The Writer emerged from the sterile white room, stepping into a pool of crimson. The floor was so thoroughly soaked with an inch deep mixture of water and blood that the diamond-patterned carpet had become invisible. A foot from the door, the man in the spacesuit lay face down in the liquid, a thin metal pole protruding from his back, its end spitting a constant arc of electricity.

Across the room, the remnants of the crowd lay scattered, their faces frozen in shock and pain, each with a similar metal pole jutting from their lifeless bodies. The glow from the poles illuminated the otherwise dim room, the main lights extinguished, leaving only the sparks and the flashing emergency light to pierce the darkness.

He hadn’t fully stepped through the doorway, allowing only his leading foot to cross the threshold when the door slammed shut behind him, propelling him forward. Fear seized him, freezing him in place, his fingers the only part of him that moved as they twitched uncontrollably.

He surveyed the room, which now seemed eerily empty. Despite having held a lively crowd just moments ago, it was now a silent tomb of breathless corpses. In the distance, propped up against an overturned couch that leaned against the central waterfall, he spotted the man in a Napoleonic uniform. He appeared to be standing, and there was no visible device stuck in his body.

Lifting his foot from the blood-soaked floor, he began to walk towards the man, each step creating a sloshing sound as it disturbed the deep liquid. In the lobby’s fish pond lay the arm of a man who had been wearing a suit of armor, though the rest of his body was nowhere to be found. Fish were nibbling at its fingers. The sight sent a wave of nausea through the Writer, causing him to add his own liquid layer to the already gruesome pool.

“Hello…” The Writer said, approaching the man in the Napoleonic uniform. But the man remained unresponsive, standing still, seemingly frozen against the wall. The Writer’s advance seemed to mean nothing to him. The Writer raised his hand to touch his shoulder but hesitated, leaving his fingers hovering above the man. In that moment, he looked down to see the rest of the person wearing the suit of armor. A metal rod protruded from his shoulder, severing his arm and embedding itself deep within his torso.

The force of the rod must have not only torn the man’s arm off but also knocked him over, laying him against the man in the Napoleonic dress. The Writer bent down, careful not to touch either man, and saw the contact that the man’s metal armor made with the other body. Sparks still shot out of the metal rod and through the suit of armor and traveling into the man against whom he lay. Looking back up at the man in the Napoleonic uniform, he could see that his face too was devoid of life.

Instinctively, he took a step back, glancing behind him to ensure he wasn’t about to collide with another corpse. When he looked back, he saw a pair of bright red high-heeled stilettos. Beside them were footprints left by some sort of water-repelling substance. The red liquid pooled around them but never seemed to penetrate the footprint itself, leaving the outline of a petite woman’s steps. He saw how this woman seemed to dance around the room, running and jumping. He walked beside her steps for a while, circumventing overturned furniture. He could see points where she had run around the bodies, and others where she had run through, and bodies had subsequently fallen. The footprints led towards the entrance of the door and straight out, but he could not see any further because, as he looked up, where the entrance had been was now a thick concrete wall, seemingly poured and solidified instantaneously.

The woman must have leaped through just before the gate closed. The Writer noticed another set of footprints leading away from the newly formed concrete barrier at the entrance and towards the elevator. They were distinct, imprinted by heeled cowboy boots that seemed to repel any liquid from their step as well.

Stolen novel; please report.

The Writer took one last look around the room. It was a macabre display, bodies strewn about, in scene mirror some dark reflection of the party in the Sheriff home, less than an hour before. He followed the boot steps towards the elevator, mindful of the bodies and poles scattered around him. He noticed that not all the poles were embedded in bodies; some were forced into the ground, but their sparks extinguished. Only the poles in the bodies continued to flash.

As he approached, the elevator door opened. Inside, he saw two buttons: Home or Sheriff. He pressed the one labeled “Sheriff”. The door instantly opened to reveal the room he had stood in mere hours ago. But the atmosphere had changed. Despite being filled with the same eccentric items and vibrant colors, the room felt empty, lifeless. It was as if the party that had taken place was a grand finale.

“Who’s there?” a weak voice echoed from the distance.

“It’s me,” the Writer responded loudly.

“Well, come in quick,” the Sheriff replied, emerging from behind a large mirror obelisk.

The Writer began to navigate through the room, weaving around an array of lava lamps, potted trees, and other odd objects, making his way towards the Sheriff. The Sheriff, however, remained motionless. The Writer could see him trembling, a stark contrast to the fearless man who had ridden into a crowd of angry people just hours ago. Now, he stood alone, seemingly cowering in his own home.

“What happened?” the Writer asked as he approached the Sheriff.

The Sheriff didn’t respond. Instead, he stood there, shaking, his gaze fixed on the Writer. The Writer’s eyes scanned the room before settling on the large windows. Outside, a mob had gathered on the streets, their hands clutching torches, their bodies pushing against the sealed entrance. He could see the aftermath of violence, bodies lying motionless on the street bent into unnatural positions.

The Writer turned back to the Sheriff. “What happened?” he asked again.

“When I came to this world, it still meant something. I was a successful writer. People read my westerns from all over the world. Angel Inc contacted me, they knew my writing would make a difference to their system. All of us at Uptown were personally invited here when this world was still in its beta phase. We’ve worked for what we’ve achieved. Then they opened it up to the riff-raff who joined for little more than a handshake. And then they question why we have so much success. If they were successful, they would be where we are. But they are not. They are not. They are not,” the Sheriff said, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. Color returned to his face, and he began to pace around the room, his hand banging against the furniture.

“I did not come here to die. I came here so my work could live indefinitely. So that not only would my past work never die, but my new work would never die either,” the Sheriff continued, turning to look at the Writer. “I am going to stay here. They cannot come up to my room. I will continue to write, continue to publish. But as far as this world knows, I am gone. They out there can burn all they want, but I will be here.”

The Writer stepped back as the Sheriff continued his impassioned speech. The paleness had left his face, replaced by a feverish red glow. He looked less like a man and more like a creature caught in an inferno. The Sheriff reached into his holster, pulling out not a gun, but a tablet with a bright gold keyboard. He sank into one of his oversized beanbag chairs and began to type. The Writer watched him for several minutes, but the Sheriff seemed oblivious to his presence.

Eventually, the Writer turned and walked towards the elevator. The door opened as he approached, revealing two buttons: Lobby or Home. He pressed the button for Home and was instantly transported back to his room. He was greeted by his stark white living quarters. It was spacious and open, yet barren. He thought back to the woman he had told to leave and wondered if she wasn’t better off. He was stuck in this white room, no different than her. In the prison he thought there must be something better waiting for him outside through that door, but at this moment, he felt trapped, just as she was. He looked out the window and saw the restless crowd outside. Then he turned, looking at the blank walls and remembered the picture.

He touched his tattoo and said, “Hang Framed Picture.”

Before him floated the picture of a seashell that he had just won. He grabbed it, moved it, and placed it against one of his blank walls. It hung there, and he took a step back, gazing at the picture, wondering if this was his life.

Then the door to the elevator opened, and out stepped a barefoot Miss Rapusha. Her body was covered in red blood that matched her dress, and in her hands, she held two large glowing swords with electricity shooting out from the ends.