The house is finally quiet. After a long day of balancing coursework, meal planning, and tending to Ana, my daughter, the stillness feels like a small reward. Ana just went down for the night, her small form curled up under the blankets. At nearly five years old, she still struggles with falling asleep alone. She’s had her own room since we moved into this apartment two years ago. Before that, we shared a bed at my Aunt Tammy’s place. In those early days, we didn’t have much—a double bed squeezed into a guesthouse—but it felt cozy, close. Sometimes I miss those nights. Some nights, I give in and let her sleep with me when she’s having trouble, or when the loneliness creeps in for both of us. But tonight, I need the space. I linger by her door for a moment, watching her breathing slow as she drifts off. With a small smile, I quietly close the door behind me.

"Goodnight, my little star," I whisper softly before walking into the living room. My laptop sits on the coffee table, its glow spilling across the room like a beacon calling me back to another world. The IVR headset rests beside it, a familiar presence. I pick it up, feeling the comforting weight in my hands as I settle into the couch.

Slipping the headset over my head, I scan the small RFID chip embedded in my wrist. The system hums to life as it scans my chip, followed by the familiar retinal scan. My screen flickers, confirming my brainwave pattern. One last step—the password. Security’s tight these days, I think, chuckling softly. No one wants someone else hacking into their life.

As the login screen fades, the world of Aetheris begins to materialize around me. It’s been a while since I’ve had time to properly play. Life’s been too busy with Ana, my degree, and work. Lately, my logins have been quick—just long enough to collect credits or do some part-time work writing up bug reports or identifying inconsistencies in the game world that don't feel realistic. It's a side gig, but one I enjoy. There’s something satisfying about spotting the tiny cracks in the otherwise flawless illusion of Aetheris, fixing them so the world feels as immersive as possible.

Aetheris is vast, with multiple countries and continents sprawling across a landscape similar to Earth’s. Each time I step back into it, it feels like returning to a familiar dream. But with my focus on work and credits, I haven't had the time to truly explore its wonders in weeks.

The entry point—my home base in the game—is a cozy tavern nestled in a small town. The flicker of the digital hearth and the soft murmur of NPCs around me adds a sense of warmth to the virtual space. I feel the tension in my shoulders ease as I sit in my usual corner table, the one I designed with plush cushions and a wide window that overlooks the city. It’s a place I built to feel like my own little corner of the world, even in the vastness of Aetheris.

A soft chime pulls my attention—a message notification. Two new ones. I open the first, and it’s from Mundifico, a designer I’ve worked with for years and one of the original architects of Aetheris.

"Life is about to get weird. Can't say more than that, but I'll see you in Tyra."

I frown at the screen, confusion washing over me. Mundifico’s messages are always cryptic, but this one is especially vague. "Weird? What does that even mean?" I mutter to myself, glancing around the tavern as if expecting something strange to materialize in the game. Tyra is the capital of Tyrania, one of the largest countries in Aetheris. I haven't been there in a while, and Mundifico’s message only deepens my curiosity. “Maybe there’s a new questline or event coming up,” I speculate. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

I close the message from Mundi and open the second message—a notification of five credits added to my account. I couldn't help but reflect on just how much the credits system had become a part of my everyday life. Five credits might not seem like much, but in this world, they mattered. Credits weren’t just a currency in Aetheris; they spilled over into real life too, being used for high-impact needs like paying rent, buying essential items such as groceries, and even covering medical expenses. Tipping someone who held open a door, rewarding a child for getting good grades, or even earning extra credits for community work—credits had started as a way to encourage positive behavior, both in-game and out. They had become a hybrid of game currency, social incentive, and a kind of public welfare program.

The government had partnered with some of the biggest virtual reality companies to create this system, aiming to address poverty, encourage positive social behaviors, and provide new opportunities for low-income individuals. It wasn’t just about playing; it was about survival for some. People who couldn’t find steady jobs, like me while I studied and raised Ana, could work part-time in-game or do good deeds in the real world to earn credits. Credits could then be converted to real-world currency or used to buy essentials—food, clothes, even rent. They were like an EBT card but mixed with a rewards program and a gaming platform.

I had a small RFID chip embedded in my wrist that made earning credits easier. With a simple scan, combined with a fingerprint, facial scan, and a unique password that changed every time, I could access the credits I had earned. It was a lifeline for me and Ana, a way to make sure we had enough to get by while I finished school and worked odd jobs. I remember one particularly rough month when I couldn't find enough freelance work, and the credits I earned from community cleanup projects were what kept food on the table for us. It was moments like that which reminded me how crucial the system was for our survival. Tonight, the five credits added to my account would help cover breakfast tomorrow or perhaps a small treat for Ana.

Sometimes, the weight of how dependent I’d become on this system made me uneasy. Sure, it kept us afloat, but it also tied me to Aetheris and the broader network that was always watching, always recording. Every good deed, every moment I chose to do something positive, could be traced back through the chip. It made the boundaries between real life and the virtual world blur even further, but for now, it was what we needed.

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Without any real motivation to play, I log off, lifting the IVR headset and placing it back on the table. The virtual world fades, leaving me alone in the quiet living room. My phone buzzes on the armrest, and I glance down to see a text from Alex, a friend from school.

Alex: "Hey, Sam and I are heading to Mt. Rainier for a weekend backpacking trip in two weeks. You in? You can bring Ana too, and we’ll help carry her if needed."

A smile crosses my face. I could definitely use a break, and Ana would love an adventure in the mountains. I quickly type back, “Count me in! I’d love to practice foraging while the weather’s still decent.”

Alex: "Awesome! I’ll send you the details. Pack light!"

I set the phone down, my thoughts shifting to the week ahead. Two weeks until the trip, and there’s plenty to do before then. I’m almost done with my degree in Culinary Arts, with a focus on Sustainable Food Systems, and just two classes stand between me and graduation. One of those classes, Sustainable Cooking Practices, has been my favorite so far. We focus on creating meals that are not only delicious but environmentally responsible. Everything from reducing food waste to sourcing ingredients ethically has shaped my approach to cooking in ways I hadn’t expected.

Then there’s my Botany class, which has led me deep into the art of foraging—learning to identify edible plants and mushrooms, understanding ecosystems, and practicing sustainable harvesting techniques. This backpacking trip could give me the hands-on experience I’ve been craving, a chance to put all my classroom knowledge into practice. The timing couldn’t be more perfect—between my capstone projects and the foraging course, this trip will be a welcome break and if the finals go well, a wild celebration.

I’ve got my culinary capstone due soon, and it’s all I’ve been thinking about lately. For that, I need to create an entire meal that’s rooted in sustainability, showcasing not just flavor but the origins and ecological impact of the ingredients I use. It’s going to be reviewed by a panel, and I’m determined to impress them with something thoughtful, innovative, and reflective of my journey. The idea I’ve been toying with involves locally foraged mushrooms, organic greens, and a twist on traditional yakitori, combining my Japanese culinary studies with the sustainability principles I’ve been learning.

But as I sit back and think about it, a small part of me can’t shake the feeling that things are about to change. Mundifico’s message from earlier hangs in the back of my mind, lingering like a faint warning. "Life is about to get weird." His words replay in my head as I head into the kitchen to grab a late-night snack.

I set my earbuds in place, choosing Bad Company to accompany me while I cook. The familiar rhythm, helping me unwind after a long day.

The kitchen is my sanctuary, a place where I can ground myself. I pull out my favorite cookbook, The Flavor Bible, flipping through its well-worn pages. It’s practically a culinary oracle to me, filled with wisdom from some of the world’s most innovative chefs. Tonight, I’m inspired by the idea of balance—sweet, salty, and savory coming together in harmony. I decide on a simple, yet deeply satisfying dish: yakitori, Japanese chicken skewers with a glaze that’s equal parts comforting and healing.

First, I gather my ingredients—chicken thighs, negi (Japanese green onions), soy sauce, sake, mirin, and brown sugar. The beauty of yakitori is in its simplicity, the way the flavors meld together perfectly with just a few ingredients. I start by preparing the tare—a sweet and savory sauce that will coat the skewers. In a small saucepan, I combine soy sauce, mirin, sake, water, and brown sugar, tossing in the green tops of the negi for added depth. The sauce simmers gently, releasing a sweet, umami-rich aroma that fills the kitchen.

As the tare reduces to a thick, glossy consistency, I turn my attention to the chicken. Cutting it into bite-sized pieces, I thread the chunks onto wooden skewers, alternating with sections of negi. The rhythm of the preparation is soothing, each skewer coming together in a satisfying pattern. Cooking has always been more than just a skill for me—it’s a form of meditation. It clears my mind, focusing me on the moment, on creating something tangible and nourishing.

Once the sauce is ready, I brush it onto the skewers, watching as the chicken absorbs the dark, glossy glaze. The rich, caramel-like scent of the soy and sugar reducing is intoxicating. I place the skewers under the broiler, letting the high heat char the edges just slightly, enough to give the meat a crispy exterior while keeping the inside tender and juicy.

As the broiler works its magic, I can’t help but think back to Mundifico’s message. What did he mean by life getting weird? He’s been known for his cryptic hints before, but this feels different—more personal, somehow. The game has always been a place where I can immerse myself and forget the stress of everyday life. But his message makes me feel like that boundary, the line between the game and the real world, is blurring.

The broiler dings, and I pull out the skewers, the chicken perfectly golden and slightly charred at the edges. I plate them carefully, drizzling the remaining tare over the top and sprinkling a bit of shichimi togarashi—a Japanese spice blend with chili, sesame, and orange peel—to give it a little heat. I take my first bite, savoring the balance of sweet, salty, and spicy flavors. The meal is simple, but deeply satisfying, a reminder of why I love what I do.

As I eat, I glance over at Ana’s bedroom door, imagining her excitement for the upcoming backpacking trip. She’s always been drawn to nature, and I can already picture her wide-eyed wonder at the vastness of the mountains, the thrill of exploring new trails, and the joy of foraging for berries and mushrooms. I smile to myself, knowing that the fresh air and time away will be good for her—and for me.

After finishing my snack, I start washing the dishes, the warm water and repetitive motion easing the tension from the day. There’s something calming about the simple act of cleaning, like it’s washing away more than just the remnants of dinner. I scrub each dish with care, letting my mind wander. The rhythmic feeling of water running over the dishes becomes a quiet meditation, helping me settle into the present moment.

Once the dishes are neatly stacked to dry, I pack the leftover skewers for lunch tomorrow, feeling a small wave of satisfaction. It’s funny how something as simple as cooking can give me a sense of accomplishment—a reminder that even in the chaos, there are moments of peace.

I unplug my earbuds, the last notes of Bad Company fading into the quiet kitchen. As I switch off the lights, I pause for a moment, noticing a subtle shift in the air. There’s a weight to it, like the atmosphere just before a storm, a heaviness that lingers in the back of my mind. I shrug it off for now, though the feeling follows me as I make my way to bed.

Lying down, I can’t quite shake the sensation that something is on the horizon—something just beyond the familiar rhythms of daily life. My thoughts swirl between the game, the backpacking trip, and Mundifico’s cryptic message. It’s strange, unsettling even, but for now, all I can do is close my eyes and wait to see what tomorrow brings.