
He ignored her, his feet leading him up the grand staircase to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He shut the door behind him, and the weight of the night fell on him, pressing down like a physical burden.
With a sigh, he sank onto his bed, his gaze resting on the books and charts scattered around the room—each part of the world he'd created for himself, where he didn't have to explain, didn't have to be anyone but himself.
The TV across from his bed was on, the volume low, but he caught a couple of familiar phrases: "global phenomenon" and "disappearances." He leaned forward, focusing on the screen. News anchors spoke urgently, explaining the impossible events happening worldwide.
"More disappearances are being reported in major cities, and eyewitness accounts are coming in about people returning from what they describe as 'the simulation.' Those who return report a world unlike ours, filled with strange powers, combat, and a fantasy-like alternate reality. They describe abilities they didn't have before, though none of these powers seem to manifest in our world."
Jamie watched, mesmerized, as clips of people recounting their experiences played. Some spoke in awe; others looked visibly shaken, their eyes hollow. Each story was almost absurd, yet there was a chilling coherence—a consistency that made it hard to dismiss.
People disappearing, slipping into another world, and returning changed.
The TV continued, showing scientists speculating about the "simulation." Some thought it was a new plane of existence; others argued it was a hallucination or a neurological event. But the phenomenon was growing, enough to make the nightly news, enough to fill Jamie's mind with a faint sense of possibility—a feeling he hadn't had in years.
What if he could go there? What if, somewhere beyond this mansion, this family, this life he was tethered to, there was a place where he could be more than a tool for his father's grand ambitions?
A place where he didn't have to be Jamie Wentworth, the outsider, the family burden. A place where he could simply exist—on his terms.
Jamie leaned back onto his bed, letting this strange notion of the simulation wash over him. For the first time in so long, his mind wasn't filled with formulas or strategies. Instead, it held onto the wild idea of another world where he could exist free from all expectations, free from his family's biting resentment.
With that thought, he closed his eyes. But the peace didn't last long.
He found himself in a vast, cold room, with harsh fluorescent lights glaring down. The sound of his father's voice echoed all around him, though his father's figure was nowhere in sight.
"You're a Wentworth, Jamie. You exist to push this family forward, understand?" His father's voice drilled into him, weighty and unwavering. "Every single move you make reflects on our name. There's no room for weakness."
In the darkness, a shape took form—Caroline, her face expressionless as she regarded him, her eyes filled with disdain.
"An empty vase," she sneered. "Nothing inside. Just a sociopath pretending to be normal, pretending to care."
He could hear the taunting whispers of his other siblings echoing around him.
"Weirdo…"
"Freak…"
"You don't even belong with us…"
The voices rose, layering on top of each other, overlapping into a cacophony of judgment that seemed to rattle his very bones. His mother's voice floated in next, syrupy sweet yet unsettlingly hollow.
"Jamie, I love you, but you must work harder… Make your father proud. That's what matters."
Faceless figures emerged from the shadows, staring directly at him, eyes wide and glassy, mouths pulled into faint, mocking smirks. His heart began to beat faster, thudding against his chest, though his face remained impassive, as if locked in a mask of indifference. The blankness seemed to irritate them; their voices turned sharper, sneering at his unchanging expression.
'Mere mirages. Nightmares meant to taunt me.' Jaime thought.
"Psycho…"
"Emotionless… Can't feel a thing…"
"Are you even human?"
The words twisted around him, growing louder and louder, until he felt his head might split. And through it all, there was a persistent pinging sound, echoing like the chime of an iPhone notification. Ping… ping… ping… It was relentless, digging into his mind, drowning out even the voices.
The sound grew louder, more insistent, until it seemed to be coming from within him, vibrating his bones. Then, with a final, deafening ping, Jamie's eyes snapped open.
He shot up in bed, his heart racing, but his face remained expressionless, as though the dream had left no mark on him. Yet sweat clung to his forehead, and his fingers felt clammy. The only light in the room came from his computer, which had somehow turned on during the night.
He stared at the screen, his sharp mind immediately alert, processing. A single notification blinked on his desktop: Terms and Conditions of Simulation.
Jamie's brow furrowed, suspicion prickling his thoughts. Simulation… The word resonated with the news segment he'd fallen asleep to, and he began to piece together a possibility. Could it be connected to the phenomenon people had been talking about? The strange world from which some people never returned?
Ignoring the small tremor of apprehension, he clicked to open the document.
The Terms and Conditions filled the screen, each line precise yet vaguely ominous. The words seemed inviting, polished, even friendly. He began reading.
Welcome to the Simulation!
By choosing to enter, you agree to the following terms:
You acknowledge that this experience will be fully immersive and may alter your perception of reality. You consent to the assumption of risk. This simulation provides a thrilling opportunity for personal growth, adventure, and the acquisition of unique powers! Completion of missions may lead to level advancement and power augmentation. By participating, you understand that failure to survive in the simulation will result in permanent ejection from both the simulation and the user's physical life. Your participation is final.
[Click to Accept and Enter]
Jamie's eyes narrowed. The words on the screen were crafted with calculated precision, promising a thrilling and unparalleled experience. But his mind caught on the language in point five—permanent ejection from both the simulation and the user's physical life. It was worded carefully, almost designed to be overlooked.
He knew the smart choice would be to close the document and walk away, but he found himself unable to do it. His heart beat faster, and a quiet thrill crept up his spine. If there really was a world beyond this, a world where he could be more than just "Jamie Wentworth"… what would that be worth?
The cursor hovered over "Accept." He took a deep breath, then clicked.
The screen flashed, and a loading icon appeared, spinning in a slow, rhythmic circle. Then it froze, only to start again. It felt as though it were buffering, like a bad connection.
Just as he was beginning to think the program had crashed, a cartoonish octopus appeared, staring out from the screen with tentacles splayed in a wild tangle, each holding a small sign. One sign, directly in front, read: Congratulations, Player 3100!
Jamie blinked. The surrealism of it was almost amusing, and for a moment, his brain spun through rapid-fire scenarios: Would he be transported somewhere? Would his consciousness just slip into another world? Was this all a joke? He contemplated dozens of outcomes in seconds, each possibility more outlandish than the last.
Then he felt it—a sudden, chilling presence behind him. A shiver slid down his spine as he slowly turned, just in time to see a dark rift materializing in midair, like a tear in the fabric of reality. From its depths, skeletal, clawed hands began to emerge, reaching out toward him.
Before he could react, the hands clamped onto his shoulders, pulling him backward. He tried to resist, but their grip was unbreakable, dragging him through the rift.
As he tumbled through the darkness, he was surrounded by visions—blurry and chaotic, like an endless sea parting around him. Voices filled the space, his father's stern commands, Caroline's cutting remarks, his mother's syrupy pleas. Each voice echoed from all directions, layering on top of each other until they became almost unintelligible.
The inky blackness shimmered, giving way to rippling reflections of blurred figures and half-formed faces in water. He caught fleeting glimpses of people—some familiar, others entirely foreign—and disjointed images of places he had never seen. His own voice spoke words he couldn't remember saying, as though fragments of his identity were being plucked from him and scattered into the void.
Then, everything went silent, and he felt himself falling, faster and faster, until—
Jamie awoke face down, gasping, in something wet and foul-smelling. His entire body throbbed with pain, and he became aware of a sharp, burning sensation near his ribs. He was lying in what looked like a sewer, its grimy walls damp and dripping, the ground slick beneath him. His hand reached instinctively to his side, where his fingers found a gaping wound, bleeding and raw.
A chime sounded in his head, startlingly clear, followed by a disembodied voice:
Welcome, Player 3100. You have entered the avatar: Ghost (True or not?). Current state: Tier G – Extra (Revolving Character).
Status: Critical.
Mission Objectives: Escape the sewer.
Jamie struggled to process the words, his brain racing even as his vision blurred. He was Ghost? A new identity, a new name—he could feel the weight of it settle over him, an identity that somehow felt both foreign and familiar.
But the pain was all too real, grounding him in the dark reality of this new world.