The only light in Chris Day's bedroom came from other worlds. Three mismatched monitors bathed the room in a shifting, ethereal glow, painting the faded K-Pop posters and towers of forgotten video game cases in hues of electric purple and demonic orange. The air, thick with the scent of day-old laundry and the faint, sweet tang of Rocket Riot energy drinks, hummed with the quiet whir of computer fans. This was the command center. This was the sanctuary. This was the only place Christopher Day felt like he wasn't just taking up space.
On the central, 32-inch curved screen, a god moved with impossible grace. Or, at least, a character that felt like one. x_CyrisWarden_x, Chris's Riftwarden in the dark fantasy world of Vexlorn, was a whirlwind of arcane power and deadly precision. He wore the coveted Shadow-Weave Raiment, its pauldrons shaped like screaming silver skulls, its cloth textures rippling with captured starlight. In his hands, raw Aetheric energy coalesced into crackling spears of violet light.
Before him, the crumbling nave of the Cathedral of the Forsaken Pact swarmed with enemies. Corpus-Knights, skeletal monstrosities clad in rusted armor, shambled forward, their jawbones unhinged in silent screams. They were flanked by Soul-Shriven Husks, smaller, faster creatures that skittered across the cracked marble floors like desiccated insects, their chittering a constant, unnerving static.
To an outsider, the scene was pure chaos. A cacophony of monstrous shrieks, explosive spells, and the frantic, high-tempo orchestral score that Vexlorn was famous for. His fingers, long and pale, danced across the mechanical keyboard. Tap-tap-tap. Three quick shots of Aether-Bolt, each one finding the eye socket of a different Husk, causing them to detonate in a shower of glittering dust and, more importantly, loot. Gold coins, crafting materials, and a rare-quality ring tumbled to the ground, their icons glowing invitingly.
A hulking Corpus-Knight swung a massive, notched axe in a wide arc. Chris didn't even seem to register the threat on a conscious level. His right index finger double-tapped the SHIFT key. On screen, x_CyrisWarden_x dissolved into a blur of purple energy, executing a perfect Phase-Dodge that carried him directly through the Knight's body. He rematerialized behind it, the animation seamless, the maneuver flawless.
Before the Knight could even complete its turn, Chris's left hand had already found its position. Q, E, R, in a fluid, practiced sequence. A wave of force, the Kinetic Repulsion Wave, blasted outwards, staggering the Knight. It was followed instantly by a Rift-Tether, a shimmering leash of energy that latched onto the creature's soul. Finally, the finisher. Arcane Obliteration.
Chris held down the R key. x_CyrisWarden_x extended both hands, and all the ambient light in the cathedral seemed to dim, drawn into the swirling vortex of power forming between his palms. The Rift-Tether glowed brighter and brighter, siphoning the very essence from the tethered Knight. The monster writhed, its armored shell cracking under the strain. With a final, satisfying CRACK-BOOM, the Knight imploded, leaving behind an Epic-quality helmet, its icon a regal, pulsating purple.
"Yes," Chris breathed out, the word a reverent whisper. He scooped up the loot with a quick mouse click, his eyes already scanning the next pack of enemies. His posture was a disaster—a pronounced slouch that pressed his thin frame into the worn faux-leather of his gaming chair. A mountain of unfolded laundry served as a silent, cotton-blend monument to his procrastination. Beside his desk, a precarious tower of empty, neon-green Rocket Riot cans listed like a sugary Leaning Tower of Pisa. Yet, in this moment, those details were irrelevant. His body might be a slouched, 30-year-old vessel of inertia, but his mind, his will, was a razor-sharp instrument of digital dominance.
This was the flow state. That magical, sacred space where the line between player and avatar blurred into nonexistence. There were no bills here. No awkward conversations. No nagging sense of underachievement. There was only the clear, unambiguous path forward: kill, loot, level up. The rules were simple, the feedback was immediate, and progress was not just possible, but guaranteed. Every perfect dodge, every precisely aimed spell, sent a tiny, satisfying jolt of dopamine through his system, a reward more tangible and consistent than anything the real world had ever offered. The on-screen chaos was a meticulously controlled dance, and in this world, he knew all the steps. He was powerful. He was competent. He was in complete control.
He was about to pull the next group of Husks, luring them into a narrow chokepoint in the ruined transept, when a new sound cut through the orchestral score and the chittering of monsters. It wasn't a sound from Vexlorn. It was sharp, digital, and utterly unwelcome.
Bling.
On his secondary monitor, the one usually reserved for game maps and build guides, a small window had popped into existence. It was a Facebook chat head, a cheerful blue bubble at odds with the gothic despair of his main screen. The profile picture was a blurry photo of a large-mouth bass held aloft, its silvery scales catching the light. The fish represented Pete.
[Pete]: Did you call that guy about the network certification class?
The words seemed to hang in the air, each one a lead weight dragging Chris out of his perfect, violent ballet. For a split second, his focus fractured. His brain, which had been tracking the attack patterns of a dozen different creatures simultaneously, was now snagged on a single, mundane sentence.
That was all it took.
On the main screen, a Husk he hadn't accounted for, one that had scuttled out from behind a fallen pillar, lunged forward. Its desiccated claws raked across x_CyrisWarden_x's back. A spray of digital blood, a flash of angry red across the screen, and a groan of pain from his character. The health bar, a reassuring green line that had been full just a moment ago, dropped by a quarter.
"Son of a—!" Chris hissed, the curse dying on his lips. His muscle memory, a force far more reliable than his willpower, took over. SHIFT. A flawless Phase-Dodge to create space. W. A quick sprint to get behind a crumbling altar. His fingers flew, a desperate, panicked flurry. He hammered his 1 key, chugging a Greater Health Potion. The green bar refilled with a reassuring shimmer. Then, with the enemies regrouping, he unleashed a defensive spell, a Chrono-Stasis Field, which enveloped the area in a slow-motion bubble.
He had a few seconds. The monsters moved as if wading through invisible tar. Chris's right hand left the mouse, his left hand staying put, keeping his character still. His fingers shot over to the second keyboard, the cheap one he used for everything but gaming. He didn't even need to look down. His eyes remained locked on the Vexlorn screen, watching the slowed creatures, but his mind was on the lie.
[Chris]: The website was down. Will check tomorrow.
It was so easy. So automatic. He didn't feel a sting of guilt, only a flicker of annoyance. Pete had sent him the link to the local college's IT program a week ago. The email was probably buried somewhere in his inbox, suffocated under a pile of pizza delivery coupons, Steam sale alerts, and a newsletter from a cat-themed sock-of-the-month club he'd forgotten to unsubscribe from. He hadn't clicked it. He hadn't even thought about clicking it. The very idea of it—of classrooms, and schedules, and a job that didn't involve earning virtual gold—felt exhausting. It was a chore, and chores were to be avoided until they became an immediate, unavoidable crisis. Lying was simply the most efficient way to postpone that crisis.
His fingers slid back to his gaming keyboard, the familiar, satisfying feel of the contoured keycaps a comfort. The Chrono-Stasis Field was about to expire. He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and prepared to dive back in. He had a health bar to manage, a pack of monsters to annihilate, and the tantalizing promise of that Epic helmet to inspect. He could already feel the real world beginning to recede again, its sharp edges softened by the glowing fantasy on the screen. The lie was a wall he'd built, and now he could safely retreat behind it.
Chris tried to find the rhythm again. He needed to get back into that effortless flow state, the digital zen that made the hours disappear. He dispatched the slowed enemies with a ruthless, efficient combo, the familiar explosions of light and loot almost washing away the irritation of the interruption. Almost.
The cathedral in Vexlorn was a masterpiece of digital architecture. Enormous stained-glass windows, shattered but still beautiful, depicted forgotten saints and eldritch gods. Moonlight streamed through the holes in the vaulted ceiling, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny silver spirits. The sound design was impeccable; the distant drip of water, the mournful sigh of the wind through the broken walls, the satisfying thump of his Riftwarden's boots on ancient stone. It was a world designed to be immersive, to pull you in and hold you tight.
But the immersion was fragile.
Bling.
The sound was louder this time. Or maybe it just felt that way. The blue chat bubble on the secondary monitor blinked with an insistent, needy rhythm. Chris's eyes darted to it against his will. His focus, so recently regained, shattered again.
[Pete]: The garbage truck comes in the morning, Chris. Bins need to be at the end of the driveway tonight.
A new wave of irritation, hot and sharp, washed over him. The garbage. Of course. Tuesday night was garbage night. It was one of the few concrete, unchangeable laws of his universe. He could slay a demigod in Vexlorn, but he could not stop the inexorable Tuesday morning arrival of the Buckhannon Waste Management truck. He pictured the task in his mind, and every detail felt like a personal attack. He'd have to put on shoes. Real shoes. He'd have to navigate the minefield of laundry on his floor, open his bedroom door, and face the horrifyingly un-pixelated reality of the hallway. Then he'd have to lug the two heavy, smelly plastic bins down the long, gravel driveway. In the dark. The West Virginia dark, which was a special kind of profound, all-consuming blackness, filled with the rustling sounds of things you couldn't see. Raccoons, probably. Or worse, a skunk. The last time he'd startled a skunk by the bins, his clothes had been banished to a bonfire in the backyard.
It wasn't the effort itself that he hated so much. It was the transition. It was the act of being pulled from a world where he was a master of the arcane, a celebrated vanquisher of evil, and being forced into the role of Chris Day, the thirty-year-old man who still had to be reminded to take out the trash. The dissonance was jarring, a psychic whiplash that left him feeling small and pathetic.
Before he could fully process his resentment, the window blinked again.
Bling.
[Pete]: Your mother made lasagna. It's on the shelf outside your door. Don't let it get cold.
This message was different. It wasn't just a command; it was a Trojan horse. It smuggled a payload of guilt and obligation directly into his fortress of solitude, disguised as an act of kindness. Pete, the bearer of chores, was also the messenger of Mom's love. It was a brutally effective tactic.
He stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box. A tiny, vertical line of light, pulsing patiently. He could type another lie. "Okay." "On it." "Thanks." But that would be an acknowledgement. That would be an acceptance of the task. It would make it real.
Ignoring it felt better. Ignoring it was a form of rebellion, albeit a silent, deeply pathetic one. If he didn't respond, he could almost pretend he hadn't seen it. He could exist in a state of plausible deniability, a quantum superposition where he was both aware of and not aware of the lasagna and the garbage cans. It was a small, petty hill to die on, but it was his. The blinking cursor pulsed. Tick. Tock. Tick. A tiny, digital heartbeat counting down to a responsibility he refused to claim. He made his choice. He would not answer. Victory, in its own small way, was his.
His eyes, trained to track the slightest on-screen movement, drifted away from the blinking cursor. They moved past the edge of the monitor, across the small strip of wall, and landed on his bedroom door. It was a cheap, hollow-core door, painted an off-white that had yellowed with age. Just outside, mounted on the wall, was a small, utilitarian shelf that Pete had installed a few years ago. Pete called it the "Food Delivery Zone." Chris called it "The Shelf of Shame."
And on the shelf, there it was. A white ceramic plate sitting on a small plastic tray. A thick, generous slab of lasagna occupied most of the plate. The top layer of mozzarella was a beautiful landscape of bubbly, browned peaks and molten, cheesy valleys. The rich, red meat sauce oozed invitingly from its many layers of pasta. Steam, real steam, not a digital particle effect, rose from it in a faint, tantalizing wisp. Next to the lasagna sat a hefty piece of garlic bread, its surface glistening with melted butter and flecked with green herbs.
Misty's lasagna.
It wasn't just food. It was a steaming pile of love and effort. He could picture her in the kitchen, humming along to the classic rock station she always listened to. He could smell the garlic and onions sautéing, hear the rhythmic thump of the cabinet doors as she pulled out the ingredients. She'd have spent hours on it. She always did. It was her specialty, the meal she made when she wanted to communicate care without having to navigate the minefield of a direct conversation with her reclusive son.
The sight of it sent a complicated cocktail of emotions swirling in his gut. There was comfort, a deep, primal warmth that came from knowing his mother loved him enough to cook for him, to leave his portion waiting just outside his door like an offering to a moody cave-dwelling deity. But that comfort was immediately soured by a thick, heavy layer of guilt. The lasagna was a testament to her effort. Each wisp of steam felt like an accusation. I cooked this for you. I took the time. Can't you even take ten steps?
The thought of getting up felt less like a simple action and more like a monumental task, a quest far more daunting than clearing the Cathedral of the Forsaken Pact. To stand up would be to break the seal. It would mean untangling himself from the headphones, peeling himself out of the chair that had become a second skin, and acknowledging the world beyond the screen. It would mean accepting the food, and by extension, the responsibilities that came with it. The garbage. The IT class. The suffocating weight of his own inertia.
The pull of Vexlorn was a physical force, a gravitational field generated by the promise of immediate reward. In the game, his efforts were always recognized. Kill a monster, get experience points. Open a chest, get loot. Every click was an action with a clear and satisfying reaction. The numbers always went up. Progress was visible, quantifiable.
The real world was the opposite. Its reward systems were opaque and delayed. Take out the trash? The reward is simply the absence of a problem tomorrow. Eat the lasagna? The reward is sustenance, but it comes with a side of guilt and the silent pressure of his mother's expectations. The choice was brutally simple. The digital world offered instant, glorious gratification. The real world offered chores.
The lasagna could wait. It would get cold, the cheese would congeal, the garlic bread would lose its warmth. But it would still be there. The Cathedral of the Forsaken Pact, however, was teeming with demons right now, and the Epic helmet he'd just looted had stats that needed to be inspected. His priorities were clear.
With a sigh, a long, deep exhalation that seemed to carry all the weight of his real-world obligations, Chris reached for his mouse. He didn't close the Facebook chat window. That would be too final, an act of overt defiance. Instead, he did something more practiced, more dismissive. He clicked on the title bar of the chat window and, with a flick of his wrist, dragged it across his secondary monitor, tucking it neatly behind the full-screen map of the Vexlorn dungeon. The blinking blue bubble vanished. Pete, the garbage, the IT class—they were all gone, hidden behind a layer of digital fantasy. Out of sight, out of mind.
His left hand reached up to the volume dial on the cord of his headphones. They were a ridiculous pair, black with glowing pink bunny ears on top—a gag gift from his friend, Richard, that had proven to be surprisingly comfortable. He cranked the volume up. The low, nagging hum of his computer fans disappeared. The faint, imagined sound of his mother humming in the kitchen faded. The world outside his skull went silent, replaced by the swelling, epic score of Vexlorn. The triumphant brass fanfare, the urgent pounding of the war drums, the unholy choir chanting in a forgotten tongue—it all flooded his senses, a sonic baptism that washed away the grime of reality.
He leaned forward, his face closer to the main screen, the glow of the monitor illuminating his focused expression. The world, with its cold lasagna and its looming responsibilities, dissolved into irrelevant background noise. The Shelf of Shame, the tower of energy drinks, the pile of laundry—they all faded from his perception, ghosts in a world he was choosing to abandon.
In front of him, the path was clear. x_CyrisWarden_x stood poised and ready at the edge of the chancel, his Shadow-Weave Raiment shimmering. Beyond him, a hulking, horned demon, the final boss of the dungeon, was beginning its patrol route. Its health bar was a fat, intimidating red, and the promise of Legendary loot was almost a certainty. This was a world that made sense. This was a world where he mattered.
Chris's fingers found their home on the keyboard. His right hand tightened its grip on the mouse. A small smile touched his lips.
He clicked the mouse.
x_CyrisWarden_x sprinted forward, back into a world where he was powerful, competent, and in complete control.