For forty-eight hours, sleep became optional.
Reality Quest went live at exactly midnight GMT, dropping one thousand selected players into a twelfth-century English town, faithfully reconstructed down to the smallest imperfection. Narrow dirt streets wound between timber-framed houses. Thatched roofs sagged with age. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, carrying the smell of peat and cooked grain. Chickens wandered freely. Church bells tolled the hour with uneven rhythm, pulled by tired hands rather than code.
The town had no title screen introduction.
No tutorial voice.
Players simply arrived.
Streams exploded across every major platform within minutes. At first, viewers assumed it was another ultra-hardcore medieval RPG—beautiful textures, absurd draw distance, lighting that shifted naturally with cloud cover. Players tested movement, crouched in the mud, brushed past villagers, bumped into carts.
The carts moved.
A streamer kicked over a barrel. It cracked, spilling grain into the street. A boy screamed. A woman rushed over, shouting in Middle English-accented English, scolding him for wasting winter food.
Chat froze.
The first real conversation happened outside a blacksmith's forge. A player tried the usual gamer behavior—jumping, spinning, unsheathing his sword repeatedly in front of the NPC.
The blacksmith stopped hammering.
Slowly.
He turned.
"Either buy something," the man said, wiping sweat from his brow, "or stop making a fool of yourself before someone mistakes you for one."
The tone wasn't scripted irritation.
It was judgment.
The streamer laughed and typed an insult, expecting the standard response loop.
The blacksmith's face darkened.
"You speak boldly for someone alone in a town that remembers," he said. "Try that again and see how welcome you are."
The forge fire flared as if reacting to the tension.
The streamer backed away.
Within an hour, clips flooded the internet.
NPCs didn't reset.
They remembered.
Players discovered that behavior carried consequences. Insulting a priest resulted in higher prices town-wide. Helping a farmer mend a fence earned free meals days later. A player who struck a tavern patron found himself refused service everywhere—and followed at night by hostile men.
This wasn't medieval aesthetic.
It was medieval society.
Then someone died.
A heavily armored player attempted to rob a merchant caravan on the road leading out of town. He underestimated the guards—trained men, coordinated, unpanicked. Steel rang. The player fell.
There was no dramatic death screen.
Just choking breath.
Blood soaking into dirt.
Black.
A message appeared:
> The world continues.
The stream did not reload.
Instead, viewers watched the caravan move on. Guards dragged the body aside. A priest later passed, murmuring a prayer. NPCs spoke of the attack for hours afterward.
When the player chose to continue, he was given a new avatar—new name, new face, new birth circumstances.
Everything else was gone.
Skills. Reputation. Property.
Only RQ Coin remained—wealth converted earlier from gold, silver, and bronze currency into the game's persistent cryptocurrency.
Panic hit fast.
Hardcore gamers celebrated. Casual players panicked. Economists began live-streaming breakdowns of the in-game economy. Historians marveled at the accuracy. Psychologists warned about emotional attachment.
The phrase "This game doesn't forgive you" trended worldwide.
And this was still just a demo.
Despite being limited to PCs, consoles, VR, and AR sets, viewership crossed tens of millions. Parents argued. Governments asked questions. Studios quietly panicked.
Reality Quest wasn't competing with games anymore.
It was competing with reality.
---
Roy Campanella Park sat under a thin veil of fog that night.
Six men stood near the center of the open field, jackets zipped high, hands restless. These were the top figures of the Northside Crips—men who didn't meet unless something serious was on the table.
Derek was late.
Twenty minutes late.
One of them muttered, "We getting played."
Then engines rolled in low and slow.
Two large SUVs entered the field, headlights cutting through the mist. The first vehicle stopped.
Doors opened.
Men poured out—disciplined, silent, wearing plate carriers and helmets. Assault rifles hung naturally in their hands, muzzles low but ready. They formed a perimeter with professional ease.
The Crips tensed.
"This wasn't the deal," one said sharply.
The second SUV opened.
Derek stepped out, calm, unhurried. Bala followed him, massive and expressionless.
Derek walked forward alone.
"Evening," he said casually.
One of the gang leaders stepped up. "You said no weapons."
Derek smiled.
"I lied."
The air changed instantly.
"You think this scare tactics?" the man snapped.
"No," Derek replied evenly. "This is clarity."
He stopped a few feet away, meeting each of their eyes.
"My name is Derek Morgan. CEO of the Raven Corporation."
"Never heard of you," someone scoffed.
"That's intentional," Derek said.
He gestured behind him. "Those men are former military. They don't miss, and they don't need warnings. If I wanted every gang in Compton erased, it would already be happening."
Silence followed.
"But I don't want that," Derek continued. "Violence is inefficient."
He paced slowly.
"You deal in drugs, prostitution, protection. Dirty money. Hard to move."
No one interrupted.
"I can clean it. Wash it. Make it usable. For a fee."
"How much product you holding?" Derek asked.
They hesitated.
"Two hundred thousand," one finally said.
Derek knew it was a lie.
He nodded anyway.
"Account number."
The transfer went through seconds later.
"Three hundred thousand," Derek said. "Payment for the drugs."
Confusion rippled across their faces.
"Now listen," Derek continued. "Every gram gets boxed up tonight. You call the police and hand it over."
"You serious?" someone snapped.
"Completely."
"You abandon the drug trade," Derek said calmly. "On my turf, there are no drugs."
"And if we don't?" another asked.
Derek's smile faded.
"People disappear every day," he said quietly. "Sometimes no one asks why."
The rifles shifted slightly.
"I'll provide jobs," Derek added. "Real ones. Anyone with skills gets a chance."
He turned to leave.
"Northside Compton is mine now."
The SUVs rolled away, engines fading into the night.
No shots fired.
No threats shouted.
But everyone there understood one thing clearly:
Just like Reality Quest—
Derek Morgan operated in worlds where actions never reset.