Ethan sat in the dark, his apartment feeling more like a trap than a sanctuary. The air was heavy, the faint hum of his PC blending with his shallow breathing. His arm throbbed beneath the makeshift bandage, and the Archivist's parting words echoed in his mind.
"The world you know is unraveling, and it's your fault."
He stared at the screen, the blinking cursor like a heartbeat, daring him to continue.
DAY 2
You've survived the night. The Catalyst stirs. The Architect must act.
Options:
[Explore Nearby Ruins]
[Fortify Farmhouse]
[Rest and Recover]
Ethan hesitated. The game seemed to reflect his real-life situation, though he had no idea how far the connection went. If he chose to fortify the farmhouse in the game, would his apartment somehow strengthen?
His arm throbbed again. Rest would heal his in-game injuries, but he wasn't sure if the same would apply to his real wound.
"Fortify," Ethan muttered, clicking the option. He wasn't taking chances.
...
You gather materials to reinforce the farmhouse:
[Planks of Wood] [Rusty Nails] [Hammer]
Roll to succeed:
The screen displayed a die rolling, its numbers spinning rapidly before settling on 15.
Success! The farmhouse is fortified, providing temporary protection.
Ethan let out a small breath of relief, but the screen wasn't done.
Warning: Reinforcements have drawn unwanted attention. Hostiles are approaching.
A knot tightened in his stomach. He leaned back in his chair, gripping the crowbar in his lap. His apartment was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made him feel like he wasn't alone.
Then, the sound came.
A faint scraping, like claws on glass.
Ethan turned toward the window. The blinds were closed, but the noise grew louder, more insistent. His pulse quickened.
"No," he whispered. "Not again."
The scraping stopped. The silence returned, thicker than before.
He stepped toward the window, crowbar raised, and yanked the blinds open.
The streetlights outside cast pale light onto the empty sidewalk. Nothing moved, and yet Ethan's unease grew. He turned back toward his desk—
—and froze.
...
The Archivist was sitting in his chair, its pale blue eyes glowing softly.
"You've made your first mistake," it said, its voice dripping with disdain.
Ethan staggered back, the crowbar slipping from his hands and clattering to the floor. "How…? What do you mean?"
The Archivist tilted its head. "You fortified your little farmhouse. A sensible move, one might think. But every action invites reaction. The stronger your defenses, the hungrier the Catalyst becomes."
Ethan clenched his fists. "I don't understand. What does the Catalyst want from me?"
The Archivist leaned forward, its face inches from his. "It wants everything. Your choices, your thoughts, your fears. You are not merely playing the game, Architect. You are feeding it."
"Feeding it how?" Ethan asked, his voice trembling.
"Every decision you make, every triumph or failure, shapes the Catalyst. It grows stronger, more complex. And you, Architect, are its greatest meal yet."
...
The words hit Ethan like a punch to the gut. He turned back to the screen, his mind racing. Was this thing manipulating him, or was there truth to its claims?
"What happens if I stop playing?" Ethan asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The Archivist's grin widened, revealing those unnervingly sharp teeth. "Stop? You think you have that luxury? The Catalyst has chosen you, and it does not release its prey lightly. Play, and you might survive. Quit, and…"
It didn't finish the sentence. It didn't have to.
"What's my next move, then?" Ethan demanded, anger flaring in his chest. "If you're so wise, tell me how to fix this!"
The Archivist stood, its shadowy form towering over him. "Fix it? Oh, no. You don't fix the Catalyst. You play. You survive."
And then, it was gone, vanishing into the dim light.
...
Ethan's heart raced as he sat down, staring at the screen. The game waited for his next move.
Hostiles are approaching.
Prepare to defend or flee.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Defending might bring more resources to reality, but it could also attract stronger enemies. Fleeing could buy time but might leave him vulnerable later.
He didn't feel like a player anymore. Every choice felt like a trap.
Ethan clicked on [Defend the Farmhouse].
...
The screen lit up with new text:
You fortify your position with the materials you've scavenged. As the hostiles approach, you stand your ground.
Combat initiated. Hostiles: [3] Mutated Stalkers.
His inventory flashed:
[Rusty Crowbar] [Bone Charm] [Can of Beans]
Ethan's brow furrowed. The bone charm. He hadn't figured out its full use yet, but it pulsed faintly in the inventory menu. Maybe it was time to take the risk.
He clicked on the bone charm.
...
The screen flickered violently, the glow illuminating his apartment in rhythmic flashes. A loud, low hum filled the room, and then the charm activated.
The Bone Charm pulses with ancient energy.
You summon: The Warden.
Ethan's eyes widened as a figure appeared in his living room. It was massive, its body made of twisting shadows and hardened plates of bone. The Warden turned to him, its hollow gaze locking onto his.
"You summoned me," it rumbled. Its voice was deep, resonant, and filled with power.
"Protect me," Ethan said, his voice trembling.
The Warden nodded and turned toward the window.
The scraping noise returned, louder this time. Something slammed against the glass, the blinds rattling violently.
The Warden stood still, its shadowy form expanding to fill the room. "They come," it growled.
The window shattered, and the first creature lunged inside.
Ethan gripped the crowbar, his knuckles white, as the Warden roared and charged.