The elevator doors closed with a decisive click then immediately reopened, but the world had shifted. The opulent lobby vanished, replaced by a vast room with a 20-foot vaulted ceiling adorned by thick wooden beams. The walls stood blank, lacking of any ornamentation, and the room itself echoed with its emptiness. One side was lined with tall windows, offering a view into the street below.

From this vantage point, he surveyed the scene. Hundreds of people milled about, some walking purposefully, while others simply sat. It was as if they existed here without any specific destination or purpose, just adrift in a concert sea.

His attention shifted to a challenge room on the ground floor of a nearby building. Through its windows he saw a bright white room similar to the one he saw before. He watched intently. An old man in a sailor’s hat entered, followed by a young woman in khaki attire similar to his own. Yet, when the door swung open again, only an old woman clad in leather pants emerged. This puzzled him. He looked up and door the street some more among the throngs of people on the street, only a handful showed interest in venturing inside.

He stepped away from the window and crossed the room to the kitchen, a cavernous space branching off the main hall. The kitchen, too, lay barren except for a plain white refrigerator. As he pulled open the fridge door, an unexpected display materialized before him:

Pizza – 10 Tokens

Steak – 50 Tokens

Wine – 30 Tokens

Soup – 10 Tokens

Caviar – 100 Tokens

Tiger Cutlets – 1000 Tokens

Soda – 5 Tokens

Ramen – 1 Token

His mind raced back to the thin woman. By giving her his tokens, he had traded his own hunger for hers. Yet, he figured that if he had withheld those tokens, she would have triggered that trap. The situation gnawed at him.

Recollections flooded in, the cell, the pain of losing his first life, the man with the blood dagger. What if he had stabbed? Would he have died?

Shaking off the memories, he closed the fridge, and the display vanished. Leaving the kitchen, he entered the bedroom. A projected display adorned the wall, listing various categories of items: furniture, paint, artwork, and miscellanea.

His hand glided over the display, considering each item:

Red Paint – 100 Tokens

Race Car Bed – 200 Tokens

Ping Pong Table – 500 Tokens

Stuffed Bear – 2000 Tokens

At the bottom, a button beckoned: “Buy with Gems.” He clicked it, revealing a new set of prices:

Red Paint – 1 Gem

Race Car Bed – 2 Gems

Ping Pong Table – 5 Gems

Stuffed Boar – 10 Gems

Exiting the bedroom, he glanced out the window once more, hoping to spot the man in the sailor hat or the young woman leaving the challenge room. Neither emerged. His room remained empty, and those exorbitant prices ensured it would stay that way.

Approaching the elevator, he noted the revised buttons: “Lobby” and “Sheriff.”

The door closed, and he pressed “Sheriff.” Instantly, it swung open again.

“Surprise!” a chorus of voices erupted. Nearly twenty people stood in a room identical to his own, the same wide walls and vaulted ceiling. But this room was anything but empty; it overflowed with an eclectic mix of furnishings. The walls resembled a cosmic canvas, painted in swirling galaxies, stars, and planets. In the center, a cage housed two live alligators, their eyes alert and jaws poised. Surrounding them, mismatched furniture, each piece with odd patterns and colors, created an atmosphere of delightful chaos.

The man in the spacesuit, whom he’d encountered in the lobby, approached, holding two wine glasses. “For friendship,” the man declared, offering one to him.

Without hesitation, the Writer accepted the glass and downed its contents. His thirst surprised him, the wine vanished almost instantly.

“Thank you,” he stammered, setting down the empty glass. “I suppose I was quite thirsty.”

The man opened his helmet, revealing a round face adorned with a handlebar mustache. The Writer extended his hand for a handshake, but the man pulled back.

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“No, shaking hands is a distasteful custom. I abstain from it,” the astronaut declared, “I’ve lived 6954 lives and never lost one. I refuse to let a virus take my first.”

The Spaceman bowed gracefully, then retreated towards the room’s center with a rhythmic, dance-like step. As he receded, the Writer’s gaze fell upon an array of exotic cheeses, artfully arranged on a coffee table nestled between a leopard print bean bag chair and a towering lava lamp. Drawn to the food as if by an unseen force, the Writer found himself reaching for the pungent cheese, forgoing the use of a plate or utensils. His actions elicited laughter from the onlookers, but he remained undeterred, continuing to consume the aromatic blue cheese.

“Let him feast,” the Spaceman interjected.

Once the cheese platter was empty, the Writer regained control. He glanced around the room, meeting the eyes of the spectators. He offered a sheepish smile, acutely aware of his spectacle.

“If you neglect regular meals, your programming compels you to seek out available sustenance,” a woman in a long, formal red dress and matching stilettos explained, approaching with a glass of brandy. She exuded confidence and grace, her every move radiating elegance. Her warm smile was inviting, her green eyes sparkled with intelligence and charm, and her diamond jewelry added a touch of glamour.

“I am Miss Rapusha, the second wealthiest individual in Creativion, surpassed only by the Sheriff. Please forgive the others. It’s been quite some time since we’ve had a newcomer in Uptown. Frankly, they’ve grown rather dull,” she said, extending her hand palm down.

The Writer grasped her hand, shaking it enthusiastically. Her smile was slightly amused, making the Writer suspect he’d committed a faux pas. Yet, despite his apparent gaffe, Miss Rapusha’s presence was comforting. She felt like a genuine ally, for reasons he couldn’t articulate.

“How the Sheriff get so much? Everything here is so… extravagant,” the Writer inquired, a hint of regret tinging his voice for posing such a personal question so soon after their introduction.

Miss Rapusha’s smile was reassuring, easing the Writer’s discomfort. “In the early days accumulating wealth was straightforward. The AI was easy to beat. The Sheriff and I were among the pioneers here. We made our fortunes and now invest them with Angel Inc., which offers a Gem investment that yields daily returns. This allows us to avoid the dreaded loot boxes. Unfortunately, this won’t work for you, dear. But remember, you’re always welcome to join me for a meal. I can never resist sharing oysters Rockefeller with a friend.”

With that, she raised her glass, took a sip of brandy, and gracefully retreated. Her departure left a palpable void, her presence having commanded the Writer’s attention. Across the room, the Writer’s gaze met the Sheriff’s. Clad in his white western attire and armed with a six-shooter revolver, the Sheriff began to approach. His green eyes fixed on the Writer.

“How are you finding Uptown, partner?” he asked, clapping the Writer on the shoulder.

“It’s quite impressive,” the Writer responded, taking the opportunity to study the Sheriff more closely. Amidst the relative calm of the party, he could truly appreciate the Sheriff’s stature, tall and lean, with a smooth face and a confident stride reminiscent of his horseback riding.

“You don’t realize how fortunate you are,” the Sheriff remarked, leading the Writer towards a window. They navigated through the revelers, some of whom were now heavily intoxicated. One man, dressed in a Napoleonic officer’s uniform, lay sprawled on the floor, a bottle still clutched in his hand. Bypassing the unconscious man, the Sheriff and the Writer arrived at the window.

“Look down,” the Sheriff commanded, his gaze fixed on the people below. “Less than one percent of Creativion’s inhabitants can afford even a cardboard box, let alone an apartment or house. Of those fortunate enough to have a home, fewer than thirty can afford to live here. Your apartment alone is worth more than the combined wealth of those on the street. Each time they open a loot box, they dream of possessing what you already have. But they won’t, and you did.”

As night fell, the city remained illuminated by the glow of streetlights. People lay scattered on the sidewalks and even in the middle of the streets, their bodies forming a human mosaic with their bodies like tiles against the concrete. The city seemed devoid of cars, and the only horse the Writer had seen belonged to the Sheriff. Amid the crowd, he spotted an old man in a sailor’s hat, slumped against a building wall, seemingly asleep.

“I saw that man enter the challenge room earlier,” the Writer pointed out.

Without shifting his gaze, the Sheriff responded, “I’m glad he made it out. Not many do these days.”

Swiftly turning to face the Writer, the Sheriff asked, “Speaking of challenges, may I see your stats?”

“Stats?” the Writer echoed, recalling the Stats displayed in his cell but unsure how to retrieve them.

“Like this,” the Sheriff demonstrated, pressing his finger against his tattoo and commanding, “Stats, Public Display.”

A holographic display materialized before them, revealing:

User: Sheriff001

Followers: 239,917

Class: Writer

* Writing: 10

* Speed: 10

* Endurance: 10

* Creativity: 10

* Lives: 98,938

The Sheriff removed his hand, and the display vanished. “Your turn. Just say, ‘Stats, Public Display.’”

Following the Sheriff’s instructions, the Writer touched his tattoo and said, “Stats, Public Display.”

As the Writer’s stats materialized in the room, a few of the more lucid individuals gravitated towards them, their eyes widening at the display:

User: Shepherd765

Followers: 11

Class: Writer

* Writing: 2

* Speed: 2

* Endurance: 2

* Creativity: 2

* Lives: 2

A ripple of laughter spread through the room, some stifled behind hands, others less restrained.

“No good, but you’ll improve quickly,” the Sheriff assured him, “Are you ready for your first real challenge?”

Without waiting for a response, he seized the Writer’s arm, guiding him through the haphazardly arranged furniture towards the door. With a sweeping gesture of his hand, he summoned the others to follow. Some even hoisted those too inebriated to stand, like the man in the Napoleonic uniform, onto their feet.

The crowd surged towards the elevator, the doors parting as the first guest approached. Everyone crammed into the confined space, bodies pressed against bodies. Only the man in the spacesuit remained outside.

“I’ll take the next one,” he declared.

The doors closed swiftly, only to reopen almost instantly on the lobby floor. The crowd spilled out, the Writer carried along by the tide until they halted before a small private challenge room in the Uptown Condo Association lobby. The crowd parted, leaving the Sheriff and the Writer standing alone before the challenge room door.

The Sheriff nudged the Writer towards the door.

“It’s time,” he said, stepping back and leaving the Writer alone before the challenge room, under the watchful eyes of the crowd.