Chapter 1
Elliot's fingers danced over the chunky keys of a retro 2000s mechanical keyboard, each clack echoing like a hammer strike in the stifling silence of his cramped studio. The ancient CRT monitor, smudged with fingerprints, taunted him with a blinking SQL error in vicious red against a black void.
"Goddamn piece-of-shit bug!"
His gravelly voice boomed too loudly in the tiny space. With a furious swipe, he knocked an empty soda can off the desk. It clattered across the floor, coming to rest against the foot of his only companion for three sleepless nights: a Chewbacca figurine. The Star Wars toy stared back with glossy plastic eyes, as if mocking the fact that, at 24, he was reduced to ranting at inanimate objects.
The apartment reeked of despair and cold instant noodles. It was a shrine to chaos—Cyberpunk 2077 posters peeling at the edges, water-stained walls with flaking paint, USB cables tangled like electric snakes. On the chipped Formica desk, a greasy pizza box sat next to a worn screwdriver and a dog-eared C++ programming manual with a cover barely hanging on.
"You're this close to changing the world… or just letting it down a little more."
His father's biting voice echoed in his head, a ghost that had haunted him for six years. A sharp ping snapped him out of it.
New email: Website redesign – URGENT (Tight budget)
He skimmed the message with a cynical smirk, his jaw tightening. Another cheapskate client wanting a "professional" site for the price of a fast-food combo. The kind of gig that made him regret ever learning to code.
"Typical," he muttered, leaning back in his creaking office chair.
Somewhere in the room, a salvaged fan whined pathetically, begging for permission to die. The oppressive summer heat made the air almost unbreathable. Elliot ran a hand through his greasy hair, realizing he probably smelled as fresh as his apartment.
"I need to get out."
Outside, Ashwood was a city that had forgotten how to die. Flickering neon signs spasmed, casting erratic light on cracked sidewalks and graffiti-covered storefronts. The humid air smelled of wet asphalt and cheap nostalgia. A few stragglers loitered outside a long-shuttered strip club, their shadows warping under the stuttering lights.
Elliot shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized hoodie and headed for the only place still open at this hour: Harlow's junk shop.
The rusty bell above the door gave a feeble jingle as he stepped inside. The sharp scent of dust and old paper stung his nose. Behind a battered wooden counter, Harlow—a wiry old man who looked like he'd been carved from driftwood—didn't bother looking up from his faded '80s porn mag.
"Back for more of your useless tech crap?" he rasped, flipping a page with nicotine-stained fingers.
Elliot ignored him, weaving through stacks of obsolete gear. His nimble fingers, used to handling delicate components, sifted through the junk with surgical precision. Then his eyes caught something—a rusty metal box half-buried under a pile of yellowed National Geographics from the '70s.
His heart skipped a beat as he opened it.
Nestled in a scrap of worn silk was a key.
Not just any key.
It was oddly light, almost too smooth under his fingertips, like it had been polished by centuries of use. And it was… warm. As if someone had just dropped it.
"How much?" Elliot asked, trying to steady the tremor in his voice.
Harlow finally glanced up, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. A crooked grin cracked his chapped lips.
"Five bucks."
Elliot flinched, snapping the box shut a little too hard. A precariously perched modem wobbled on a nearby shelf and crashed to the floor in a plastic crunch.
"Touch one more thing, and I'll charge you for the air you're breathing."
He slunk out of the shop, gliding past the shelves like an embarrassed shadow.
Back in his lair, Elliot placed the key on his desk with uncharacteristic reverence. Under the monitor's bluish glow, the etched patterns on its surface seemed to shimmer—circuitry? An unknown script? He traced a finger along the grooves, feeling a faint buzz.
Earlier, he'd torn the studio apart looking for the key to his damn wardrobe. After trying a dozen rusty keys, expired keycards, and even a beer cap, he'd given up. Now, some reckless impulse made him grab the mysterious key.
"You're losing it, man," he muttered to himself.
Still, an unshakable urge drove him to his feet, the key clutched in his sweaty palm. He approached the creaky old wardrobe where he stashed dead graphics cards and busted electronics.
A nervous laugh escaped him.
"Not like you've got any dignity left to lose."
His trembling fingers slid the key into the rusty lock. CLICK.
The sound was unnervingly crisp, like the lock had just been oiled. Then came…
The cold.
A frigid blast stole his breath, as if someone had cracked open an industrial freezer. The wardrobe door, now ajar, no longer revealed its usual clutter.
Instead, there was a room.
A pristine, impossible room, like stepping out of a closet into the living room of a frozen mansion.
White.
Unreal.
The air seared his lungs with every breath. His glasses fogged up instantly, reducing his vision to a milky blur.
"What the…"
The metallic floor squeaked under his sneakers, polished to a mirror shine, reflecting a sourceless cerulean glow. The smooth walls warped his reflection like a funhouse mirror.
And in the center of the icy chamber…
A table, dusted with frost, and on it, a watch.
Or something like a watch. He stumbled toward it.
The moment his numb fingers touched it, a blue hologram flickered to life in the air:
22:51 | Temperature: -48°C | Hypothermia imminent
Shaking, he slipped it onto his wrist, unable to process what he was seeing. A sudden warmth pulsed through his arm, like the device was alive.
In an open wall cabinet to the right, a black coat hung with almost military precision. The fabric felt oddly thin for its weight in his stiff fingers. He pulled it on, and a comforting warmth spread through his chest—but it wasn't enough.
The cold was winning, each moment dragging him closer to the inevitable. His body felt like lead, but a burning urgency pushed him to move. He had to get out. Now. Before the cold froze him solid.
Elliot staggered back, his heart pounding. The door to his apartment was still there, ajar, spilling warm, familiar light onto the icy floor.
He hesitated for a split second, then lunged backward, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle the studio walls. The key clattered to the floor.
Slumped on the ground, shaking like a leaf, he stared at the watch still strapped to his wrist.
22°C | Pulse: 92
It was real. Undeniably real.