Martin's knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, veins pulsing beneath his skin like they were about to burst. He couldn't tear his eyes from the dim, empty road ahead. The headlights cast long shadows on the cracked pavement, making the night feel even more hollow. He'd been driving for hours.
Hours of nothing but the faint hiss of tires against the asphalt and the low hum of the engine. The sky, barely visible through the cracked windshield, was black—no stars, no moon. Just void.
The game had been his life. It had been everything. He'd dedicated years to mastering it. But then the updates started rolling in. The decisions made by the higher-ups. The CEOs, the ones sitting behind their sleek, sterile desks.
The ones who'd never even touched the game. They changed the core mechanics, gutted everything that had made it great. It wasn't about passion anymore. It was about profits. It was always about profits.
He slammed his fist against the wheel, the anger welling up like a storm inside him. They had ruined it. They had ruined everything.
And they needed to pay for it.
It had taken weeks to track them down. One by one, he'd sifted through layers of information—leaked emails, old interviews, public records—until he found out where they were, what their schedules were. It hadn't been easy, but nothing worthwhile ever was. He had a list, names written in black ink, and he knew exactly what he had to do.
He pulled off the road, tires crunching against the gravel. The car's engine died with a soft sputter, and the world around him fell silent. He stepped out into the cold, feeling the air scrape against his skin.
The houses were far apart here, clustered in their own little pockets of isolation. The kind of places where nobody would ever notice a stranger. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and checked the address again. It was just ahead, the mansion hidden behind a thick wall of trees.
Martin's heart pounded as he approached. The gates stood tall, wrought iron twisted into jagged points, the kind that seemed like they were made for keeping people out. But Martin had no fear. There were no guards, no cameras. He had already disabled them. Nothing would stop him from getting inside.
The door to the mansion creaked open as he pushed it, the smell of old wood and dust rushing into his nostrils. Everything inside was pristine, too pristine. Too perfect. A vast hallway stretched ahead, walls lined with portraits of people who had long ago forgotten their own names.
His footsteps echoed off the marble floors, a hollow sound that seemed to stretch out forever. He hated how quiet it was. How empty. He'd been in worse places before, but this? This place felt like it had never been lived in.
And that's when he heard it. The faintest sound of someone breathing. A soft, shallow inhale that made his blood freeze. It came from the end of the hall, just around the corner. Martin felt his muscles tense. The dread clawed at him from the inside, but he fought it back. He knew what he was doing. He had a purpose.
He moved closer, his boots silent against the floor, and peeked around the corner.
There, sitting at the end of the hall, was the man he had been looking for. The CEO. The one who'd made the final decision to destroy the game. He sat in an ornate chair, staring at the wall, hands folded neatly in his lap.
His face was pale, expressionless, but his eyes... his eyes were hollow. Empty, as if they had once seen everything and now saw nothing at all.
Martin froze. Something was wrong. A cold dread washed over him, and he instinctively reached for the knife at his belt. His fingers brushed the cool steel, but before he could draw it, the CEO turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto Martin's.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room felt colder, the silence thicker.
"You're here," the CEO said, his voice soft, almost gentle.
Martin felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn't remember hearing the man speak. He hadn't even seen his lips move. But it didn't matter. His hands were shaking, but he clenched the knife tightly, determined to finish what he had come for.
"Why did you do it?" Martin asked, his voice shaking with a mixture of anger and confusion. "Why did you ruin everything?"
The CEO didn't answer right away. He just sat there, staring at Martin with those hollow eyes. Slowly, he raised his hand and pointed towards the door, as if guiding Martin's attention. Reluctantly, Martin turned.
At the far end of the hallway, there was something else. A door, slightly ajar, beckoning him in. It was the only door that had not been perfectly closed. It was dark behind it, and Martin's heart began to race.
The CEO spoke again, his voice low, barely a murmur. "Go ahead. See for yourself."
Against his better judgment, Martin moved toward the door, his footsteps heavier now, as though the air had thickened even further. He pushed the door open, and a chill hit him in the face, like ice-cold water slapping against his skin.
Inside, there was a room, but it wasn't just any room. It was filled with monitors, each one flickering to life as he stepped inside. They showed the game. His game. But not in the way he remembered it.
It was warped. Twisted. The colors were all wrong, and the characters on screen moved in unnatural, jerky motions. They seemed to stare back at him, their pixelated faces grotesque and malformed, as if they were trying to scream but couldn't. It was like looking at a mockery of something he had once loved.
He felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat. He wanted to tear his eyes away, but he couldn't. He was rooted to the spot.
"Do you see it now?" the CEO's voice echoed from behind him, distant and distorted, as if coming from a far-off room.
Martin turned to face him, his hands trembling with fury. But the CEO was gone. The chair was empty. The room felt impossibly colder now, the darkness creeping closer.
Suddenly, the screens all went black, and the room plunged into darkness.
Then came the noise. It wasn't the noise of a game or a machine breaking. No, it was something far worse. It was a sound Martin couldn't describe. A twisting, gurgling noise that made his stomach churn.
It was coming from the monitors. And as he stepped forward, trying to make sense of it, he saw something in the reflection of the screen behind him.
It was himself. But not the way he remembered. His face was twisted, skin stretched and pulled taut over hollow bones. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and crazed. The reflection smiled at him—no, grinned. It was a grin that reached too wide, too far, like a mockery of everything he had been. A cold laugh echoed in his ears, but it wasn't his own.
He backed away from the screen, tripping over his own feet. His breath came fast now, his chest heaving, panic setting in. This wasn't real. None of it could be real.
But the door slammed shut behind him with an unnatural force. He tried to move, tried to scream, but nothing came out. The monitors buzzed, and in the flickering light, he saw them—his own hands, distorted, fingers stretching, bending in ways they shouldn't. His reflection on the screen stared at him, its grin widening even further.
The last thing Martin felt was a deep, suffocating pressure in his chest. Then, nothing.
Somewhere far away, there was a soft sound—a mechanical hum. The noise of a game being played.
But it wasn't Martin playing anymore.