It's said God made our world with nothing but thoughts.
But gods aren't the only ones whose thoughts can shape it.
Every fear, every obsession, every unfinished wish has weight.
Most of it fades when the person who dreamed it is gone.
Some of it doesn't.
The stubborn pieces sink.
They slip between what's real and what should have stayed imaginary. They gather in the cracks of the world, in places that don't officially exist: behind doors that were never built, under streets no map shows, in rooms that only appear when you're too tired to question them.
Given enough time, those leftovers learn patterns.
We call them trials.
Systems.
Nightmares that know the rules better than we do.
They borrow the shapes of our stories, our games, our punishments. They offer points, power, second chances… and take everything we don't protect. When they're done with us, they don't keep our names.
Just what we leave behind.
Scars in the walls.
Echoes in the dark.
Unspent points in someone else's interface.
The world you walk in during the day was built by a god.
The one you wake up to at night is built by us.
Our fears.
Our wishes.
Our remnants.