The air in the "Real World" wasn't a programmed breeze; it was a thick, suffocating soup of dampness and ancient ash.
I stood at the edge of the violet forest, my lungs burning with every inhalation. In the simulation, breathing had been a background process—as effortless as a line of code executing in the dark. Here, it was a labor. My chest heaved, my ribs aching against the unfamiliar weight of my own skin. My hands were stained with real dirt, and a small cut on my palm throbbed with a persistent, sharp sting that no "Healing Patch" could touch.
Beside me, Commander Halloway—the woman with the scar—spat onto the blackened soil. She didn't look at the violet trees with wonder. To her, they were just another variable in a world that had gone mad decades ago.
"Don't get too attached to
