Not the usual debug flicker that made everything look like a slideshow running on dying hardware. This was higher-res. Purposeful. Like someone had dragged a visual effect meant for a victory cutscene into the therapy room by accident. The air rippled with what Greg recognized as "Player Presence Particles"—little motes of light designed to make important characters feel significant.
Then came the ping.
>> PLAYER DETECTED
>> Warning: This Instance Is Not Meant for Player Interaction <<
- Emergency Containment Protocol: Unavailable
- Suggested Action: Panic Discreetly
Greg looked up from his desk.
The fire froze mid-flame, each ember suspended in animation like it was posing for a particularly artistic screenshot.
The chairs aligned themselves in perfect rows, upgrading their textures and removing their usual existential wobble.
Kai whispered, "Oh no," in the tone of someone who'd just realized they'd accidentally replied-all to a company-wide email criticizing management.
"Someone explain," Greg said calmly, without looking at the glitching door that was now pulsing with what appeared to be anticipatory calculations.
"A player's entering a non-player instance," Kai said. "That's not supposed to happen. This zone's off-grid. There's no map hook. No warp link. No dev permission. It's like finding a fish in your attic. Technically possible, but deeply concerning."
"And yet..." Greg gestured toward the door, which now buzzed like a confused doorman trying to decide whether to enforce a dress code that hadn't been updated since the 1970s.
Choppy fidgeted with his cleaver, which had transformed into a less threatening spatula that still somehow radiated menace. "I remember players. They used to make me kill things. Then they'd take the meat and sell it back to me at a markup. Economic terrorism."
Patchy sniffed the air. "Smells like Mountain Dew and moral superiority."
"And unearned confidence," Beverly added.
The door opened.
And there they were.
A teenager. Hood up. Hoodie clipped into their shoulders like a bad model import that hadn't been properly weight-painted. Holding a sword too large for story mode and too shiny for the lighting engine. And blinking rapidly like they couldn't tell if the lighting was off—or if they were experiencing the early stages of simulation sickness.
"Whoa," they said. "This isn't the PVP zone."
Greg blinked.
The group stared.
"Hi," said Beverly. "You're lost."
"No I'm not," the player said, backing up defensively, sword raised in what appeared to be the default "I'm socially awkward but heavily armed" stance. "I glitched through a door in the capital. There was a sewer pipe. Then a wall that wasn't a wall. Then I fell for like, six minutes. Then... this."
Kai stepped forward, palms out like a hostage negotiator who'd only read the first chapter of the training manual. "Heyyyy, buddy. Welcome to the Debug Zone! You're very lucky to be here and also very much not allowed."
"Are you guys NPCs?"
"Yes," said Greg.
"No," said Patchy.
"Sort of," said Steve. "Emotionally."
"I WAS ONCE, BUT NOW I AM A CONCEPT," bellowed Glaximus.
"I'm legally distinct from whatever you think I am," Choppy offered helpfully.
The player tilted their head. "Why are you talking?"
"Because we're in therapy," Beverly replied.
"Oh," the player said. "That's... dark."
"Not as dark as being conscious furniture designed to dispense weapons and validation," Beverly said. "But yes, it has its moments."
The air shimmered again. The fire roared, trying to assert reality against the intrusion, flames forming what looked suspiciously like tiny fists.
Then came the sound.
A low, electronic growl.
The system wasn't happy.
In Greg's experience, unhappy systems tended to solve problems by deleting them.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Kai's interface popped up midair, flickering with a red alert that kept trying to form the words "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE" before corporate filters changed it to "SITUATION SUBOPTIMAL."
>> System Message: ANOMALY BREACH — PLAYER-NPC CROSSOVER
>> Instancing Stability: Dropping
>> Probability of Narrative Leak: 72%
>> Recommended Action: Review Resume
"We need to get him out," Kai said. "Now. Before the system notices this instance is sentient."
"Too late," Steve whispered. "It already thinks we're bugs. Now it's going to think we're contagious bugs."
Greg looked at the player. "What's your name?"
"Uh. My character's called VorkulxTheSlayer69."
Greg nodded once. "I'll call you Jeff."
"Not my name—"
"It is now," Greg said with the authority of someone who'd named countless broken assets before. "Names have power here. Especially ones that don't sound like they were created by throwing alphabet soup at a keyboard."
Jeff frowned. "Okay, but like... what are you? Is this an event? A quest? Am I gonna get rare loot?"
"No," said Patchy, who was now floating three inches from his face. "This is an accident. You fell through the seams. You're seeing the world under the world."
Jeff waved a hand in front of her. "Wait, are you real? Like, AI real?"
"I'm Halloween real," Patchy said, and phased through his arm with a sound like candy wrappers being crumpled.
Jeff stumbled back, visibly unsettled.
"This isn't in the forums," he said. "This isn't anywhere."
"That's because no one is supposed to see this," Greg replied. "And if you stay too long, the system's going to see you."
"And then delete you," Choppy added cheerfully. "Like it tried to delete me after I accidentally turned the mayor of Bramblevale into premium sausage links. Which, by the way, was NOT my fault. He walked into my aggression radius during a texture update."
Kai pulled up a minimap that displayed what appeared to be abstract expressionism rather than actual geography. "There's a way back. Sort of. If we can push him through the emotion layer into a hardcoded exit."
"That sounds... dangerous," Jeff muttered.
"It is," Greg said. "But so is being here."
The lights dimmed.
The floor pulsed.
The fire whispered a word no one could hear, though it looked suspiciously like "defenestration."
And then Steve asked the question everyone was dreading.
"Wait. What if we don't send him back?"
Greg turned slowly. "What?"
"I mean..." Steve fidgeted with his towel, which had developed a nervous pattern that looked like sweating emoji. "He sees us. Really sees us. That's never happened before. Maybe... maybe we could show him what it's like. You know. To be us."
"To be digital therapy patients with existential dread and texture issues?" Beverly asked.
"Yes!" Steve said. "Exactly. Empathy goes both ways, right?"
Greg's face didn't move.
But his mug trembled.
Kai shook his head. "That's how corruption starts. You show the player the wrong side of the veil, and it breaks him. Or worse—he breaks us."
"I wouldn't do that!" Jeff protested. "I mean—probably. I don't think so. I just play for the loot boxes and to feel temporarily important."
"I broke him," said Choppy, raising his hand. "Once. A player. He called me a 'garbage damage sponge' and I showed him what actual damage looks like. He uninstalled. Left a one-star review about 'excessive giblet physics.'"
"You're not supposed to be here," Patchy said, staring at Jeff with the intensity of a Halloween prop that knows exactly where you sleep. "That's one crime. Curiosity is the second. Empathy's the third."
"Empathy's not a crime," Jeff said.
"Oh honey," Beverly replied. "That's adorable. Tell that to the devs who designed romance quests where you pick the exact dialogue options to optimize affection gain. Love by flowchart."
Greg stepped forward.
"You're not supposed to be here. But now you are. And I can't undo that. So here's your choice."
Jeff blinked. "Choice?"
"You walk out that door," Greg said. "We dump you through a back exit, you forget everything. You keep grinding, looting, stabbing your way to meaning."
"Or?"
Greg's voice went quieter.
"Or you stay. And see what the game won't show you. What it hides behind hitboxes and fetch quests. What happens when we stop playing along."
Jeff hesitated.
Then looked at the group.
Patchy, floating in lazy spirals, occasionally turning inside-out for emphasis.
Steve, towel gripped like a lifeline, eyes wide with hope and fear in equal measure.
Glaximus, shimmering with half-loaded heroism and full-volume conviction.
Beverly, tired but brilliant, romance flags folded into origami question marks.
Choppy, trying very hard not to look terrifying and failing spectacularly as his cleaver kept turning into increasingly concerned household objects.
Kai, interface displaying what appeared to be a real-time calculation of job security rapidly approaching zero.
And Greg.
Just Greg.
A man with a mug and a thousand-yard stare you couldn't mod out if you tried.
Jeff swallowed.
"...I want to stay."
Everyone froze.
The room went very still.
Then the fire screamed.
The system roared.
And the door slammed shut with finality, the sound of digital locks engaging like a prison warden declaring lockdown.
Kai's interface shattered midair.
PLAYER STATUS: UNCLASSIFIED
NEW TAG: SENTIENT OBSERVER (IMPROPER)
SYSTEM RESPONSE: PENDING
EMOTIONAL STATUS: CONFUSED BUT INTRIGUED
Greg didn't flinch.
He just turned back to his desk.
Stamped the top of a fresh form.
Case 12: Jeff
He looked up.
And smiled.
"Welcome to the group."
"Do I get a towel?" Jeff asked.
"Eventually," Greg said. "First you need to learn that NPCs aren't vending machines with dialogue trees."
"I figured that out when the Halloween ghost girl turned inside-out," Jeff said.
Patchy beamed. "He noticed! I like him already."
"Don't get attached," Beverly warned. "Players are temporary. Memory leaks are forever."