The apartment smelled of mold, burnt noodles, and broken dreams.

  Amelia sat cross-legged on the frayed lounge, the cushions caved and sunken beneath her. Her red hair spilled like blood over her shoulder, tangled and dull, a testament to sleepless nights and a childhood that had never truly ended. The walls around her were cracked, paper-thin. The neighbor’s TV blared something violent. Pipes hissed and clicked. Somewhere deeper in the complex, a baby cried, and no one soothed it.

  Her own mother hadn’t. Not once.

  Amelia had escaped as soon as she could. Escaped the slurred screams of a woman who drank to forget her husband’s fists. Escaped her father's booming rages, his fists through plaster and his words like rot through wood. They never broke her body, not completely—but her trust, her joy, her sense of self? Shattered beyond salvaging. Friendships were fleeting things. She didn’t have time for shallow people, not with the scars she wore like unseen armor.

  But online?

  There, she was someone. There, she mattered.

  She wasn’t a top-tier streamer or celebrity raider, but she was good. Good enough to grind, farm, and flip loot for cold, hard cash. Good enough to survive—barely. Every potion sold, every gold coin transferred to her bank account, was another day with food. Another day not begging.

  But tonight was different. Everything was different.

  She’d liquidated every other game account she had. Sold her best gear. Cancelled her subscriptions. Pawned the microwave. She’d even thrown out her bed—just to make room for the capsule.

  The VR pod sat in the center of her one-bedroom prison like a sarcophagus from the future. White and sleek, it pulsed faintly with activation runes, its display flickering with the logo of the newest gaming phenomenon: Elydria: Online.

  Full-body immersion. Sensory feedback. Real-pain, real-reward. And most importantly? Real money.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  They said the world was shaped by the players. That every experience was unique. They said the AI that ran it wasn’t a developer—but a god.

  She slid into the capsule, heart pounding, lungs tight with both dread and hope. The lid hissed shut. Darkness claimed her—

  And then light exploded.

  A voice, smooth as silk and ancient as time, whispered into her bones.

  “Welcome, traveler...”

  It wasn’t just sound. It was felt. Like something watching her, not with code or cameras—but with presence.

  Character creation loaded, far more detailed than anything she’d touched before. Four races spun before her: towering Dwarves of rune-scarred stone, primal Beastkin with flicking tails and burning eyes, Humans in plain leathers, and then—

  Elves.

  Ethereal. Graceful. Unreasonably beautiful.

  One tapped in. The model shimmered into being.

  It was her.

  Her, but… perfected. Elven ears peeked from beneath long red locks. Eyes brighter. Skin smoother. She adjusted a few sliders—slimmer waist, a touch of makeup. Not too much. Just enough to feel wanted.

  [Confirm Character?]

  [Enter Name?]

  The prompt blinked.

  She typed in her real name. Amelia.

  [Class Selection.]

  Four items hovered in a slow circle around her:

  – A sword, gleaming and strong.

  – A bow, delicate and lethal.

  – A leather-bound book, humming with secrets.

  – And a staff—long, carved with runes, the head flickering with violet flame.

  She reached out, brushing her hand against the staff.

  The world shattered.

  White engulfed her. The air screamed. She fell—not through space, but through her self. Through sensation. Through static. Through light.

  And then—earth.

  Soft moss beneath her feet. Crisp wind through trees so tall they pierced the sky like cathedral spires. The hum of birds, of life, of magic.

  Her hand rose, slender and fair. Not hers—but it was.

  She stood on the outskirts of the Elven starting town, nestled in the belly of an ancient forest. A cobblestone path led toward carved gates of woven silver and wood, guarded by a tall man in ornate armor.

  He stepped forward. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” he said, voice kind but alert. “Are you here to study at the Academy of Magic?”

  Amelia nodded, unable to find her voice. Not from confusion—but wonder.

  “Good,” he smiled. “The wilds are dangerous for new blood.”

  He gestured her toward the gate, but paused.

  “Oh, miss… I am Thandril. May I have your name?”

  She spoke, her voice soft but steady.

  “…Amelia.”

  The guard smiled. “Welcome to Elydria, Amelia.”

  As the gates creaked open and the scent of blossom and spell-ink drifted out to meet her, one thought anchored itself in her mind.

  If I didn’t know better… I’d believe this was real.

  And in some awful, beautiful, terrible way…

  It was.