I taste copper and grass. That's the first thing that registers in my brain—like I've been face-first in a field after getting my ass kicked by a linebacker. My eyelids feel like they're made of lead, but I force them open anyway.
Blue sky. Puffy white clouds. The scent of wildflowers carried on a gentle breeze.
What the hell?
I push myself up on shaky arms, dirt and pebbles pressing into my palms. My head throbs like someone's using my skull as a bass drum, and there's this weird disconnect between what I'm seeing and what I should be seeing. Last thing I remember was headlights—bright as twin suns—filling my windshield. The screech of brakes that came too late. The taste of fear coating my tongue like bile.
But this? This looks like...
"No way." The words slip out before I can stop them.
I'm sitting in a meadow. Rolling green hills stretch out in every direction, dotted with clusters of oak trees and patches of wildflowers that bob in the wind like they're nodding at me. In the distance, I can make out the spires of what looks like a small town, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Everything is too perfect, too clean, like someone took a Bob Ross painting and made it three-dimensional.
It looks exactly like the starting zone of Respawn.
My game. My creation. The virtual world I'd spent the last three years of my life building, coding, debugging, and perfecting. But that's impossible because—
A translucent blue window materializes in front of my face, floating in mid-air like some kind of holographic display. Text scrolls across it in that familiar system font I'd chosen personally:
WELCOME, PLAYER ONEINITIALIZING NEURAL INTERFACE...CALIBRATING BIOMETRIC SYSTEMS...LOADING COMPLETE
"What the actual—" I reach out to touch the display, and my fingers pass right through it. The window remains perfectly visible, completely solid-looking, but with zero physical presence.
This has to be a dream. Or maybe I'm in a coma. People in comas dream about familiar things, right? That would explain why my subconscious conjured up Respawn. Though it's weird how real everything feels—the scratch of wool against my skin, the earthy smell of dirt, the way the breeze carries just a hint of moisture like rain's coming.
Another window appears, this one larger:
PLAYER: LEE ZHANG (PLAYER-1)LIVES REMAINING: 7/7HP: 100/100 | MP: 50/50LEVEL: 1 | XP: 0/100STR: 10 | AGI: 12 | INT: 15 | LCK: 8 | END: 10 | DEX: 11STATUS: [CONFUSED] [DISORIENTED]LOCATION: MEADOWBROOK STARTING ZONE
I stare at the display, my brain struggling to process what I'm seeing. Those stats—they're exactly what I'd programmed for new players. Balanced but not overpowered, with slight emphasis on intelligence and agility. The status effects are even updating in real time. As I watch, [CONFUSED] flickers and intensifies.
"This isn't possible," I mutter, pushing myself to my feet. My legs feel steady enough, but there's this strange lightness to my movements, like I weigh ten pounds less than I should.
I look down at myself and freeze.
Gone are the khakis and button-down shirt I'd been wearing when I left the office. Instead, I'm dressed in simple brown leather boots, dark pants, and a cream-colored tunic that looks like it came straight out of medieval times. Or a fantasy MMO. There's even a small leather pouch hanging from my belt that jingles softly when I move.
"Okay, Lee," I say to myself, hoping the sound of my own voice will anchor me to something resembling sanity. "Let's think through this logically."
But logical thinking seems to be in short supply right now. I reach up to rub my temples and pause when I catch sight of my hands. They look like my hands—same slightly stubby fingers, same scar on my knuckle from when I was twelve and thought I could whittle like my grandfather—but the skin is smoother somehow. Less weathered. Like I've been photoshopped into a better version of myself.
I close my eyes and count to ten, then open them again.
The HUD is still there. The medieval clothes are still there. The impossibly perfect meadow is still there.
"Status report," I say experimentally, using one of the voice commands I'd programmed.
Nothing happens.
"Character sheet."
Still nothing.
"Menu. Options. Inventory. Help. Debug mode. Admin console."
Each command falls flat, swallowed by the cheerful birdsong and rustling grass. Whatever's happening to me, I apparently don't have admin privileges in my own game.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I pull out the leather pouch and peer inside. A few copper coins catch the light, along with what looks like a piece of bread and a small vial filled with red liquid. Standard newbie gear. If this is really Respawn, then that pouch should contain exactly ten copper pieces, one loaf of day-old bread, and a minor health potion.
I count the coins. Ten copper pieces.
I examine the bread. Stale, with a slight green tinge around the crust.
I pop the cork on the vial and sniff. It smells like cherry cough syrup with an underlying medicinal tang.
Everything matches perfectly.
"This is insane," I whisper, but even as I say it, part of me—the programmer part—is already analyzing the implications. If this is somehow real, if I'm somehow actually inside the game I created, then I need to understand the rules. And the first rule of Respawn is simple: death has consequences.
Real consequences.
I'd designed the game to be the ultimate challenge for hardcore players. No save scumming, no do-overs, no respawning infinitely until you got it right. Players got seven lives—seven chances to beat the impossible game I'd crafted. Lose all seven, and your character was permanently deleted. Your account was banned. Game over, no second chances.
It was supposed to be the selling point. The thing that would make Respawn stand out in a crowded market of hand-holding, participation-trophy MMOs. Players would actually have to care about their choices because those choices mattered.
But if I'm really here, if this is really happening, then those aren't just game mechanics anymore.
They're the difference between life and death.