The light didn’t blind me. It should’ve. After that much darkness, you’d think stepping out would feel like getting punched in the retinas by a flashlight-wielding seraph. But no. The light was soft. Moonlight, always moonlight. Filtering through some unknown aperture high above, indifferent and pale, the kind of light that never warmed anything.

  I stepped out of the shell. My legs worked. My breath caught somewhere in my throat and just... stayed there. Not panic. Not even sorrow. Just a suspension. Like my body was afraid to move in case it woke my brain.

  The hallway was empty. The woman at the desk didn’t even look up. Maybe she never did. Maybe she wasn’t a person. Maybe I wasn’t either.

  I walked. Not toward anything. Not away from anything. Just walked.

  Out through the polished obsidian doors. Down the funeral-step staircase. My boots made sound again. I hated that they did. It made it too real.

  The city hadn’t changed, but I had. The spires still loomed. The moon still glared. Those goddamn birds with void-oil feathers still watched, still judged, still didn’t blink. Vendors shouted things I couldn’t process, laughed jokes in languages I didn’t understand, bartered with teeth, hair, heat. The scent of roasted something tried to reach me, but my senses batted it away like a dull reflex.

  I stopped walking when I forgot how to start again. My feet had found a wall, one of those crumbling bone-and-brick ones, across from a lantern stand dripping with wax like it had been weeping in place for years.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  Slouched in a gutter pile that looked one degree too filthy to be part of the city, a man, or something shaped like one, grinned at me from beneath a hood of stitched leather. His eyes were pinprick silver. Not glowing, just... thin. Like light had trouble sticking to him.

  “Rough one?” he rasped, voice sandpapered down by too many smokes and too much honesty. I didn’t answer.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, letting his back slump against the wall like his spine was detachable. “It gets worse.” I blinked. Still didn’t speak.

  “Clones always look like that. First time out of the pod, huh?” He reached into his coat, pulled out a cracked phial, and poured something viscous and glittering under his tongue. Didn’t even flinch. “Sucks, don’t it? You go in thinking you’re real. Walk out knowing you ain’t. Worse than dying, that.”

  My throat finally worked. “I didn’t die.”

  “Nope.” He smiled like the world was a punchline. “That’s the rub. You never lived.”

  I should’ve walked away. Should’ve punched him. Should’ve screamed. Instead, I just stared.

  “You think this is grief?” he asked, gesturing around with a twitchy hand. “Nah. You ain’t grieving. You’re mourning a ghost of a life that was never yours. You’ll lose all your worth, you’ll go to exchange treasure tokens for time chips, and you’ll keep doing it. Over and over. Wanna know why?”

  “Why?” I asked it, but I felt almost detached. Like I was seeing myself from afar.

  He leaned close. The stink hit me like wet ash and rotting citrus. “Because it isn’t all bad. Not yet.” His grin sharpened. “Wait until all your loved ones age out. Wait until their children have children who have children. All the people and things you've ever cared for, loved for, fought for?” He snorted. “Gone. And meaningless to boot. You think it’s bad now?” He threw his head back and laughed. Long. Cruel. Hollow.

  It echoed off the stones like the city itself found it funny. I didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

  I just walked away, hands clenched, something twisting in my chest. Rage? Sorrow? Identity rot?

  I didn’t know. All I knew was that I needed to feel something real again. Anything.

  I went back to the Viewing station.

  I sold off my treasure tokens first. Then I started to sell off various things I had no use for, then things I did have use for but no means to use. Eventually, the only thing I wasn’t willing to give up was food, and even that in time. It didn’t matter. None of it did. The machine didn’t resist. Not once.

  I watched another day.

  Then another.

  Then a week.

  Then I stopped counting.

  One Year Later

  “Get your glowing-ass eyes off the floor and move, you sad bastard.”

  The voice hit first, shrill, nasal, and unmistakably pissed. I blinked as a blur of motion dragged across my vision. Then came the jolt. Cold air. Staggered steps. Pavement.

  I was being dragged.

  Not metaphorically. Literally. Face scraping along cobbled stone slick with gods-knew-what, my arm slung over a shoulder that smelled like grave dirt and discount cologne.

  “Noctis?” I croaked, throat coated in glue and shame.

  “Oh good, he speaks,” Noctis spat. “Didn’t think your new religion allowed for language. Just moaning and twitching while you sucked off nostalgia in a back-alley viewer pod.”

  He hefted me up enough that my boots stopped dragging. My legs wobbled like I’d forgotten how to human. My vision doubled and tripled before it finally decided to stabilize.

  We were outside. Somewhere in the Lunar Quarter's gutter-tier district. The streets here pulsed with grime and whispers, the buildings squatting like tumors with balconies. Someone screamed in the distance, whether from pain, ecstasy, or enlightenment was anyone’s guess. Standard ambiance.

  Noctis was scowling at me like I owed him money, blood, or both.

  “You missed the Mutual Access deadline,” he snapped. “Starter dive payday came and went. You were supposed to buy passage tokens, security charms, hell, even a bloody bed. You know what you bought?”

  “I—”

  “Retripper,” he hissed. “You bought fucking retripper. You bought days of that shit. Do you know how long I was looking for you?”

  I tried to speak, but all that came out was a low, involuntary laugh. Not amused. Not joyful. Just the kind of laugh that happens when something breaks inside your chest and your body decides noise is better than silence.

  “You’re not even high right now,” he said. “You’re just haunted.”

  I didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The high was gone, burned out like the last light from a dying CRT screen. But the memory lingered. All of it did. Beth’s smile. Her laugh. The warmth in her voice when she said my name. Not this name. The real one.

  “Do you know how easy it is to spot a retripper addict?” Noctis kept going. “Eyes catch the light like a feral animal. You stop blinking like a normal person. And you start looking at everyone like they’re a fever dream interrupting your favorite rerun.”

  “I had nothing else,” I said. My voice felt like it belonged to someone smaller.

  “You had me, you prick,” Noctis snarled.

  That shut me up.

  We stood there for a moment. A drunk fae stumbled past, singing to a rat in a monocle. A streetlamp flickered with bioluminescent fungus. The silence between us stretched too long.

  “I should’ve left your sorry ass,” Noctis muttered, softer now. “But guess what? You're not special. You're not the only one ripped from Earth and dumped into this dungeon hell. You're not the only clone in the dungeon, Kevin.”

  He dropped me onto a stone bench shaped like a screaming face. I barely noticed.

  Noctis turned, took two steps, then hesitated. “Clean the fuck up, Kev. Because next time? I won’t come looking.” And then he was gone. Just a shadow slipping back into the sick glow of the city.

  I sat there, twitching. Cold sweat. Eyes still catching the moonlight. Somewhere in my chest, something tried to feel again. It failed.

  Since I found out, I hadn’t felt anything that wasn’t from Viewing. Nothing. The shame was nothing compared to the vast nothingness that had found a home in my chest. The weight was stifling, crushing. My breath hitched once before my face found my all-too-familiar scowl. Yes, that’s good, that’s safe.

  A newbie was walking by, likely on their way to their first viewing. I had two day’s worth of viewing left, but they wouldn’t be worth anything until enough time had passed in the real world. Wherever the dungeon was, time was different here. I felt like if I ever got out, if I could ever actually get back home, only a tenth of the time would have passed. Either way, I looked to the confused contender. His eyes met mine and he looked away quickly, fear written there as plain as day.

  I snorted to myself. Day, as if this place would ever show sunlight.

  That snort scared the newbie even more, he started walking away with the hurried pace of a man who had places to be.

  “Hang on there, bud, it only looks scary.” The man slowed and turned to me.

  “Not that I don’t believe you…”

  I waved his comment away. “Off for your first viewing, then?”

  The young man, maybe in his twenties, paused, unsure. “Listen, I wont spoil it for you, but I’ll do you a kindness nobody did for me.”

  “What’s that?” The man was suddenly skeptical.

  “I’ll be right here when you get out. I’ll answer the big question you’re going to have, and I won’t do it with cruelty.” I turned then, disregarding this poor soul. If only he knew what he’s lost. He left, and a sick part of myself looked forward to seeing the young man return, broken, hallow, joining the ranks of broken souls the dungeon seems hellbent on producing. I’ll be there for him so I can see what I was. What I am. I wanted to revel in his pain, because it would remind me of my own. So, for just a few insipid moments, I could feel that horror fresh.

  Some time later, I had drifted in and out as the retripper worked its way out of my system, the young man returned. Flustered, tears streaming down his face, he asked, “is it true?” His voice broke on the delivery. I put an arm around his shoulder, leading him to the bench. He sat, though I knew there likely wasn’t much left in him to resist being steered, I was still polite. Delicate.

  “Yes. It’s true.” I let it sit, let the statement take its time to settle on this fragile mind. Part of me, the part of me that was coming off the retripper, wanted to take advantage of this poor innocent soul. Another part of me wanted to lie to him, tell him it was a farce from the game, the AI just having fun with us for the sake of cruelty. But that wouldn’t be me, and despite myself, I didn’t want anyone to end up like me. Washed up. Broken.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “I can’t stop you. I went back. Again. And again. Until I ran out of days to watch. Then I found Retripper. Thought it’d help. It didn’t. It’s killing me.” I took a moment, looking into the guy’s face. His pale skin and clean complexion, mixed with his accent, told me he was probably from the United States. Likely a bigger city as there wasn’t any drawl. His expression spoke of numbness, and I knew, fucking knew, this guy was about to do the exact same thing I’d done. I took a breath before continuing. “Don’t do it. Take a moment.” The young man started shaking his head. “You don’t understand, my guy, you don’t get it. That was me.” His eyes were distant, and I knew what would happen. It happens to everyone.

  I nodded somberly. “Okay, here, I’m out of things to view anyways and once you trade in, you can’t trade back. Take ‘em.” I offered my last to viewing chits. The man looked at me, looked at what I was offering, and snatched them up. They disappeared into his inventory as he got up. He looked down before offering a muttered, “thank you.”

  He turned, numb to the world, numb to everything but the knowledge that his real self wasn’t himself.

  I watched as he walked away. Watched as his pain replaced his soul.

  Despite myself, I felt a little better. Not because of the young man, but because I’d let go of the chits. I knew what I had to do next, but I’d put it off. I was down to three gold coins, or GC as the game titled it. It was the primary currency, much the same way the USD was. Everything was exchanged from that, and I was about out. I’d run out of food some time ago too, and knew that I’d need to do something or die.

  I headed back, back to the stairs that brought me to the Lunar Quarter. Back down the dirty stairs there that led me back to where I’d crawled out of the first floor.

  You see, after a few years, your origin floor resets. When it does, everything inside gets wiped, monsters, loot, all of it. But the access rolls out in stages.

  When you leave your first floor, it opens up to anyone who originated from the same hallway. After a year, it’s accessible to your entire Quarter. Another year after that, it’s fair game to everyone.

  I’d been lucky. And not. My floor was still mostly untouched. But that fucking mimic was still down there.

  He guarded the entry area, and anyone that entered would become “boxed” as soon as they finished getting down the stairs. I could pass, for a few coins, but whenever I was back on the floor, the fucking thing would stalk me to no end. It didn’t ever attack me, not anymore, but it followed me everywhere.

  More people would have ransacked the place if they knew, and despite the abhorrent look of the creature, what really peeved me is that it was following me around rather than guarding the entry.

  Of course, I’d only ever gone back to my origin floor out of desperation. I’d sac the place, or a region of it, and sell whatever I could. I usually only stayed long enough to loot enough to pay for my retripper or a few more viewing chits. It was my intention this time too, but something niggled at me.

  I came down the stairs, just like before, the montage of a battle started. It stopped as soon as it heard the two coins in my hands rubbing together. It came up to me then, almost like a dog in its jubilance.

  “Okay, here are your two.” I put them on the ground and backed away with my hands up. The critter shook in excitement. Just as it lunged at the coins, I put a hand up, “but would you like to get a third?” I didn’t speak like I was speaking to a beautiful floofer, I said this like I was speaking to a business partner. The thing paused in its tracks, shaking in pleasure. It spoke, for the very first time, and its voice was as gravely as you’d expect. “Three?” It said as its eyes went wide.

  “Three, if you guard the entrance. And, if anyone shows up, you can eat all of them. Just don’t eat their gear.”

  “No eat stuff.” It was bobbing up and down, so excited I thought it might explode. I flipped the coin in the direction of the two coins the treasure chest was about to nab and walked past. I needed to grind out some serious coin, so I sadistically hoped someone would be stupid enough to follow me in. Quality gear sold high, even a few decent pieces were enough to set me on another binge for a month.

  The thought sat heavy in my gut. I cringed.

  Disgusted with the thought.

  Disgusted with myself.

  The grind was familiar. Ugly, quiet, and automatic.

  I cleared a side cavern near the old acid pit, a section of the floor I hadn’t touched since my last trip down here. The monsters were sluggish, under-leveled vermin that twitched more than they fought. I moved through them like smoke, broke bones with my bare hands, looted corpses like I was checking pockets for spare change.

  A few hours. Maybe longer. My body moved, but my head was still back on the bench, watching that kid fall apart.

  By the time I was done, my bag was full of salvage-grade junk. Bent daggers, half-spent potions, rags pretending to be armor. Not worth much on a good day. But there was volume, and that meant coin. Hopefully enough to keep the cravings quiet for a few weeks.

  I made my way to the nearest safe room, buried behind a false wall of cracked stone. I’d found it last time I was here. I assumed that of those that originated on this same floor, most didn’t know it existed. Which suited me fine. With that mimic at the gate, I doubted anyone would be showing up anytime soon.

  The interior hadn’t changed. Worn tile floors, broken vending machines repurposed into storage lockers, and a long counter staffed by an AI-golem hybrid with a coin slot for a face. Its voice clicked like faulty speakers.

  “Origin-Linked Detected. Discount Tier: Minor.”

  A line of text scrolled above its head.

  [BUY — SELL — REPAIR — VEND]

  I dumped the junk. The system tallied everything up with slow mechanical whirs, then spat out a figure I already hated.

  [Subtotal: 83 GC]

  Barely enough for two weeks of retripper at street price. Maybe three if I watered it down with whatever knockoff the addicts used when they ran dry. I could stretch it. I always did.

  “Discounted Nutritional Options available,” the vendor chirped. “Recommended: Hardtack Hash Bars.” A hatch opened beside the terminal, revealing neatly stacked bricks of food that looked like someone had laminated gravel.

  I grabbed sixty of them, bringing my total gold count down by 15 GC. They stank like powdered salt and guilt.

  “Inventory transfer complete. Exit safe room when ready.” I left without saying anything.

  I made my way toward the boss chamber.

  It had been a while since I walked that path, not because it was hard, but because it wasn’t. The space didn’t fight me anymore. It just... was. Like the dungeon had decided I was part of the furniture now. The chamber loomed up like a scar in the stone. Still empty. Still quiet. No threats. Just echoes and rot and the chill of something that remembered once being important.

  There, lying in the center of the room like a forgotten relic, was a chest plate. Full plate, blackened and cracked, but unmistakably the same style worn by that bastard who’d shoved me when I first stepped onto the second floor. Just a single piece. No note. No owner. I stared at it for a long moment, then picked it up and tossed it into my inventory.

  Approaching the stairs, the mimic waited. Wriggling. Vibrating with joy. I flipped a coin toward it like a man tipping a cab driver. “Thanks,” I muttered. It hissed in glee and scuttled back toward the entry.

  I climbed the stairway back to the city above, steps heavier than when I came down.

  The streets were their usual mess of sin and spectacle.

  I found a vendor under a bone-laced awning, half-hidden behind a pile of armor pieces and rusted weaponry. The itch was gnawing again. Crawling under my skin. That empty clawed feeling retripper left behind when it wanted to be fed.

  “Chestplate,” I said, tossing it on the slab. The vendor, some kind of stitched-together catman in a butcher’s apron, examined it with one cracked monocle and a sniff. He grunted, tapped a slate, and held up a chipped sign.

  [Offer: 42 GC]

  I nodded. He grinned, slid a tablet across the counter for me to accept the trade. The itch in my spine purred.

  I decided to avoid the last den I had lost time to. I couldn’t risk Noctis dragging me out again. Couldn’t see the look on his face if he found me there. So, I found somewhere cheaper, seedier, sadder. This place better suited my mood anyhow.

  It wasn’t even a real building, just an alleyway with a roof made from tarps and broken signs, walls slapped together from shipping crates and debris. There was a line. There always was. Everyone had something they wanted to feel again. Or forget.

  My guts twisted, waiting in line was a real bastard. The itch had its grip on me, like my mind couldn’t handle the reality of where I was. I wanted nothing more than to escape this hell, to lay with Beth, to lose days or weeks to the memory of her smell. Her hair. Her touch. We had a new dog now, and I loved her. Well, the real me did, and perhaps that meant that I did too. I didn’t know, nor did I care. All I cared about was getting behind those tarps, getting my next hit, letting the loss consume me. I ducked inside.

  The alley-den was darker than it should’ve been, the tarp ceiling stitched with cables in a haphazard fashion that somehow worked. Broken lanterns flickered along the walls, their bulbs breathing in and out like they were dying slow. I counted three bodies slumped against the far wall, another two curled in the corners. All plugged into makeshift Viewing pods—scavenged visors, coils of wire and half-melted conduits feeding into rusted junction boxes. Some of them twitched. One moaned. None of them were really here.

  The itch came roaring back. Hot. Immediate. Familiar.

  I exchanged some coin with the attendant, a skeevy looking guy with an odd British accent. He called everyone “Love,” and was quick to hand me my vial. It was filled with a substance that looked like rock salt. I tapped it once against my thumb, the way the old-timers did. It glowed faintly, it was literal euphoric memory, prepackaged and warm. I brought it to my nose.

  I heard something then. The vial was right there, but I stalled. Despite the roaring in my ears from the withdrawal, I paused. For a moment, I was extremely surprised in myself. And confused. There was little in existence that could keep me from my obsession. Dumbfounded, I asked myself, what could stall me now?

  A breath. Broken. Wet around the edges. Not loud, just off. Like a hiccup caught halfway between a sob and a whisper. The kind of sound that slips past your ears but trips something deeper. Something you forgot how to name.

  I turned, only halfway interested. Probably some poor bastard caught mid-loop, reliving a heartbreak or a funeral. Just another gutter soul. Then she spoke.

  A word. Maybe two. Could’ve been nothing. But the cadence, there was something in it. Sharp. Familiar. A cut I hadn’t felt in a long time. I froze, vial still hovering near my face.

  She was slumped against the wall, legs splayed like a puppet with cut strings. The visor rig strapped across her eyes looked like it had been bolted on with spite. Her clothes were rags soaked in sweat and gutter muck. Her arms were gaunt, skin stretched too tight. Her lips were cracked open like a bad wound, and her breath came in these high, fluttery gasps—like her lungs were trying to escape.

  I stepped closer. Careful. The way you’d approach a cornered dog or a dying friend. That’s when I saw it.

  A strand of dark violet hair. A small scar above her left brow. Fingers that curled just so. Her face, underneath the grime and pain and ruin. It took a second. Maybe more. But when it hit, it hit hard.

  Veyda.

  I dropped the vial. Didn’t even feel it leave my hand. Didn’t hear it hit the ground.

  She hadn’t aged, though she looked worse than dead.

  Her body still worked, technically. She twitched and breathed and mumbled her way through the high, reliving a life that probably made more sense than this one. But the woman I’d fought beside, sharp-tongued, quick-tempered and fire-eyed Veyda, was gone. What sat here was a ghost of that fire. A husk barely tethered to the person it used to be.

  And I just stood there, the smell of cooking retripper burning in my throat, shame crawling across my skin. For the first time in a year, I didn’t want to escape. I wanted to wake up.