When the countdown reached zero, the world did not pause.
There was no global notification. No cinematic launch event. No developer livestream counting down the final seconds. Reality Quest simply unlocked—quietly, efficiently—across every digital storefront capable of handling it.
The price was one dollar.
That detail alone caused confusion.
In the first thirty seconds, automated systems across multiple platforms flagged the game as either a pricing error or an exploit. Human supervisors intervened. The flags were cleared. The downloads continued.
Within five minutes, Reality Quest climbed to the top of every trending chart.
Within ten, payment processors began throttling transactions—not because of fraud, but because volume limits were being hit faster than they had ever been tested.
By the end of the first hour, one million copies had been sold.
By midnight, the number stood at 18.2 million.
No mobile release.
No casual market.
Just PCs, consoles, VR rigs, and AR setups—devices owned by people who took gaming seriously.
Social media collapsed into noise.
Streams flooded every major platform. Clips circulated faster than moderators could tag them. People weren't shouting or celebrating—they were whispering, voices low and unsettled, as if afraid the game could hear them.
Players didn't talk about graphics.
They talked about weight.
About how walking through mud felt slow for a reason. About how NPCs didn't repeat dialogue, didn't forgive insults, didn't forget favors. About how towns changed depending on who lived—or died—within them.
The phrase "the world doesn't reset" trended worldwide within hours.
Economists started publishing threads about RQ Coin. At launch, it sat at 1 RQ = $0.0010—laughably small. And yet analysts noticed something troubling.
The coin wasn't speculative.
It was functional.
Players who converted in-game currency early retained purchasing power across avatars. Players who didn't…started from nothing.
Historians praised the accuracy of the continents. Africa, Europe, and Asia were not caricatures—they were lived-in spaces. Cultures blended, clashed, adapted. Borders mattered. Trade routes evolved.
Psychologists went on air warning about emotional attachment, identity bleed, and grief responses after avatar death.
Parents argued.
Governments asked quiet questions.
Game studios panicked.
And through it all, Blackfire Technologies remained silent.
No interviews.
No press releases.
No denials.
Just servers expanding overnight.
Derek Morgan watched the numbers once.
Then he closed the dashboard.
Three days later, the noise had sharpened into focus.
Derek stood with Alan Payne and Kyle Butler in a private conference room, North Compton sprawled across multiple screens. Construction timelines overlapped with logistics schedules. Air freight lanes highlighted in blue. Shipping routes in red.
"Two billion," Derek said calmly.
Kyle didn't blink. "Cargo planes and ships?"
"Yes."
"We'll triple fleet capacity in six months," Kyle replied. "Maybe faster."
"Good," Derek said. "We don't wait for demand. We outpace it."
With the meeting concluded, Derek did something that continued to confuse everyone around him.
He left.
No convoy.
No armored car.
Just Derek and Bala.
They walked several blocks to a quiet side street, far from construction noise and press barricades. The ice cream shop was small, old, and utterly unremarkable—exactly why Derek liked it.
Bala entered first.
He didn't scan theatrically or posture. He ordered black coffee, sat at the counter, and positioned himself where he could see both the door and Derek without looking like he was trying.
Derek ordered vanilla with crushed almonds, paid in cash, and sat near the window.
For a few minutes, the world was normal.
Then the door opened.
Two men stepped inside.
They didn't look like criminals. They didn't look like cops. Their clothes were practical, fitted, and expensive enough to be intentional. Their eyes moved too much, their posture too rigid.
One of them clocked Bala immediately—registered him as a potential obstacle, then dismissed him as manageable.
They approached Derek's table.
"Derek Morgan," the taller one said.
Derek didn't look up.
"We need you to come with us."
Derek took another spoonful of ice cream.
"No."
The shorter man frowned. "This isn't a negotiation."
Derek finally raised his eyes.
"You haven't identified yourselves," he said calmly. "You haven't shown credentials. And you've interrupted my dessert."
The taller man leaned closer. "You're attracting attention you don't understand."
Derek smiled faintly. "I understand it perfectly."
The shorter man lost patience.
He slapped the table, sending the ice cream cup crashing to the floor. White splatter spread across the tiles.
"That was your last—"
Derek moved.
The motion was fast but controlled. He rose, seized the back of the man's head, and drove it into the table with surgical precision. The crack echoed through the shop.
The man collapsed, stunned and bleeding.
The second man reached for his jacket—
—and froze.
Because Bala had stood.
No weapon drawn.
No threat spoken.
Just presence.
The man's eyes widened as he took in Bala's size, the stillness, the certainty that this was not someone to test.
Derek straightened, adjusted his jacket, and looked at him.
"Take him," Derek said. "And leave."
The man hesitated for half a second.
Then he complied.
They stumbled out, dragging the injured man behind them.
The bell over the door chimed softly.
Bala sat back down.
Derek placed cash on the counter—enough to cover damages and more.
"My apologies," he said to the clerk. "For the inconvenience."
Outside, the air was cool.
"You alright?" Bala asked.
"Yes," Derek replied. "But I want another ice cream."
That evening, the same two men stood in the governor's office.
"Confirmed identity?" the governor asked.
"Yes," one replied. "Derek Morgan."
"And Blackfire?"
"Likely connected."
The governor leaned back slowly.
"So the man reshaping Compton," he said quietly, "is also reshaping reality."
No one laughed.
Outside, servers hummed.
And Derek Morgan slept soundly—already planning what would break next.