Ethan's apartment was on the fourth floor of a brownstone in Cambridge. In his memory, it was a drafty, cramped one-bedroom with a leaking radiator and a neighbor who practiced the cello at 2:00 AM.
The key Voss had given him slid into the lock with a satisfying click.
Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was beautiful. It was spacious. The floors were hardwood, covered in tasteful Persian rugs. The radiator didn't hiss; the temperature was a perfect, climate-controlled seventy-two degrees. There was a bookshelf filled with first editions, a leather armchair that looked like it belonged in a gentleman's club, and a view of the Charles River that shouldn't have been possible from this angle of the street.
It was the apartment of a successful, wealthy man. It was the apartment of a stranger.
Ethan locked the door and threw the deadbolt. He checked the window latches. Then, he began to tear the place apart.
He wasn't looking for bugs or cameras—though he suspected they were there, woven into the very drywall. He was looking for himself.
He pulled books off the shelves. He didn't recognize half the titles. The Unified Field: A History, Principles of Stable Reality, The Architecture of the Mind. He opened them. No marginalia. No dog-eared pages. They were props.
He went to the closet. The clothes were his size, his style, but better quality. Cashmere sweaters. Silk ties. He checked the pockets. Empty. No receipts, no loose change, no lint.
He went to the kitchen. The fridge was stocked with food he liked—or rather, food he should like. Premium craft beers. Organic vegetables. A jar of artisan pickles.
He grabbed the jar of pickles and threw it against the wall.
It shattered. Glass and brine exploded across the pristine white tile. The smell of vinegar filled the air, sharp and pungent.
"Break," he hissed. "Just break."
He waited for the glitch. He waited for the wall to flicker, for the stain to vanish, for the system to reset the scene.
Nothing happened. The mess stayed there. A slow drip of pickle juice ran down the baseboard.
It was a high-fidelity simulation. It allowed for entropy. It allowed for anger. It was learning.
Ethan sank to the floor, his back against the refrigerator. He pulled his knees to his chest. The isolation hit him then, a physical blow that knocked the wind out of him.
He was alone. Truly alone. Every person he met—Lily, Voss, Kline, the students—they were shadows. Reflections. He was the only living soul in a city of ghosts.
He needed an anchor. He needed something true.
He crawled across the living room floor to his messenger bag. He pulled out the notebook. It was the only thing that had come with him across the threshold, the only object that retained the scars of the explosion.
He opened it to a fresh page. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the pen.
October 28th?
Location: Simulation Earth.
Status: Prisoner.
He wrote frantically, the words spilling out of him. He chronicled everything: the clock slip, the perfect weather, the repeating clouds, Voss's face, the empty students. He needed to get it out of his head before the environment rewrote his memories.
They are trying to make me comfortable, he wrote. They are giving me a perfect life so I stop asking questions. They want me to work. They want me to fix the generator. Why? If they can build this world, why do they need me?
Hypothesis: They can build the cage, but they can't power it. Or they can't stabilize it. I am the stabilizer.
I need to find the edges. Every simulation has a boundary. A render limit. If I can find the edge, I can break out.
He paused. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, sudden and overwhelming. It wasn't natural fatigue; it was a programmed command. Sleep now, subject.
His eyelids drooped. The pen felt like it weighed fifty pounds.
"No," he mumbled. "Not yet."
He fought it. He bit his lip until he tasted copper. He focused on the pain.
Don't sleep, he scrawled. Dreams are how they get in. Dreams are the patch updates.
The room seemed to dim. The hum of the refrigerator deepened, becoming a rhythmic thrumming that matched his heartbeat. He felt a presence in the room, not a person, but a pressure. An observation.
They are watching, he wrote. The Archivist? The Architects? Voss?
His head lolled forward. The pen skidded across the page, creating a long, jagged line.
I need... I need...
He didn't know what he needed. He needed someone real. He needed a voice that wasn't scripted. He needed to know he wasn't the last conscious mind in the universe.
Send someone, he thought, a desperate prayer cast out into the void. Please. Just one real thing.
The pen slipped from his fingers. darkness swallowed him, but it wasn't the peaceful darkness of sleep. It was the cold, efficient darkness of a system going into standby mode.
As Ethan slumped against the cabinet, unconscious, the air in the living room shimmered.
The pickle jar on the floor didn't repair itself. The stain didn't vanish. The simulation was smart; it knew that evidence of a struggle made the prison feel more real.
But on the coffee table, a small, seemingly insignificant change occurred.
A single, red rose appeared in a vase that hadn't been there a moment ago. It wasn't a glitch. It was a response. An answer to a prayer, or perhaps, the introduction of a new variable.
The scent of the rose drifted through the room, masking the smell of vinegar. It was sweet. Intoxicating.
It smelled like a trap.