It was a cold and foggy morning, that creeps into your bones and makes you feel like the world has slowed to a crawl. I had been holed up in my house for the last three days, completely engrossed in a VR game called Blast. Not only had I managed to finish it, but I also accomplished something no one else had—completing every achievement the game had to offer. The first to do so. For most people, that might just be another trophy on their gaming profile, but for me, it was something more.

Games have always been my escape, a way to find a sense of purpose in the chaos of life. After what happened to my family five years ago, gaming became my only refuge. It was in the spring of 2030, a day that started so beautifully. My father, mother, little brother, and I were heading out for a day together—just a simple family outing. But that day, I lost them all. A car accident that still haunts me, a tragedy that shattered everything. Since then, gaming has been the only thing that makes sense to me, the only thing I can control.

As I sat in my dimly lit room, memories of that day began to resurface. My fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of my VR headset as I lost myself in the past. The pain was still there, buried under layers of distractions, but never gone. Just as the weight of the memories was starting to overwhelm me, the doorbell rang, jolting me back to the present.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Hesitant, I stood up and made my way to the door. A delivery agent stood there, holding a sleek package in his hands. I signed for it without much thought, but when I saw the label, my heart skipped a beat. The package was from the developers of Bannerlord VR. It had been only a few days since I’d registered for the early access beta, and here it was—my ticket to nostalgia.

I felt an unexpected lump in my throat as I held the box in my hands. Bannerlord... My father and I used to play the original game together when I was younger. I could still remember the late nights, sitting side by side, commanding armies and conquering kingdoms. It was one of the few memories I had of us being truly happy. The realization hit me hard, and for the first time in a long while, I found myself tearing up. It wasn’t just a game. It was a connection to the life I’d lost.

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I shook my head, trying to push the emotions down. Not now, I told myself. I was hungry—starving, actually—but the urge to dive into this game was stronger than my appetite. I carefully unwrapped the package, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation, and loaded the game onto my console. As soon as it booted up, the familiar logo appeared, accompanied by a haunting, orchestral soundtrack that sent shivers down my spine.

The game began with a dramatic prologue, narrating the rise and fall of the once-mighty Calradian Empire. Its glory had been eroded by corruption and greed, and now the empire was splintered into warring factions. As the voiceover ended, I was transported to the character creation screen, where I could shape my avatar and choose a faction to align with.

I moved my hands through the different factions, examining their unique buffs and debuffs, weighing my options. But something felt off. My vision began to blur, and strange blue lines flickered across the screen. At first, I thought it was just a minor bug—something you’d expect in a beta release—but the glitch persisted. It was strange, almost too soon to encounter an issue like this.

Then, without warning, everything changed.

I blinked, trying to clear my vision, and suddenly I found myself standing in a bustling marketplace. My hands instinctively clenched, but there was no controller. No VR headset. No screen. Just me, standing in the middle of a chaotic market surrounded by merchants hawking their wares, animals braying, and people moving around as if I were just another person in their world.

My first reaction was frustration. I was convinced the game had bugged out, transporting me from the character creation screen into some in-game environment without finishing the setup. "Really?" I muttered under my breath, already feeling the disappointment sink in. I’d had high hopes for Bannerlord VR, but this kind of bug was ridiculous.

I decided it was time to log off, grab some breakfast, and come back later when I was less irritated. But when I lifted my hands to access the menu... nothing. No options, no interface, no log-off button. Panic started to creep in as I looked around, trying to find something—anything—that could explain what was happening.

I reached for my headset, but it wasn’t there. My heart raced. The merchants continued their business as if I wasn’t even there, their voices blending into a blur of incomprehensible noise. Slowly, the realization hit me.

I wasn’t in my room anymore. I wasn’t in front of my console. I was inside the game.