The analytics dashboard floated in front of me like a lifeline made of glass and light. In the dim glow of my pocket dimension, it was the only thing breaking the black void — a sterile panel of numbers and charts, pulsing faintly as though it had a heartbeat.
I stared at the player counter. Zero. Still zero.
Twelve hours of staring, of refreshing, of watching empty graphs spike and flatten, had worn me down. My temples throbbed. My right leg jittered against the chair's edge, a nervous rhythm in the otherwise soundless void.
This was supposed to be easy.
I had poured everything into this gambit — my last fifty Gaming Points, a jury-rigged Observation Deck, and a marketing push so desperate it could barely be called a "plan." All to seed my little game, The Unofficial Guide to Creation, into a universe full of supergeniuses, demigods, and restless dreamers. Somewhere out there, someone had to click.
But the numbers didn't lie. The numbers were still zero.
A flicker of panic tightened in my chest. This wasn't just about pride. If my game flopped, I wasn't just failing at being a creator; I was stuck. Locked here. No GP. No escape.
I rubbed my face with both hands and laughed, sharp and humorless. "Great job," I muttered to the void. "Market to gods, geniuses, and madmen. What could possibly go wrong?"
The void didn't answer. It never did.
My stomach cramped. Hunger was gnawing at me again, a dull ache that came and went like waves. The pocket dimension didn't provide food — only tools, interfaces, and that cursed floating dashboard. The only thing I could devour here was my own anxiety.
I forced my eyes back to the screen. I'd built the dashboard to be simple — just a counter, a map of user locations, and a scrolling log of activity — but now every pixel felt like a judgment.
Zero players. Zero downloads. Zero hope.
I gripped the edge of the holographic console so hard my knuckles went white. It has to work. It has to.
A soft chime rang.
I blinked. For a second, I thought it was my imagination, some phantom sound conjured by exhaustion. Then the chime came again — clear, bright, electronic.
A new notification flared in the center of the dashboard, text burning into existence one character at a time.
[New Player: 1]
For a heartbeat, I couldn't breathe.
Then the number changed on the counter. Zero became one.
I shot to my feet so fast the chair spun behind me. My heart slammed against my ribs. "It worked!" I barked, voice echoing weirdly off the nothing around me. "It actually worked!"
Hands trembling, I jabbed at the notification to expand it.
[User Profile: Anonymized]
[Time Played: 1 minute]
[In-Game Activity: Character Creation]
[Location: New York City]
The data was vague, scrubbed clean, but it didn't matter. It was a real person. Somewhere out there in New York City, someone had stumbled into my game.
One player. That's all it took.
I stared at the time played. One minute. It didn't move.
Seconds crawled past. Still one minute.
"Come on," I whispered. "Stay with me. Just… click something."
The number stayed stubbornly frozen.
I dropped back into my chair, head in hands. "Of course. They're gonna uninstall. Why wouldn't they?"
The chime sounded again.
[New Player: 2]
I let out a sharp whoop, half-laugh, half-sob. Two. Two players.
I opened the second profile with shaking fingers.
[User Profile: Anonymized]
[Time Played: 30 seconds]
[In-Game Activity: Character Creation]
[Location: Latveria]
My pulse spiked. Latveria. The sovereign kingdom of Doctor Doom.
This wasn't some random kid downloading apps at three in the morning. Whoever was on the other end of that IP lived under the shadow of one of the most dangerous men in the multiverse.
A thrill of fear coiled through me, sharp and cold. What if Doom himself found out about me? What if he decided my little experiment was a tool to be stolen… or a threat to be crushed?
I shook my head hard. "No. Focus. One step at a time."
I flicked back to the dashboard. The live analytics had shifted, a new module pulsing faintly in the corner. Something I hadn't seen before.
[Live Player Feed Available]
My brows shot up. The system had never offered this option before. I tapped it.
The dashboard dissolved into a window of shimmering light, static flickering at the edges. Shapes emerged. A desk cluttered with instruments. Blue light spilling from stacked monitors. And in the middle of it all — a young woman, hunched over a computer, her dark hair mussed, lab coat smudged with ash.
Her fingers moved over the keys in an absent rhythm. Her eyes were tired but sharp.
A scientist. Or maybe something more.
The feed sharpened, the static falling away.
[Player Detected: Session Initiated]
[Player Rank: High-Influence Individual]
I sucked in a breath. The System's wording was blunt this time. High-Influence Individual wasn't a tag you slapped on random lab techs.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes flicking to a new icon glowing on her desktop — a pixelated cube with the words The Unofficial Guide to Creation beneath it.
"Where did this come from?" she murmured, voice low but edged with curiosity.
I leaned forward unconsciously, as if I could will her to click.
She did.
The feed shifted again, syncing to her in-game perspective. A blocky world unfolded — rolling green hills under a silver sky, jagged mountains in the distance, trees swaying without wind.
Her avatar stood motionless, head turning slowly.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed — a small, incredulous sound full of something that wasn't quite amusement.
"This… this is ridiculous," she whispered.
Her hands moved. The avatar punched a tree. Pixels burst into cubes, one sliding neatly into her inventory. She actually gasped.
[Time Played: 5 minutes]
[Engagement Level: Rising]
[Estimated Play Potential: EXTREME]
I slammed both palms onto the console, a grin splitting my face. "Yes! That's it! Just keep going!"
But even as the thrill rushed through me, a colder thought threaded its way in.
I recognized her. Not by face, but by the details. The tech. The ash. The subtle accent curling through her mutters when she spoke in Wakandan under her breath.
There was no mistaking it.
Shuri. Princess of Wakanda. The genius who'd once out-engineered Tony Stark.
Of all the people in this multiverse, my first true player was her.
My stomach dropped.
Shuri. Wakanda's golden genius. Heir to the most advanced scientific tradition on the planet. A woman whose brain could probably disassemble the System's architecture if she sniffed out even a hint of irregularity.
And here she was, punching blocky trees in my game.
I dragged both hands down my face. "Of all the players in all the worlds… why her?"
The dashboard pulsed again, almost smug.
[New Goal Unlocked: Player Expansion]
[Requirement: 10,000 Play Hours]
[Modifier Available: High-Influence Multipliers — Playtime accrues faster through social ripple effects.]
I blinked at the text. Ten thousand hours had always been the finish line, but this was new. If high-profile players like Shuri spread the game, my climb could turn from an endless grind into a sprint.
My pulse quickened. This could be salvation.
But the next line made my blood run cold.
[Warning: High-Influence Players accelerate both Opportunity and Risk.]
The System didn't need to spell it out. The more powerful the player, the more dangerous the fallout. If Shuri decided the game was suspicious, she could trace it. Dissect it. And then maybe dissect me.
I forced myself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking back to the feed.
Shuri's avatar was wandering now, climbing a hill with clumsy jumps. She paused at the top, looking over the jagged digital landscape. And when her lips curved upward into the smallest smile, something twisted in my chest.
Joy. Real, unguarded joy.
Not the grim satisfaction of saving a city. Not the dry rush of cracking an equation. This was simple, childlike delight — the thrill of creation.
For a moment, she wasn't a princess or a scientist. She was just a player.
And my game had given her that.
The thought should have reassured me. Instead, it terrified me.
Because I knew her mind wouldn't rest here for long. She'd push against the game's limits. Test its boundaries. And when she found them… she'd lose interest.
I couldn't let that happen.
I snapped the dashboard open, scanning for options. Something, anything to keep her engaged.
A new tab was glowing faintly: [Module Shop].
I tapped it.
[Engineer's Dream (20 GP)]
[Combat Simulation (20 GP)]
[Mystic's Realm (20 GP)]
My eyes narrowed. Specialized modules tailored to player archetypes. Exactly what I needed.
And I couldn't afford a single one. My balance sat at zero.
"Damn it," I hissed, slamming the console. Shuri was out there, poking around like a cat in a cardboard box, and I had nothing to bait her with.
Unless…
Another icon pulsed in the corner of the dashboard. I tapped it almost violently.
[Side Quests Available]
My breath caught. I opened the menu.
[Side Quest: The First Test]
[Objective: Create a new game for a specific player.]
[Reward: 50 Gaming Points]
[Condition: Must be completed within 24 hours.]
A lifeline. The System wasn't going to let me drift — it was pushing me to act.
But the problem was immediate. I had no GP to create anything. Even the basic creation modules were grayed out, locked tight.
I scrolled furiously, hunting for loopholes. That was when I found it.
Buried under the [Game Creator] tab was a small, almost apologetic option.
[Game Creator – Tier 1 (Free Trial)]
[Note: Allows the creation of one game with a 10-hour playtime limit. Non-upgradable. Will self-destruct upon expiry.]
I froze.
A free trial.
It was perfect — and perfectly cruel. The System was offering me a chance to craft something new, but with a guillotine attached. If Shuri didn't get hooked within ten hours, the game would vanish, and my chance at the quest reward with it.
I sat back, chewing my lip. What kind of game could capture her? Not just distract her, but grip her?
A combat sim? No. She wasn't a warrior. A mystical fantasy world? She'd scoff.
No, what Shuri loved — what she lived for — was puzzles. Challenges. The act of solving the unsolvable.
The idea hit me like lightning.
A puzzle game. First-person. Complex, elegant, merciless. Something that demanded logic, creativity, and experimentation.
I pictured portals, gravity shifts, laser refraction puzzles — mechanics layered like riddles inside riddles. And beneath it all, a secret thread woven in for her alone: puzzles echoing Wakandan design, nods to vibranium circuitry, problems only her particular genius could appreciate.
It wouldn't just be fun. It would feel personal.
The System pulsed, blue light spilling across the void. My ideas poured into its framework like ink in water, the game taking shape before my eyes. White test chambers. Gleaming panels. Platforms floating in impossible geometry.
It was beautiful. And deadly, in the way only a puzzle could be.
Finally, the dashboard presented me with one last confirmation screen.
[Deploy Game to Player: Shuri?]
[Yes / No]
My throat went dry.
This was the point of no return. If I sent it to her, there would be no hiding. She would know — maybe not me, not yet, but she'd sense an intelligence behind the game. And if she decided that intelligence was hostile…
I swallowed hard.
But if I didn't send it, the quest would fail. The chance at fifty Gaming Points would vanish. And with it, maybe my only way forward.
The stakes pressed down like a weight on my chest. This wasn't just about my freedom anymore. This was about survival.
I looked at the live feed one more time. Shuri's avatar was crouched near a mountain, carving into the rock with childlike fascination. Her real-world counterpart leaned closer to the monitor, lips parted in quiet wonder.
For the first time in hours, I felt something other than hunger and fear.
Resolve.
I pressed the option.
"Yes."