A black-haired man lies unconscious in a narrow dark alley behind a busy tavern.

His nose twitches, picking up the fragrant assaults of rotting rubbish and puddles of piss and puke, ripened by the summer heat. He inhales, and chokes, his gorge rising. His eyes flying open, he shoves himself up from the ground, and takes in at a glance—

Cobblestones, a half-open wooden door with a glimpse of the bright kitchen within, short brick buildings on either side, and above, a night sky pinpricked with countless stars.

He freezes, barely breathing, and jerks his gaze downwards to his body.

Loose grey robes heavily stained down his front, with long black pants beneath and black cloth shoes. Something hard is strapped across his back. He tugs on the thick, padded strap, and swings around a sword in a worn, notched scabbard.

He stares at the dragon head, gleaming dully gold in the darkness, at the top of the sword’s hilt.

His head is throbbing, and an impenetrably thick fog enshrouds his mind, his stomach heaving with nausea.

He needs to remember something. What is it?

His name.

A cold flash of horror: what is his name? And a sigh of relief, because the answer is delivered, as soon as the question is formed: Hector.

He is a man named Hector, and he is plugged into virtual, the cable cool against his neck, and through his visor, he sees a flash of lightning, hears the rumble of a storm.

He flicks away the weather report and enters the Arcade.

An animated pop-up: a sun-drenched street of two-storeyed buildings with red- and green-tiled roofs, leading to a distant wall stretching in either direction, set with vividly red, iron-studded double doors. A sign above them reads Forbidden City. People are strolling down the street, dressed in layers of flowing silk robes, hair worn long and braided.

Text is superimposed over the whole scene in swooping cursive: The Odyssey.

His hand hovers, hesitates, and the game trailer starts to play, unfurling like a scroll, words appearing in brush strokes: an ancient world of dead gods and magic—a quest to save the realm from Chaos—four Suitors to guide the way.

This dating sim game has been at the top of Arcade charts for weeks. Its gameplay videos are everywhere on Streamspace, not including the few hundred hours of commentary videos debating whom is the best Suitor: the doe-eyed prince and the devoted mercenary are the popular choices.

Hector wants to be entertained, and the game only costs seven lunarels—with a shrug, he enters the game.

Science says it is imaginary, his slot at the base of his skull tingling; no physical impact, it’s all in the mind, they wrote in scientific journals, as human beings start downloading sensory data directly into their brains to create more authentic experiences.

As the game loads up and floods his brain with stimulation, his room flashes with white-blue lightning, electric blinding fire, and he is not imagining it this time: the cable is hot, his slot is searing, his brain is ablaze with agony, and he is screaming—screaming—

Hector stares now at a very solid sword he holds in unfamiliar hands: golden-brown skin, scarred knuckles, a raised scar on the back of the right hand. He examines that right hand, takes a few seconds to open and close his fist—long, strong fingers—and pinches the underside of his left upper arm.

He groans in pain, and startles himself with his voice, low and raspy. His throat hurts, and he is abruptly desperate for water. He sits up, taking a moment to hold his aching head in his hands.

Ascertain the facts. His training as a hull engineer, made for the long solo jaunts in space, kicks in.

He is no longer in the world he knows.

He has been transported into the dating sim game, The Odyssey.

He—or his mind, his soul, whatever that makes him Hector.

He does not know how to get back—at least, not yet.

He is in desperate need of water and a bath.

He should get out of this disgusting alley: there, the first task, and he will take the rest as it comes. Steady breaths, do not waste your energy panicking. When you are out there in the cold emptiness of space, you will always be your own first and last rescuer—the first lesson of the academy, and Hector born for the Colony has survived twenty-five years by it.

The door in front of him opens wider, and the alley floods with warm yellow light. He flinches, looking up, and gawps.

A mountain of a man, his bulky barrel-like shape backlit, so that his features remain in shadow. He looms over Hector, and says in a deep growl of a voice: ‘Are you Karios?’

He moves out of the doorway, and the light falls sideways across his face. Curly dark hair worn in several thick braids, the ends bound with beads and metal rings; piercing dark eyes with heavy brows tightly furrowed—a metal ring glints in the left brow—and a square jaw covered in stubble, tightly clenched, lips pressed together with distaste.

Handsome, brutally handsome. This is a man who would drape his love around you like the heavy cloak he wears, fasten it around your neck when you try to leave without it. He would scoop you in those burly arms and bear you across all rivers and streams. He would hurl himself between you and the charging boar, taking the tusks to his chest.

Hector has seen the compilation video, THE ALRETE ARC: Romance cut scenes.

Alrete the Mercenary stands before Hector, glowering, and he has just called Hector Karios.

The Wanderer, one of the four main Suitors in The Odyssey.

Hector promptly throws up at the mercenary’s feet.