With an echoing thud, the doors sealed shut. The elevator lurched, then rocketed upwards. The Writer stumbled slightly, bracing himself against the door as the compartment ascended. The interior was a stark white, even the steel door against which he now leaned was painted an immaculate white on the inside.

Abruptly, the elevator halted. A disembodied voice echoed from a speaker, “Clear the door.” His hands were suddenly thrust backward, though he had not moved them. The doors parted to unveil a colossal room. It too was decorated with white walls and bright LED lights. A winding queue, formed by a black rope, snaked across the immense room, leading to a series of booths at the far end. The room was vast, yet eerily deserted. Not a soul was in sight.

The Writer began to traverse the room, following the winding path of the queue. However, after the first few rows, he started to duck under the ropes. He paused midway to survey the room. It was a void of emptiness. The booths at the other end housed only a computer tablet with a blue screen, too distant for him to see. The room was at least the size of three football fields, yet its ceiling was barely taller than him. He drew a deep breath, then continued to weave his way under the ropes until he reached the front of the room. There, he noticed that each booth was backed by a door-shaped cutout in the wall, though none of the doors bore a handle.

Approaching a tablet nestled in the center of a booth flanked by two partitions, he glanced around once more. The room remained desolate. The tablet displayed a prominent button on the screen labeled ‘Start’. He pressed it.

The screen morphed, and a bright yellow, smiling face materialized. “Welcome to Creativion. We apologize for the wait! We’re sure you have many questions, and they will all be answered on the other side of this door. But first, the basics.”

The screen froze, and the smiling face was supplanted by a spinning circle. The Writer raised his hand as if seeking someone’s attention, but then remembered he was alone. The face reappeared, “Compete against AI challenges throughout, the challenges help us train our System and allow you to earn Tokens and Gems which are redeemable around the city for Loot Boxes and other prizes…”

The screen abruptly exploded to an inky blackness, punctuated by a minuscule spark that danced at its base. The Writer, a solitary form in the expansive void, cast his gaze around the room once more. Suddenly, a spinning wheel materialized before him, its vibrant hues a stark contrast against the sterile white of the room. Each segment of the wheel held a prize: 5 Gems, 100 Tokens, an extra Life, a Blue Jacket, an Uptown Condo.

Adjacent to the spinning wheel, a large red button hovered in mid-air, emblazoned with the word ‘stop’. The Writer extended his hand, pressing the button decisively. The wheel began to slow, each click echoing in the silence before it finally halted on a radiant red section labeled ‘Uptown Condo’. A burst of multicolored lights erupted from the words, and streamers rained down around the wheel.

As quickly as it had appeared, the wheel vanished, leaving behind a solitary key suspended in the air. The Writer reached out, his fingers closing around the key, which promptly disappeared. A message materialized before him, “+1 Key to Uptown Condo”, before fading away as swiftly as it had appeared.

Behind the booth, a door began to creak open, swinging inward to reveal the world beyond. As the door opened wider, he stepped through, leaving the stark white room behind.

A weather-beaten banner, frayed at the edges, stretched between two lampposts, proclaiming, “Welcome to Creativion”. He found himself dwarfed by towering skyscrapers, their tops unseen as they extended beyond the clouds. He was standing in a quaint, open courtyard paved with cobblestones.

The courtyard was teeming with hundreds of individuals, many garbed in khaki attire similar to his own, but theirs were wore from years of use. Others sported an eclectic mix of clothing, ranging from bomber jackets to rain boots. A few were adorned in pieces of mismatched flamboyant costumes, head pieces of yellow ducks, wings of angels, and divers flippers. He looked eyes with one man wearing nothing but underwear and a white t-shirt with a nick in his left ear.

The crowd was dispersed across the courtyard, some sprawled on the ground, a few succumbing to slumber. Their faces bore the harsh lines of hunger, much like the woman he had left behind. His arrival did not go unnoticed. As he emerged from the door, a wave of recognition swept through the crowd. They sprang to their feet, rushing towards him with fervent cries of,

“Items for Sale!” “Tokens for Items!” “Beginner Prices!”

They swarmed around him, forming a human barricade. He retreated towards the door, only to find it had sealed shut. A man, weighing at least 400 pounds, bulldozed he way through the throng. He was an odd sight, clad in a suit of golden armor, a royal purple cape flowing behind him, and a feathered headdress crowning his head. The crowd parted for him as she approached the Writer.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“What do you have?” the man demanded, his voice slicing through the noise, silencing the crowd with a mere flick of his hand.

“I have no tokens,” the Writer said.

A wave of disappointment washed over the man’s face. With a grunt, he reached down and unsheathed a long steel dagger from his leg. His breaths came in ragged gasps, as if the act of drawing the weapon was an arduous task.

“Any items?” he wheezed, struggling for breath.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, whispers of caution floating in the air, “Don’t do it.”

“Only keys to an Uptown Condo,” the Writer declared, his gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd. In the distance, he spotted a figure galloping towards them. A man on horseback, charging down the city streets into the courtyard.

“Hand them over,” the large man bellowed, extending his tattooed arm. His face gleaming with joy. The Writer found himself hemmed in by the throng of people. He was cornered, pressed against the unyielding door by the sheer mass of bodies. His mind wandered to the bare interior of the building, the vast emptiness that now loomed behind him, and the frail woman inside with her tripwire trap. It left all of it and that tiny cell behind only to be trapped here. His gaze then fell on the hulking man before him, adorned in an eclectic assortment of attire.

“Hand them over,” the man reiterated, not only flaunting his tattoo but also brandishing his dagger.

The Writer was at a loss. The crowd’s whispers grew louder, filling his ears. His eyes were drawn to the dagger, its tip stained with a sinister hue of crimson.

“Back off,” the Writer said stiffing his back. If death was his fate, then so be it. He had already danced with death twice before, once in the dank confines of a cell and again in the presence of that eerily slender woman. “Do it,” he dared.

The burly man began to advance, his movements slow and deliberate, the glint of his knife slicing through the tension. The Writer willed his body to move, but it betrayed him, frozen in place, a helpless target for the impending blade.

Suddenly, a voice sliced through the silence, “Big Bertha, up to your old tricks, I see.” A man on horseback had appeared, parting the crowd with the same ease as the burly man. He was a odd man in white western attire, a sheriff’s star gleaming on his chest and a six-shooter revolver at his side. The burly man recoiled, hastily sheathing his knife, and shot a wary glance at the newcomer.

“It’s Bert,” he corrected.

“To me, it’s all the same,” the rider retorted, maneuvering his horse between the Writer and the crowd. A tablet computer, akin to the one he had seen inside the room, hung from his side, its silver folding keyboard catching the light.

“This gentleman is the newest member of the Uptown Condo Association, and as their sheriff, it is my duty to escort him to his new home. Unless any of you have a million Gems to spare, I would kindly request you to let me conduct my business,” the sheriff declared, his hand resting on his revolver, “Understood, Bertie?”

“Sure…” the big man said, his breaths labored. The sheriff assisted the writer onto the back of his horse, digging golden spurs into the steed. With a powerful surge, the horse galloped through the courtyard. The writer observed the people around him. There were eyes weary and faces etched with lines. Some had returned to their resting spots, while others pressed closer to the walls, waiting for another door to open.

As they rode through the city streets, he noticed they had no cars but instead they were full of pedestrians. The rider sat comfortably in the saddle weaving in and out of the walking masses. The crowd on the street wore an array of colorful clothing much like those people in the courtyard, but their faces were smoother contrasting sharply with the rougher appearance of those in the courtyard.

“You don’t realize how fortunate you are,” the sheriff said. “It’s been ages since we welcomed a new member, and you won your place on your very first spin.”

Confused, the writer asked, “Where am I?”

The sheriff sighed. “They wipe your memories now. You’re a copy, an artist who sold their consciousness to Angel Inc. They uploaded you into this game, using your thoughts and creativity to train their AI system.”

He gestured toward a nearby building, through its windows he saw, an empty room with white walls, much like the one the writer had emerged from. The sheriff said, "That’s the challenge room. It’s where you earn XP, items, and loot boxes. It’s tougher now. Human work used to win, but lately, even quality stuff loses. I wonder if it is than the AI is that much better or are people in the real-world favoring AI garbage?”

Outside the challenge room, a young man bounced up and down, muttering to himself. He pounded his chest and then leaped through the door into the white room. However, upon entering, he vanished. A few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing not the young man but a woman. She smiled, took a deep breath, and strolled away.

“You’ll have to face it soon,” the sheriff said, eyeing the Writer. “But you can use the one in your condo. How many tokens do you have?”

“None,” the writer replied. “I gave them to a woman in the other building.”

The sheriff shook his head. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard. You’re lucky, but stupid as painted toad. If you want something to eat, tackle that challenge first thing.”

He turned his horse toward a nearby skyscraper. The automatic doors parted for him, allowing the horse to pass seamlessly. Yet, as soon as the horse’s rear crossed the threshold, it vanished. Leaving the sheriff and the writer standing in the lobby of what resembled a luxurious hotel. Burgundy carpet adorned with large gold diamond patterns stretched out before them. In the center, a pond teemed with various fish, and a waterfall seemed to emerge from thin air.

Other people occupied the lobby, each impeccably dressed in matching set of clothes, some in suits, others in armor, and one even in a full spacesuit.

“Take the elevator to your room,” the sheriff instructed. “Click your name, and it’ll transport you. When you’re ready for a challenge, find me. Just head to the elevator and click ‘sheriff.’”

With that, the sheriff gestured toward the elevator. The writer crossed the room, catching a thumbs-up from the spacesuit-clad man. Inside the elevator, faint jazz played as the doors closed. The buttons displayed only two options: “Home” and “Sheriff.” The writer selected "Home."