The cardboard box hit the concrete floor with a heavy, wet thud. A cloud of grey dust puffed up into the air, swirling in the weak light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling.I coughed, the taste of old dirt and mildew coating the back of my throat."It is cozy, isn't it?" Sarah said.I looked up. She was standing at the top of the wooden stairs, framed by the warm, golden light of the hallway.She held a silk handkerchief to her nose, pinching it delicately as if the air I was breathing was poisonous. She refused to take a single step down into the gloom."It is a basement, Sarah. It is a damp hole in the ground next to a furnace that sounds like a dying engine," I said.I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The humidity down here was already making my shirt stick to my spine."Oh, stop being so dramatic, Victor," she chirped with that sickeningly sweet tone she used whenever the house staff was nearby. "The doctor said you need a low-stimulation environ

I woke up with a crick in my neck that felt like a knife. I had fallen asleep on the keyboard again.The basement was freezing, and the stain on my shirt had dried into a stiff, purple crust.I needed fresh clothes. I needed to wash the smell of stale wine and failure off my skin.I climbed the stairs, moving slowly. The house was quiet. The gala was over, and the silence felt heavy, like the air before a storm.I walked to the master bedroom. The door was open. Sarah wasn't there.I walked into my dressing room. I just wanted a clean shirt.I opened the closet door.It was empty.I blinked. I rubbed my eyes, thinking the exhaustion and the lingering drugs were making me hallucinate.My rows of custom suits? Gone. My collection of Italian leather shoes? Gone. The hangers were bare, rattling softly in the draft.I turned to the wall safe. The heavy steel door was hanging open.I ran to it. I fell to my knees and peered inside.The velvet trays were bare. My Patek Philippe. My vintage R

The car ride was silent. The air conditioning in the limousine was on full blast, chilling the sweat on my neck.Sarah sat next to me, scrolling through her phone. She looked bored."Why am I here?" I asked."Because the tabloids are saying we are estranged," she said without looking up. "We need a paparazzi shot of us leaving the clinic together. The 'happy parents' seeing their baby. It plays well with the stockholders.""There is no baby," I said."Shut up, Victor," she snapped.We arrived at the clinic. It wasn't a normal hospital. It was a private suite with marble floors and a fountain in the lobby that trickled softly. It smelled of lavender and money.We were ushered into a dark room. The doctor, a man named Dr. Aris with a shiny gold watch and a greasy smile, was waiting."Ah, the happy couple," he said. "Lie back, Mrs. St. Claire."Sarah lay on the table. She pulled up her shirt.The doctor squirted the blue gel onto her stomach.I stood in the corner, arms crossed. I was wa

My hands were jumping like a pair of nervous rabbits when I woke up. I tried to grab a glass of water, but my fingers wouldn't close properly.The glass shattered on the concrete floor of the basement. I stared at the shards, my head spinning in a thick, grey fog.Sarah’s "medicine" was finally leaving my system, and it was taking my dignity with it. I felt like a machine with rusted gears.I called out to the System, begging for a healing skill or a detox buff. I was a Level 6 Sovereign, surely I could fix a few shakes.[Status: Physical Damage outside System Jurisdiction. Healing Skills Locked until Level 10.]The purple light mocked me before fading away. I was a titan in the digital world, but my meat and bones were failing.I couldn't go to the family doctor because he was on Sarah’s payroll. I couldn't go to a private hospital without the cameras finding me.I pulled on a dirty hoodie over my ruined dress shirt and slipped out the side gate. I walked toward the part of the city

The wind in the park was sharp and cold. It felt like it was trying to peel the skin right off my face.I sat on a wooden bench, shivering in a thin hoodie I had bought for five dollars at a thrift shop. My hands were stuffed into my pockets, but I couldn't hide the tremors.The metal of the bench felt like ice against my legs. I looked at the joggers and the happy families, feeling like I was invisible to the world.A black sedan pulled up to the curb a few yards away. The door opened, and Isabella Rossi stepped out, looking like she had just walked off a fashion runway.She wore a long black coat and boots that probably cost more than my father’s car. She walked toward me with a look of pure, filtered disappointment."You look like a man who is one step away from a cardboard box, Victor," she said. She didn't sit down. She just stood there, staring at me."I’m just keeping a low profile, Isabella. You know how it is," I tried to joke. My voice was shaky, and I hated it.She reached