It's the year 2025.
The world is drowning in people. Food prices have doubled. Rent is a luxury.
Only 10% of the population is rich, 20% can be called stable. The rest? Starving. Homeless. Angry.
Crime is at an all-time high. Protesters fill the streets every day, screaming for the government to do something.
In desperation, a one-child policy was enforced. But population change isn't instant—it would take decades to show results.
And the government doesn't have decades.
That's when someone remembered Project Mirror.
It was a scrapped experiment from twenty years ago—an insane idea cooked up by a so-called genius scientist. The plan was to create an alternate reality, a perfect replica of Earth. The goal? To split the population across both worlds. Half here, half there.
The idea was simple. The execution? Risky as hell.
Back then, they shut it down. Too dangerous.
But now? Desperate times call for desperate bullshit.
They brought it back. Tweaked it. Tested it.
The new version showed a 90% chance of success.
But just as they pulled the lever to activate it, just when the countdown had already started, an error popped up on the screen with a message:
Game system loading…
Confused and panicked, they looked around for the source of the problem. That's when they found a child crouched behind a computer, one of the cables pulled out and replaced with his video game console.
"Whose child is this?!" the sergeant roared, the veins on his forehead bulging.
"He's mine, sir," one of the staff said, his body visibly trembling as he pulled his child out from the corner.
"What the fûck is he doing here?" the sergeant barked. The man almost collapsed to his knees.
"It's… it's bring your child to work day, sir," he squeaked in a high-pitched voice.
The sergeant's eyes turned bloodshot, his fists clenched even tighter. "You're fired!" he snapped. "Get them out of here!"
Security rushed in instantly, dragging the father and son away without hesitation.
As the doors shut behind them, the sergeant sighed and massaged his temples. He was supposed to be in Hawaii with his family, relaxing from all this stress—but no. They just had to call him in last minute for this stupid project.
"Uhm… sir," a voice called.
"What?!" he snapped through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of his hair in frustration.
"I think we have a problem," the man said.
"The countdown won't stop."
The sergeant's eyes widened. He turned around and shoved the man out of the chair, staring at the screen. The loading bar had already reached 70%.
"We think the child's game might've altered the program," someone else said.
"Then what the fuck are you waiting for?! Do something about it! Fix it!"
Everyone jumped into action, doing their very best. The entire lab was in chaos. They even considered shutting everything down, but since it was already connected to the mainframe, they feared it could trigger a catastrophic failure.
The countdown continued, ticking at an alarming speed.
60…
59…
58…
Every effort to override the system failed. The child's video game had somehow merged with the alternate reality program, creating a system no one knew how to control. It was like it had a mind of its own.
The sergeant's face turned red with anger. "This is a disaster," he muttered. "We're about to create an alternate reality—but we have no idea what kind of reality it'll be or what the consequences will look like."
"Sir," someone said, holding out a small cartridge with shaky hands. "This was the game the child inserted."
The sergeant took one look at it, and his face went pale.
It was a survival apocalypse video game.
Just then, the countdown reached its final seconds. All the monitors went black. The lights turned blue.
The sergeant's fingers trembled as he stared at the cartridge. His eyes scanned the title written on the front in red letters:
Game Over = Death.
"Fûck…" he whispered, as everything started to click into place.
The next second, a total blackout.
A robotic voice echoed through the lab:
"Game system activated."
And on every screen, in bold red letters, one single message appeared:
Game Over = Death.