The transition from Genesis back to reality was always jarring, but tonight it felt like falling through ice. The immersion headset lifted away from my skull with a soft hiss, and suddenly I was back in my cramped room in Fidjrossè, staring at a water-stained ceiling illuminated by the sickly glow of a flickering LED bulb.
My name was Arzane, and I was nobody special.
The contrast was brutal. Minutes ago, I had been Z3RO, a rising Technomancer whose tactical brilliance had helped bring down one of Genesis's most formidable bosses. Now I was just another broke university student in Cotonou, sweating through a threadbare t-shirt in a room that smelled of humidity and failed dreams.
I lay there for several minutes, letting my heart rate return to normal. The neural interface always left me with a strange mix of exhaustion and hyperadrenaline, as if my body couldn't quite decide whether it had been fighting for its life or sitting motionless in a chair. My muscles ached with phantom tension, and I could still feel the weight of the Nexus Gauntlets on my hands even though they existed only in digital space.
"I'm... weak," I whispered to the ceiling, the words falling into the humid air like stones into still water.
The admission hurt more than I expected. In Genesis, I was competent, skilled, valuable. I could analyze a situation in seconds, devise complex strategies, and execute them with surgical precision. But here, in the real world, I was just another guy struggling to make rent, dependent on his brother's generosity to afford even the basic connection fees that kept me linked to the only world where I mattered.
The fight with Kal-Ran replayed in my mind with uncomfortable clarity. I could see every moment where I'd fallen short, every instance where Hakaijin had to compensate for my limitations. The boss towering over us without apparent strain while I cowered behind my drones, lobbing grenades from what I told myself was a tactical distance but which felt more like cowardice in retrospect.
I sat up slowly, my spine protesting against the thin mattress that had seen better decades. The room was small enough that I could touch both walls if I stretched out my arms, furnished with the bare minimum needed for survival: a narrow bed, a wooden cabinet that doubled as a desk, and a plastic chair that had probably been white once upon a time.
My phone buzzed against the cabinet, the vibration cutting through the oppressive silence. The screen displayed a message from my brother, and I felt a familiar mixture of gratitude and shame as I read it:
"Hang in there, bro. I'll send you your 2K tomorrow. Strength 🙏🏾"
Two thousand CFA francs. About three dollars US. It was a fortune to me and pocket change to anyone else, a weekly allowance that had to cover my Genesis subscription, food, and whatever was left over for the basic necessities of existence. Three thousand went to maintaining my connection to the game, the rest to keeping my body functional enough to continue playing.
I smiled, but there was no joy in it. My brother believed in me, supported my obsession with Genesis even when he didn't understand it. He thought I was investing in my future, preparing for a career in the rapidly expanding virtual reality industry. If only he knew how much of my time was spent not on productive skill-building but on the desperate pursuit of digital validation.
The laptop on my makeshift desk was ancient by any reasonable standard, its plastic case held together with electrical tape and stubborn determination. I flipped it open, wincing at the familiar whir of an overworked cooling fan. The screen flickered to life, revealing the PDF document that had become my obsession: my Genesis development notes.
The file was half-filled with detailed analysis of game mechanics, class synergies, and equipment optimization strategies. I'd been working on a build concept for weeks, trying to create what I called an "offensive tactician"—a character who could control the battlefield while delivering precise, devastating strikes.
I scrolled through pages of calculations and theoretical frameworks, each one representing hours of research and planning. Priority lists, resource allocation charts, progression timelines—all the tools of someone who approached the game like a science rather than an art.
At the bottom of the document, I added a new line:
"I am not a warrior. I am a creator. I will forge my power."
The words felt hollow even as I typed them. What was I creating, really? Digital constructs that existed only in a game world? Skills that had no application in reality? A fantasy version of myself that bore little resemblance to the person sitting in this cramped room?
My mind drifted back to the final moments of the boss fight, when the ORIAS system had presented me with a choice. The transition from Artificer to Technomancer had felt significant at the time, a recognition of my growing expertise and tactical acumen. But now, sitting in the harsh light of reality, I wondered if it was just another carrot dangled in front of me to keep me playing, keep me paying, keep me hoping.
The upgrade had come with new abilities, new possibilities, new ways to feel powerful and important. But it had also come with new requirements, new expectations, new pressures to perform at an ever-higher level. The game was designed to keep players engaged, to make them feel like they were constantly progressing toward some ultimate goal that always remained just out of reach.
I pulled out a crumpled notebook—paper was cheaper than digital storage—and began sketching out a new plan. Phase one would focus on crafting specialized weapons, particularly an energy revolver with dual firing modes. Phase two involved exploring the dimensional rifts that appeared sporadically throughout the Genesis world, dangerous but potentially lucrative ventures that most players avoided. Phase three was the most ambitious: solo farming runs through the corrupted zones south of Metacore, high-level areas where the rewards matched the risks.
It was a solid plan, the kind of systematic approach that had gotten me this far in the game. But as I wrote, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was just creating another elaborate form of procrastination, another way to avoid confronting the fundamental questions about what I was doing with my life.
The truth was that Genesis had become more than a game for me—it had become a substitute for reality. In the virtual world, I could be competent, respected, valuable. I could solve problems and overcome challenges through intelligence and determination. I could be the person I wanted to be instead of the person I was.
But that also meant that every moment spent in Genesis was a moment not spent building real skills, real relationships, real progress toward actual goals. The game was both my greatest escape and my most effective prison, offering me everything I wanted while keeping me from pursuing anything that might actually matter.
I closed the notebook and leaned back in the plastic chair, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazy circles overhead. Tomorrow, I would have to return to the university, to sit through lectures and pretend to care about subjects that felt increasingly irrelevant compared to the epic struggles of Genesis. I would have to interact with classmates who didn't understand my passion, professors who saw gaming as a waste of time, a world that had no place for someone whose greatest achievements existed only in virtual space.
But then, as soon as I had a free moment, I would dive back into Genesis. Back to being Z3RO, back to mattering, back to the only place where I felt truly alive.
The game was my bet on the future, my path to something greater than the cramped reality of this room. It was also my revenge against a world that had given me so few opportunities to prove myself, to show what I was capable of when given the right tools and the right challenges.
"I may be weak," I whispered to the darkness, feeling the words settle into my bones like a promise. "But I'm not finished."
The laptop screen cast blue light across my face as I began planning my next session. Genesis was waiting for me, and with it, the chance to be someone worth being. Even if that someone only existed in the space between electrical impulses and digital dreams.
Even if that was all I had.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to prove myself in the only arena where I had ever truly excelled. The partnership with Hakaijin had opened new possibilities, new ways to approach the game's challenges. Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something bigger than either of us had imagined.
Or maybe it was just another beautiful lie I told myself to make it through another night in a room that smelled of failure and false hope.
Only time would tell.