Jason's eyelids fluttered, raw and heavy, as the clinical white of the ceiling seared into his vision from the tormented rest last night. A ragged breath scraped his throat, the rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, a metronome of sterility; the low buzz of fluorescent lights humming like distant machinery; muffled voices and squeaking wheels from the corridor beyond.
His right leg jerked—unbidden, unexpected—sending a ghost of pain rippling through muscle and memory. A wound that wasn't there, a battle fought in a world that couldn't exist.
Steel bed rails gleamed sharp as razor blades. Linoleum tiles stretched like a fractured grid, each crack a potential escape route, each line a barrier. Sunlight sliced through window blinds, casting prison-like shadows across the room.
Marcus hunched nearby, dark circles etched under his eyes, fingers dancing across a tablet screen with nervous intensity. Sarah stood rigid at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself like a shield, her eyes darting between Jason and the monitor's flickering green pulse.
Their backpacks lay crumpled on chairs—morning classes abandoned, a day sacrificed for Jason.
Jason blinked. "Is this...?" The words stuck in his throat.
Sarah perked up, voice soft but with an edge. "You're still in the hospital, Jason. Finally awake, huh?"
"..Yeah," he muttered, voice hoarse, thick with disbelief. Then, quieter, "Icarus?"
Marcus looked up, a subtle frown etching his brow. "You've been out for a while, man. What's the last thing you remember?"
A cascade of images engulfed Jason: the crackling of gunfire, the suffocating white of the blizzard, Rogue's frantic scream swallowed by the void. "It felt... real. Too real." His hand instinctively reached for his leg, expecting to find fabric dampened by blood, but met only the dry, thin texture of a sterile sheet.
"You mentioned stuff in your sleep," Marcus continued, eyes narrowing with concern. "Talking about... some kind of fight? A cave... and... Hunters?"
"Yeah," Jason's voice trembled. "It's like the game world didn't just stop when I logged out. I was—felt everything."
Sarah exchanged a wary glance with Marcus before returning focus to Jason. "Hey man.. Do you want to tell us what happened?"
"Icarus, my character... he got—" Breath hitched as the horrors of that place clawed for dominance in his consciousness. "When Rogue fell, I felt like I was dying too."
"What the fuck? And who's Rogue? Well.. Okay, sounds serious," Marcus replied. "But hey, cease that typa of stuff..."He continued, fumbling for words, bewildered by Jason's intense reaction to a mere video game. "Bro.. Are you like, still stuck in that uhh, weirdo game or what? Like, your head still in the VR or something? I mean, it didn't literally extract your brain and replace it with some glitchy game code, huh?"
He's concerned but expresses it really awkwardly.. Jason and Sarah exchanged a look of exasperated disbelief, their eyes conveying a silent judgment of Marcus's awkward attempt at comfort.
At that moment, the door swung open, admitting the brisk, authoritative footsteps of Dr. Collins, a white coat billowing behind him like the cape of some detached guardian of health.
He surveyed Jason, his expression a complex blend of clinical curiosity and empathy. "Awake, and with visitors already. How are you feeling, Mister...?" He glanced at the clipboard. "Doe," He finished, raising an eyebrow at the pseudonym.
Jason swallowed, resisting the urge to laugh at the name he had insisted on, still half-embedded in the role of Icarus. "Confused. A bit... scattered."
"Understandable," he replied. "You were brought in with signs of extreme neural stress, severe dehydration, and a concerning drop in your vitals—typical symptoms of intense VR immersion and psychological strain."
Sarah and Marcus exchanged worried looks. Dr. Collins, undeterred, added, "We've seen unconfirmed reports of similar symptoms on gaming forums and reports, since the game's release."
Marcus interjected, "Huh. Are you saying this has happened to others?"
Collins nodded, a subtle grimace betraying his clinical disdain—a mixture of professional skepticism and barely concealed dismissiveness. "We've encountered an unsettling pattern,"
He intoned, his voice calibrated between medical detachment and underlying concern, "Individuals came in contact with this game worldwide reporting neurological anomalies that defy our conventional understanding of interactive media. This isn't merely a game; it's a phenomenon that's begun to blur the boundaries between simulated experience and physiological reality."
Sarah stepped closer to the bed, her voice taut with concern. "Jason, how could a game be so intense that it reduced you to this state in just a few hours?"
He hesitated, words like alcohol on an open wound. "It... it feels like it's a piece of something real. The pain, the fear, the death—it's not fake." Jason's voice cracked, the memories crashing into him like the tumult of an unrelenting storm.
Dr. Collins studied the clipboard, frowning. "High-immersion games can amplify sensations, making virtual experiences feel incredibly real." Yet, he remained unaware of the game's true, brutal nature. "Personally, I wouldn't suggest deep immersion in such environments without a thorough understanding of their psychological impacts. It could be hazardous."
Jason clenched his fists. "You DON'T get it. It's not just a game." Dr. Collins' impassive facade momentarily cracked at Jason's outburst, a flicker of skepticism dancing across his features before professional composure reasserted itself, smoothing away any trace of emotional response as he scratched the back of his head and exchanged gazes with his assistant
"Where do you stand on going back? Isn't it time to call it quits?" Marcus pressed. "Was this just a fluke?"
Jason paused, the longing to return juxtaposed with visceral flashbacks of Icarus's last moments. "I don't know," he admitted, voice cracked with indecision. "But whatever it is, it's pulling at me."
"You have options," Dr. Collins interjected, gentle but firm. "The choice to step away, to process everything here in the safe reality of this world—or return." Dr. Collins' words reopened Jason's psychological wounds, each syllable a shard of his fractured reality. Rogue's silent death haunted him—a moment he had simultaneously witnessed and experienced. He existed in a liminal space where life, death, reality, and dream blurred into an indistinguishable whisper.
As Collins words settled, a phantom vibration flickered in Jason's mind—an illusory sensation of a wrist-watch coming to life, its imagined orange ring softly pulsing. The SHD Smart Watch was a mirage, a hallucination linking him to another world, whispering promises of survival. In reality, there was no watch on his left wrist, only the sterile hospital bed and the lingering echoes of a dream.
"Just be careful, man," Marcus said, his tone a mix of concern and skepticism. "I don't want you getting too deep into this. These immersive games can mess with your head." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You're talking about feeling like you died in a virtual world. That's not normal."
Sarah shot Marcus a sharp look. "He's not just making this up," she interjected, her voice fierce with protective energy. "Something real is happening here, and we're going to figure it out together." She turned to Jason, her hand briefly touching his arm. "Whatever this is—whether it's a glitch, a conspiracy, or something else entirely—we're in this with you."
Marcus sighed, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm just looking out for him. Someone has to be the voice of reason. Right?"
"Seriously dude? You and that type of shit! Ugh! Just shut up, Marcus. Sigh." Sarah retorted, her determination burning bright. She seemed moodier than usual, likely due to lack of sleep..
A chill seeped into Jason's bones as he recalled the promise of the watch: its pulse calling him back like a siren song. Each beat a heartbeat not of this world, but of another calling his name in the silence of snow.
As Jason's thoughts spiraled further into the alluring abyss, shadows of that frozen expanse infiltrated his senses: the crackle of treacherous ice beneath Icarus's boots; the warmth of the minigun's recoil lingering on his fingertips, Rogue's last breath—a punctuated harmony in the discordance of survival.
Then, something new: a vivid picture of Dr. Kane's Base, its walls breathing life into the otherwise bleak landscape of eternal winter from the Trailers. Her presence, a commanding force amid chaos, symbolic of hope encased in steel and code.
"Do you remember anything about Dr. Kane?" Jason asked, eyes searching for clarity in the mosaic of his recollections.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Dr. who?"
"Icarus—no, I remember the name. It's tied up with everything there, like she's pulling the strings."
"We could research more about whoever this Dr. Kane is," Marcus offered. "Connect the dots, maybe."
"And if there's a forum or community buzzing about similar stuff, I'm on it," Sarah declared. "We'll find out who's behind all this."
Dr. Collins coughed softly, reminding them of his presence. "Meanwhile, Mister Doe, you'll remain under observation, just to be safe," He remarked with a knowing nod toward the tablet in his hands. "For now, I suggest rest and reflection. Your mind—and muscles—I suggest you don't have anything do with VRs,"
Jason nodded, a frail resolve stirring within the tapestry of conflict roiling behind his eyes. "Thanks," he murmured, settling back, his body sinking deeper into the contradictions woven between two worlds.
As they left him to the quiet contemplation of his torment—a night reopened in the silent dawn—he imagined the shadows clawing at his consciousness, stretching the borders of dreamed engagements. Lurking questions of existence and definition dared him to surrender or prevail.
Outside the realm of his immediate senses, hints of a greater mystery lingered in muted echoes: Dr. Kane's specter, the anomaly of Hunters, invisible forces determining fate through screens and touch.
Yet beneath the veil of these contradictions, embedded deeply within murmurings of the Smart Watch, he sensed assurance. No matter the dimension, no matter the challenge, the choice remained his to determine.
Dr. Collins finished scribbling his final notes in the margin of a weathered clipboard, casting a professional nod towards Jason. "Remember, returning to the game should be based on careful consideration, not compulsion. Your health is our priority."
Jason offered a cursory smile, though his mind lingered on the insistent pulse of his Smart Watch in the game. "I'll think about it."
With a firm handshake and a parting glance, Dr. Collins exited, leaving Jason alone once more with the remnants of two colliding worlds shadowed over his consciousness. The sun, newly risen and diffused through the windowpane, painted fragile patterns across the floor—a quilt of fractured light and dark.
The discharge process afterwards ambled on like a procession, filled with obligatory formalities and silent administrative gestures, some of them speak something quietly to their comms. When the crisp morning air finally embraced him outside, Jason's chest expanded with newfound freedom, each breath a reckon with destiny itself. School had graciously extended a rest day, recognizing an uncanny aftermath where reality itself seemed encoded in lines of code, or to avoid criticisms from families and bad looks.
His friends has left first due to their own obligations, and also to researching about the strange game, a brief exchange of worried glances before disappearing into the pulse of the bustling street. Jason lingered outside the hospital, feeling the foreign world wrap around him like a breath of fresh air, crisp and tinged with the scent of autumn leaves. The street buzzed with life, a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds that felt almost surreal, as though he was viewing everything through a finely textured lens, where the mundane clashed with echoes of his recent experiences.
He began walking, unsure of his direction. The chill in the air bit at Jason's skin, grounding him in a world that suddenly felt both familiar and foreign.
Some unidentified operatives in casual attire followed Jason discreetly as he leave, already were notified of Jason's abrupt discharge during their breaktime, moving with professional precision and blending seamlessly into the crowd, some of them reductantly threw away their coffee to the nearest trashcan, silently reporting his movements to their intelligence superiors, they are instructed to just surveillance him, for now, as the government agency wants to investigating that VR game side effects.
He wandered aimlessly through the city's bustling arteries, where life hummed past in a kaleidoscope of ordinary exchanges. Each face—a blend of certainty and obliviousness—brushed past him, yet none paused to discern the weight carried within his eyes. A a now forgotten Division Agent in a different world, a 'digital' soldier among the unknowing citizens, traversing a battlefield of concrete and contemplation.
Moments caught him off guard: the ferocious howl of traffic recalling the echo of a blizzard's rage, shadows cast by skyscrapers flickering like from a cracked cave. At intervals, the whisper of a chilly breeze lifted specters of memory—images of the fading horizon in the game mingling with spectral taunts from his subconscious.
Jason paused before the weathered façade of an old bookstore, its display windows curling with age, reflecting echoes of worlds both real and not. A sign—"New Realms Await Within"—proclaimed itself prophetically in faded, whimsical script. He pushed through the door's resistance, yielding to the solace found between pages.
Inside, the musty aroma of paper and ink enveloped him—a reprieve from the chaos orbiting his existence. Jason immersed himself in the comforting predictability of ancient texts promising simpler worlds spun by simpler tales.
Time ebbed as he traced familiar pathways through stories unconcerned with dimensions or devastating truths. Within the realm of imagination crafted by others, he could camouflage—if only temporarily—the stark divergence between his two realities.
As dusk loomed with an artist's palette of violet and burgundy, it dawned upon him that he was nowhere closer to resolving his internal reckoning, merely treading the perimeters. Resolute yet restless, Jason funnelled down the path leading homewards, drawn by both a need to belong and an instinct to survive.
Jason caught fleeting shadows in his peripheral vision, almost notices them—a flicker of suspicion or paranoia—suited figures blending seamlessly into the urban landscape. A prickle ran down his spine, but he quickly rationalized the sensation as mere paranoia, another lingering effect of his intense gaming experience. Comms crackled with a sharp whisper, few operatives looking at the one making a mistake: 'Control your vectors, ghost.' Swift, predatory movements rippled through the urban camouflage—a momentary slip in their meticulously choreographed dance of surveillance. The city's bustling anonymity swallowed any trace of surveillance, leaving him unaware of the watchful eyes tracking his every move.
Train stanchions echoed with his footfall, coating the evening with anticipation. The device pulsed beneath the fabric shielding it, ever-present, promising secrets should he choose to heed its call.
His journey home sprawled across twilight-steeped streets, cool air heavy with whispered tales in shadows formed by street-lamps' isolated glow. Boundless pavement flanked Jason's path, a guide back to beginnings—perhaps answers.
Crossing the threshold of his apartment, the world outside closed behind him. Jason stood before the hollow resonance of an unlit corridor where shadows curled around familiarity like spectral sentinels.
Here, alone among decisions waiting to be made, is where crossroads began—they curved towards a reckoning yet untold, wrapped in echoes of unworldly possibility and responsibility. The pull between his real life and virtual experience pressed heavily, his mind poised to unearth hidden truth.
The Smart Watch lingered in his mind—a catalyst for divergence—on his wrist, as though cradling dual heartbeats: one whispering of adventure, the other begging for safe harbor. The night stretched ahead, dark and boundless.
Jason settled into the worn fabric of his couch, an island amidst the turbulent sea of choices still uncharted. Yet his mind drifted, contemplating paths and futures not yet defined.
The echo of a fractured world continued to whisper its song of blizzards, echoes of gunfire cutting through frozen silence. And among countless aligned stars, a decision hung upon the precipice of discovery.
He inhaled deeply—ready to ponder, to seek. The journey was his to shape, the reality his to navigate—a mirrored reflection of dimensions to explore.
The undercover operatives blended into the urban tapestry like chameleons—their silhouettes etched against the cityscape's mundane backdrop, phantom sentinels casting invisible threads of observation. Jason, oblivious to the intricate web of surveillance that now wove through his existence, moved unwittingly beneath their calculated gaze. Participants of this clandestine VR 'game' had materialized from the ether, summoned by a nameless, obsidian-veiled corporation that left no digital fingerprints. If only the whispers of responsibility could penetrate the membrane of his consciousness, revealing the vast, unseen machinery orchestrating his every step—a grand design pulsing just beyond the threshold of perception.
For now, dusk enveloped him, leaving Jason to dream both dreams—the touch and rise of worlds untold—of what might come.