The evening sun didn't so much shine into Unit 708 as it did struggle through the grime of a window that hadn't been cleaned since the Great Recession.
Shin Youngwoo sat on the edge of his creaky bed, staring at a half-eaten cup of convenience store ramen. The steam rose in a pathetic curl, mirroring his own flagging spirits.
In the world of Satisfy, he was a warrior—well, a warrior who spent most of his time running errands for NPCs who treated him like dirt—but in reality, he was a man drowning in interest payments and the suffocating weight of his own perceived inadequacy.
Then, he heard it.
A low, melodic hum. It wasn't the rattling vibration of his own second-hand capsule, which sounded like a lawnmower choking on gravel. This was a sound of pure, engineered luxury. It was the sound of the future. And it was coming from right next door.
Outside, a sleek, matte-black logistics truck bearing the "Comet Group" insignia sat idling at the curb. This wasn't a standard delivery; this was a specialized deployment.
Four technicians, dressed in uniforms so crisp they looked like they'd been 3D-printed, began offloading a crate reinforced with carbon fiber.
Kim Arthur stood on the sidewalk, his silver-white hair catching the light. He looked less like a gamer and more like a young CEO overseeing a merger.
To the neighbors, he was the polite, mysterious young man who had recently moved in. To Youngwoo, watching through a crack in his blinds, he was a walking provocation.
"Easy with the lateral stabilizers," Arthur instructed, his voice calm but authoritative. "The Diamond-Class sync-array is sensitive to micro-vibrations before calibration."
Youngwoo's breath hitched. Diamond-Class? He knew the specs. Everyone who played Satisfy knew them the way car enthusiasts knew the stats of a Bugatti.
The Comet "Astraeus" Diamond-Class wasn't just a gaming peripheral; it was a medical-grade neural interface. It boasted a 99.9% sync rate—the theoretical limit of the human nervous system.
It featured an integrated nutrient IV system, meaning the user didn't have to leave the game for days at a time. It had "Muscle Stimulus Architecture" to prevent atrophy during long-term immersion.
It cost 50,000,000 Won.
Youngwoo looked at his own hands, calloused from part-time labor, and then at the obsidian pod being wheeled into Unit 707.
That machine cost more than his's remaining mortgage. It cost more than Youngwoo expected to earn in the next five years of grinding.
"That bastard," Youngwoo hissed, the Styrofoam cup crinkling in his grip. "He's bringing a Ferrari to a go-kart race."
As the technicians maneuvered the pod into the building, the hallway became a theater of the absurd. Mr. and Mrs. Shin had stepped out, their faces alight with the kind of neighborhood gossip that fueled their lives.
"Oh, Arthur!" Mrs. Shin chirped, her eyes wide at the sleek machine. "Is this a new refrigerator? It looks so... space-age!"
Arthur offered a small, practiced smile. "Not quite, Mrs. Shin. It's a tool for work. I find that the right hardware makes the labor much more efficient."
"Work?" Mr. Shin muttered, impressed. "Our Youngwoo is always 'playing' in that box of his, but it usually just sounds like he's swearing at the wall. Can there also be work done?"
At that moment, the door to 708 creaked open. Youngwoo stepped out, trying—and failing—to look busy. He was clutching a bag of trash as an excuse for being in the hall.
His eyes immediately locked onto the Astraeus. Close up, the obsidian finish was even more insulting. It looked like a monolith from a sci-fi epic.
"Oh, Youngwoo-ssi," Arthur said, noticing him. He didn't gloat. He didn't sneer. That was the worst part. He was genuinely, frustratingly polite. "It arrived a bit earlier than the logistics team promised. I hope the noise isn't disturbing your rest."
"Noise? I didn't hear anything," Youngwoo lied, his voice cracking slightly. "I was just... busy with high-level quest calculations. That's an Astraeus, right? A bit overkill for a game, isn't it? It's the skill that matters, not the machine."
Arthur tilted his head slightly, a stray lock of silver hair falling over his brow. "In principle, I agree. But a sculptor can't carve marble with a plastic knife. This machine offers a 99.9% sync rate. It minimizes the delay between thought and action to near-zero. In a world where milliseconds determine the outcome of a raid, it's not an 'overkill'—it's a necessity."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice in a way that felt conspiratorial. "Actually, since we're neighbors, if your standard model ever has connection drops during a critical event, feel free to come over. You can check the logs on this one; the haptic feedback is supposed to be revolutionary. You can actually feel the wind resistance on your skin."
Youngwoo's face turned a shade of red that rivaled a sunset. "I... I'm fine! My capsule has character! It's been through the trenches with me!"
He retreated into his apartment, slamming the door so hard a picture frame rattled. Inside, he leaned against the wood, gasping. He felt small. He felt outdated. He felt like a relic of a bygone era.
Inside Unit 707, the atmosphere was clinical. The lead technician tapped a tablet, monitoring the power draw as the Astraeus hummed to life.
"Mr. Kim, we're seeing a baseline sync of 99.98%!" The technician said, his voice brimming with professional awe. "I've never seen a civilian user with neural conductivity this high. Are you a former athlete? Or perhaps a surgeon?"
"I just have a focused mind or maybe I just came back from Army," Arthur replied.
He looked at the pod. In his previous life, he have created something similar to this technology, but not something like this.
"I'm heading in," Arthur told the technicians. "The payment for the expedited setup has already been cleared."
"Understood, sir. The nutrient reservoir is full. You're clear for a 48-hour continuous dive, but we still recommend 12 hour gaming with 4 hour rest schedule for your body."
Arthur climbed into the capsule. The interior was lined with a gel-like substance that contoured perfectly to his body. As the lid hissed shut, the world of the cramped apartment vanished.
[Welcome to the World of Satisfy.]
[Scanning Iris... Identity Confirmed: Kim Arthur.]
[Neural Sync: 99.99% (Calibrated)]
[Status: Optimized]
The darkness didn't last. A flash of white light exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors, and suddenly, Arthur wasn't standing in a room in Seoul. He was standing in the center of a bustling medieval plaza, the smell of roasted meat and horse manure hitting his senses with a vividness that was almost overwhelming.
He flexed his fingers. In his old capsule, there was always a phantom "lag," a feeling like moving through honey. Here, it was perfect. He was more alive in the game than he was in reality.
Next door, the experience was vastly different.
Youngwoo crawled into his capsule. The plastic was stained, and the headrest smelled vaguely of old sweat and desperation. He pulled the lid down, and it caught for a second before clicking into place.
[Logging into Satisfy...]
[Current Location: Patrian]
[Current Status: Overworked / Sleep Deprived]
The transition was jarring. A flicker of static crossed his vision—a sign that his graphics card was struggling to render the morning fog of Patrian.
"Dammit," Youngwoo muttered, kicking a loose stone on the cobblestone street. "That guy... Arthur... he's probably in some high-level zone right now, surrounded by beauties and gold. While I'm here, still trying to pay off the debt for this damn hardware."
He checked his quest log. It was a miserable list of "Collect 20 Rabbit Livers" and "Deliver Bread to the Blacksmith."
"I'll show him," Youngwoo vowed, his eyes burning with a manic intensity. "I don't need a 50-million-won coffin to be a legend. I'll find a hidden class. I'll find a treasure that makes his 'Diamond-Class' look like a Happy Meal toy!"
But every time he swung his rusted sword, he could swear he felt the vibration of the Astraeus through the very fabric of the game world. It was a phantom itch, a reminder that while he was playing a game, Arthur was preparing for a war.
To understand the gap between them, one had to look at the cold, hard numbers of Satisfy's player base. In a game where level 100 was considered the gateway to "real" gameplay, the sync rate acted as a hidden stat multiplier. A player with a 99% sync rate could track the trajectory of an arrow that a 70% player wouldn't even see until it was buried in their chest.
Back in the real world, the two apartments sat side-by-side.
In 707, Arthur lay in a state of suspended animation, his body cared for by machines, his mind soaring through a digital sky. He was the picture of the modern "God" in the making—calculated, well-funded, and relentless.
In 708, Youngwoo tossed and turned in his plastic shell. He grumbled in his sleep, his legs twitching as he dreamt of striking it rich. He was the underdog, fueled by a toxic mix of spite, debt, and an indomitable will to not be looked down upon.
The wall between them was thin—paper-thin.
When the Astraeus hummed, Youngwoo's capsule rattled in sympathy. It was a race between the man who had everything and the man who had nothing to lose.
Arthur was the Ferrari. Youngwoo was the go-kart with a nitro-tank strapped to the back with duct tape.
As the sun set over the apartment complex, the two neighbors remained locked in their respective worlds. One was chasing a legacy he had already lived once; the other was stumbling toward a fate that would change the world forever.
The "God" of the future and the "Reaper" of the timeline were separated by a single brick wall and 48,000,000 Won.
Arthur's eyes opened within the game, glowing with a faint blue light as he reached the entrance of a hidden cavern. "The game has changed, Youngwoo-ssi. I hope you're ready for the climb."
Deep in a dungeon miles away, Youngwoo tripped over a rock and cursed the developers, Arthur, and the entire Comet Group. But he got back up. He always got back up.