Location: The Grindstone Pub (Zone 4)

  Time: 14:00 PM (Two Weeks Post?Reset)

  Server Status: [UNSTABLE]

  The problem with saving the world was that nobody cleaned up afterward.

  Two weeks ago, it had rained Coins.

  It had looked beautiful at the time. A miracle. A golden correction cascading out of the sky like forgiveness.

  Now it just looked like inflation.

  Cameron sat in the back booth of The Grindstone, elbows on the table, staring at a plate of chips that had no right to exist.

  A bowl of chips. Five thousand Coins.

  Someone had crossed out the old price on the menu with a thick black marker and written the new one underneath, harder, like pressing would make it true.

  “It’s basic economics,” Arthur said, voice thin with panic. He had both hands on his head, fingers tangled in his hair like he was trying to pull himself out by force. “You can’t just inject that much liquidity into a closed system. We destabilised the market. Bread costs a Tier Two helmet. Milk is a controlled substance. This is—this is—”

  “Eat,” Cameron said.

  Arthur looked at him.

  “Eat your chips,” Cameron repeated, rubbing his eyes. “They’ll get more expensive if you wait.”

  Arthur didn’t laugh. He picked one up, inspected it like evidence, and put it back down.

  Cameron leaned back. The booth creaked under his weight. The duct tape on the upholstery peeled a little more, surrendering.

  His Data?Staff was propped against the table leg. It wasn’t glowing. It wasn’t humming. It didn’t feel important.

  It looked like a length of pipe he’d forgotten to throw away.

  The kind of thing you carried because you always carried it, not because you wanted to.

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  Tony sat opposite him, staring at the wall.

  Not at anything on the wall. At the absence where a camera should’ve been.

  His arms were still wrapped in glowing bandages, runes drifting lazily across the surface like a screensaver. Physically healed. Mechanically fine.

  Emotionally… buffering.

  “My viewer count still hasn’t come back,” Tony said quietly.

  “The internet’s down,” Cameron said. “The whole network’s rebuilding.”

  “I know,” Tony said. He swallowed. “I just thought—when I did the emote earlier. The good one. The spin into the flex. I thought I’d feel it. You know? Like it landed.”

  He looked at his hands.

  “If I pop off in a forest and nobody clips it… do I still get the XP?”

  Cameron didn’t answer immediately.

  That was the thing now. The pause before the answer. The extra half?second where he checked the system in his head and found three new errors instead of a response.

  Under the table, something thumped. Then thumped again.

  Lenny was kicking the leg of the booth.

  Not rhythmically. Just… to keep it there.

  He was wearing three pairs of sunglasses at once and a t?shirt that read:

  I SURVIVED THE RESET AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS GLITCH

  “I walked through a lamppost on the way here,” Lenny said cheerfully. “Didn’t even hurt. Just—” He made a popping sound with his mouth. “—soft?clipped. Like the universe forgot to check collision.”

  “That’s not good,” Arthur said faintly.

  “It’s interesting,” Lenny corrected, twitching slightly. “Physics is loose. Feels like if I stop moving, something might notice.”

  He laughed.

  It was too loud. Too fast. Then it stopped just as abruptly, like someone had yanked the cable.

  The pub door exploded inward.

  Not swung. Not opened.

  Exploded.

  Wood fragmented into digital confetti. Smoke poured in. A figure stepped through it like they’d rehearsed the entrance.

  Gold armour. Mismatched. Auction?house rare, worn badly. A sword in his hand burned with illegal red static, particles screaming where they shouldn’t exist.

  “ATTENTION NPCS!” the kid shouted, voice pitched artificially low. “PVP IS ENABLED. DROP YOUR LOOT OR GET DELETED.”

  The pub went quiet.

  The Farmer with the metal teeth didn’t even turn around. He lifted his pint, took a sip, and sighed like this was a parking fine.

  The Griefer stomped forward. “I modded the damage cap! One hit and your save file’s toast!”

  Cameron closed his eyes.

  Not in fear.

  In inventory.

  “Ticket,” he muttered.

  Arthur snapped upright. “Unauthorized modding? Public disturbance? Improper asset use?”

  “Section Four, Paragraph B,” Cameron said. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. “Fair Play violation.”

  Tony didn’t move.

  “Tony,” Cameron said.

  Nothing.

  “Tony,” he said again, quieter. “Gold Tier armour. If it breaks, it drops.”

  Tony’s head lifted.

  Hope flooded back in like a patch restoring colour.

  “Loot?” Tony asked.

  Cameron hesitated.

  Just for a beat.

  Then: “Loot.”

  Tony stood. The bandages hissed as power surged underneath.

  The Griefer laughed. “You think you can—”

  The sword came down.

  Tony caught it.

  Red static screamed against his palm. The bandages glowed white?hot. Tony didn’t flinch.

  “Mods don’t beat stats,” he said softly.

  He crushed the blade.

  The shockwave hit the air, not the kid.

  The Griefer flew backward through the door, across the street, and into a pile of uncollected rubbish bags.

  Silence.

  Tony turned, chest heaving. “Did—did anyone see that?”

  The Farmer raised his glass.

  “Clean hit.”

  Tony smiled. Small. Fragile. Enough.

  Cameron crouched by the shattered sword. Picked up a shard.

  It wasn’t metal.

  It was code.

  Hard. Crystallised.

  His stomach sank.

  This wasn’t a mod.

  This was a tool.

  Someone had handed admin access to a child.

  Cameron stood slowly.

  Every answer he had just created three more problems.

  “Arthur,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re not open source,” Cameron said. “We’re unattended.”

  Arthur went pale.

  Cameron gripped the staff. It felt heavier than it had ten minutes ago.

  Not power.

  Responsibility.

  “We have a new ticket,” he said.

  And this time, he didn’t joke.