Rourke tightened the straps on the interface helmet, his fingers trembling despite the steady breaths he forced himself to take. The rig felt heavier than he remembered—its thick, padded frame clamped down around his head like a vice, pressing the weight of his family’s future into his skull.

The apartment was silent. Not the warm kind of quiet, but the cold, stifling kind that made every sound feel like an intrusion. Even the low hum of the fridge seemed hesitant, as though afraid to interrupt.

Their living room barely qualified as one anymore. A couch sagged under the weight of years and repairs, its stuffing pushing against the seams. A rug, once patterned, had faded into nothing but hints of design. Two secondhand chairs flanked the table, groaning at the slightest shift. The wall screen hadn’t worked in months, and a cracked photo frame sat face-down on the shelf, untouched.

The room smelled faintly of reheated soup and synthetic lemon—leftovers from dinner, and the constant struggle to make their lives feel just a little cleaner.

Emily sat curled up on the couch, wrapped in her favorite blanket—the one with the old cartoon characters, now peeled and ghostly. She clutched it close, her eyes wide and unblinking. At eleven, she was far too observant. She didn’t say a word, just watched him—memorizing the way he moved, the tension in his shoulders, the tremor in his fingers.

Their mother leaned against the counter, arms folded tight. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. She kept glancing from the rig to Rourke, then back again. Her jaw was clenched, lips tight. She didn’t say anything either. Not yet.

His father stood by the door, one hand resting on the knob, the other hanging limp at his side. His work jacket was half off, boots still muddy. It looked like he had come home and simply... stopped moving.

No one needed to say it.

This was it.

The moment.

The beginning.

Rourke’s gaze dropped to the interface rig again. It was a Gen-3 NeuroLink—old, beat-up, but still functional. The headpiece was patched together with mismatched wires, and the main connection port had a slight wobble that always made him uneasy when it powered up.

He had rebuilt the damn thing from nothing.

When he first pulled it from the junkyard behind his friend’s workplace, it was nothing more than a dead shell—no power routing, no neural core, stabilization coils completely fried. But he had looked at the serial number, barely visible through years of grime, and thought, This is it. I can make this work.

And he had.

Two months. Dozens of borrowed tools. Late nights with cracked AR lenses showing repair guides. More cut fingers than he could count. But eventually, it powered on. Slowly, then steadily. He had breathed life back into it.

His hands bore the proof—fingers nicked, knuckles callused. Not the smooth hands he once had, but these felt stronger. Like armor earned.

He closed his eyes and rested his hands on the machine. The rig thrummed faintly under his touch.

It was ugly.

It was old.

But it worked.

It had to.

“You don’t have to do this today,” his mother said quietly. Her voice was low but firm, each word layered with worry and years of restraint.

She’d said it before. More than once. And each time, it sounded a little more like a plea.

Rourke didn’t answer right away. The words were in his throat, but they felt fragile, like glass—too easy to shatter if he let them slip out too fast.

“I know,” he said finally. He tried to sound calm. Grounded. Like someone who wasn’t scared out of his mind. “But if I don’t go now, someone else is going to grab the low-tier routes. The guilds are moving fast. Starter zones are getting locked behind contracts. This is my shot.”

His mother pushed off the counter, taking a slow step toward him. “We’ll find something else. We always do.”

He gave her a tired, crooked smile. “There isn’t anything else. Not unless you want me cleaning out warehouse bins with Dad for the next five years.”

At that, his father shifted slightly but said nothing. He didn’t even look up—just stared at the floor like it might hold an answer no one had found yet.

Rourke knew this wasn’t easy for them. Not just because of the risk. But because they couldn’t go with him. Couldn’t protect him. Couldn’t step in and pull him out if something went wrong.

They had been there once. Years ago. Players in the same world he was about to enter. Back before the fatal patch that locked users out permanently after in-game death. Back when you could respawn, reload, reset.

Until the game changed.

He remembered the night it happened. His mom had been raiding with a few old guildmates—routine dungeon, nothing risky. Then something glitched. A spell went off wrong. Lag spikes, chaos, screaming over comms. By the time backup arrived, it was too late. Her character flatlined. When she tried to log back in, the system blocked her.

Permanent neural tag conflict.

She was locked out for good.

His dad lasted a little longer. But without her, and with the looming threat of the same fate, he stopped taking risks. Played cautiously. And eventually, one misstep on a low-tier escort mission ended his run too.

From then on, everything changed.

He remembered coming home to find them hunched over old spreadsheets, whispering about debt, trying to stretch bills that wouldn’t stretch. The way his dad stirred cold noodles in silence. How his mom’s hands trembled over their shared datapad. They were still in the same home—but somehow... not.

They never blamed the game.

But they never talked about it again, either.

Now it was his turn.

He wasn’t going in blind. He had studied for this. Practiced. Prepared. But all that prep didn’t stop the knot tightening in his stomach as the moment closed in.

“We’re not asking you to quit,” his mother said, softer now. “We’re asking you to be careful.”

“I will be.”

“That’s not a promise you can make. Not in there.”

Rourke looked at her—really looked. She had aged in quiet ways. Thinner. Shoulders always slightly hunched, as if bracing for a blow that hadn’t come yet. Her voice held the weary edge of someone who had already lost too much.

“I’ll make it count,” he said.

Her eyes shimmered. She nodded, but didn’t trust herself to speak again.

That’s when his father finally stepped forward. His voice was steady, though his face betrayed something more fragile underneath.

“Just remember what we taught you. Don’t get caught up in hero stories. You get one shot. One.”

He had said it before. Over and over. A quiet mantra passed down during training runs, old simulations, hours spent memorizing maps.

One shot.

No respawns. No second chances.

And now, that phrase felt real in a way it never had before.

Emily stirred on the couch, her blanket bundled tight around her like armor. “You’re gonna come back, right?”

Rourke crouched beside her, meeting her eyes. “Yeah, Em. I’ll be able to log out whenever. I’m not going away.”

Emily didn’t answer right away. Her fingers clutched the edge of her blanket so tightly the fabric twisted in her hands. Her eyes searched his face, trying to find some thread of certainty in the words he’d just said.

“But…” she whispered, “Mom said if you die in there, you can’t ever go back.”

The silence that followed settled like dust—light but suffocating.

Rourke’s smile faltered for a moment. He wished he had something better to say. Something stronger. But all he could do was tell her what she needed to hear.

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But I won’t die. I’ve been careful. I’ve mapped out safe zones, trade hubs, the best starting quests. I’ve studied the mechanics backward. I’m not running in blind.”

He tapped his temple with two fingers, giving her a gentle smirk. “I’ve got all the walkthroughs in here. I know the danger zones. I’m not some guy charging into a PvP trap at level one.”

Emily’s expression didn’t change. “People who die didn’t think they would either.”

His chest tightened. He reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll come back, Em. I promise. That’s why I’ve been practicing. That’s why I waited this long. I’ve done everything right.”

He didn’t mention the system overrides. The way logging out only worked in a save zone. She didn’t need that burden. She nodded, but it was the kind of nod kids gave when they wanted to believe you—when they didn’t, but needed to hold onto something anyway.

Rourke stood slowly, letting his hand trail over the rig’s frame. The machine responded with a faint pulse, its diagnostic lights blinking green. The final checks had passed.

Two bedrooms. A shared bathroom. A kitchen that doubled as a hallway. This apartment was barely a shelter, but it was theirs. And it had held together longer than it should have. Longer than his parents should’ve had to fight to keep it.

They didn’t need luxury. They needed peace. Maybe if he did this right—if he made it far enough—he could get them out. A better apartment. Better schools. Fewer nights waiting for eviction bots or skipping meals when the grocery bill came up short.

This wasn’t about glory. It was about survival.

He stepped into the rig, locking his boots into place. The machine hissed softly as it adjusted to his height. Padded bars slid into place around his legs. The lumbar support shifted behind him with a smooth click. He reached for the harness, pulling it tight across his chest until it locked with a hiss and double-click.

The helmet felt heavier than before. Like it had soaked up the weight of everything he was trying to carry.

His mother stepped closer. Her voice trembled. “You remember the first time you tried to power that thing on?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I tried to load a character without syncing the neural buffer. You nearly smacked it off my head.”

“You would’ve fried your brain.”

“I didn’t even make it past the login screen.”

She laughed—just a little. The sound cracked at the edges, raw and unpracticed.

“You were thirteen,” she said. “And now… you’re ready to walk into the fire.”

“I’m just trying to make things better.”

“You already have,” she whispered.

His father stepped in beside her, silent but steady. “That’s enough.”

The words were plain. But the pride behind them was louder than anything else in the room.

Rourke raised the helmet.

Blue light flickered inside the visor, scanning and syncing. The neural threads inside glowed faintly, cold and metallic against his fingers. Soon they’d be warm. Soon he’d be inside.

He didn’t speak again.

Didn’t need to.

He lowered the helmet over his head.

Darkness washed over him.

The rig pulsed.

The world slipped away.