Chapter Text
Early morning light filters through the thin, hole-ridden curtains, bathing the room in a hazy glow. A soft groan escapes your lips as you rub your eyes, desperately willing the dryness that comes with a lack of sleep away. Turning to the side, your eyes begin to search the darkness for the bright red light of your alarm clock, while your mind lags behind, the tendrils of sleep still wrapped around your brain. 5:53 am. It’s much too early for any sane Robloxian to be awake, but you find yourself rising anyway, pushing yourself with aching limbs into a sitting position.
It feels like you hadn't managed any sleep at all last night, or at least not anything substantial. Dozens of short bursts of light sleep, only to be forcibly dragged back to consciousness by the never-ending racket from outside. A part of you could be convinced that the window was left open and the abnormally loud sounds came from that crack. But that part is quickly squashed down by your rationale, as the final cobwebs of sleep are finally chased away. The window has been shut and locked since you started renting this apartment. Even if you wanted to, there was no way the window could open, the landlord keeping the key somewhere you didn't care to find.
A shiver runs down your spine as you kick off the threadbare blankets covering your bed, the little warmth they provided you now gone. After slamming a hand down on your clock to cancel the upcoming alarm, you stand, stretching in a poor attempt to rid yourself of the worst of your aches and pains. At least you could take a shower with the extra time you found yourself with; who knows, maybe the five minutes of hot water would do your tired muscles some good.
A wry smile works its way onto your face at the thought. If only you were so lucky as to get a full five minutes. But there was no way your landlord would allow such a drain on his resources. With one last sigh, you set about getting ready for the day. Blankets are haphazardly tossed over the mattress; the cheap, thin pillow is beaten within an inch of its life to get some sense of plumpness back; and the curtains are opened, letting light properly flood into the room.
Well, ‘flood’ might be a generous term. In reality, this place is stuck in perpetual shadow, with the only window in the room having the wonderful view of a graffiti-ridden brick wall. But there is enough light to see by, and that’s all you need. It wasn’t like you spent all too much time in the apartment anyway.
After grabbing your clothes for the day, you step into the bathroom, the only other room in the small apartment. The shower turns on with a soft click, water sputtering out of the head. Waiting a little for the temperature to go from freezing cold to somewhat warm, your eyes can’t help but take in all the imperfections of the tiny space. From the paint peeling off of the walls to the mould that coated the corners, like a parasite feeding off of the corpse of what once could have been a nice room. But fixing up this place had never been your intention. This place was never home to you; just somewhere to stay before one day, you can finally save up enough to move somewhere else. Somewhere nicer.
The shower door opens with a squeak, and you step inside, the warm water doing wonders for the aches caused by your cheap mattress and even cheaper bed frame. But if a little pain was the price to pay for getting out of this town faster, it was one you would pay a thousand times over.
An involuntary gasp escapes you as the water suddenly shifts to be freezing once more, making you shiver uncontrollably. Making quick work of washing yourself in the icy shower, you finish up in a few minutes and turn the shower off, leaving the head to drip slowly to itself. A lone, off-white towel sits on a hook in the wall, and you grab it, using the worn fabric to dry off, trying to ignore how the rough, scratchy material feels against your skin.
And then, you find yourself standing at the mirror, hands bracing against the sink that lay below it. Despite the lack of warm water, condensation fogs up the surface, rendering your reflection nothing but an amorphous blob. Hesitantly, a hand comes up, brushing some of the water away. Just enough to see, to check. Turning slightly, you bring your right arm into view, just visible in the slight gap you made amidst the condensation. And there, you see it. The reminder of the worst day of your life.
A large, open wound sits jagged on your flesh, the glitchy mass inside a stark contrast to the complexion of your skin. Tentatively, your left hand approaches it, gently feeling the sensitive skin around the wound. Still, it remains unchanged, remaining the same as it was all those years ago when you got it. One day, you would have to accept that it was fine, that the virus was dormant, that you weren't in any danger, but...not now. Every single day you check and analyse and make sure that nothing has changed, that you are safe and healthy.
Maybe, in the far future, you would get the thing removed properly. Somewhere safe, where you could trust the professionals to get it out of your code. But that couldn’t happen yet, not until you left this place and settled somewhere else. So, you sink to your knees and open the cabinet under the basin, grabbing a fresh roll of gauze and a pair of scissors.
Most of your wages go towards high-quality bandages, other than buying food and paying rent. It leaves you little to store in your savings and makes raising funds to get out of town a lot harder, but you won’t risk using anything else to cover the virus. A necessary task, partially so as to not aggravate the wound and partially to keep it away from prying eyes. If anyone found out you had a virus…
Your life might as well be over.
The fleeting thought sends a shiver down your spine, and you squash that line of thinking like it’s nothing more than a bug. The virus is dormant; you know that; it hasn't changed or progressed in years. And yet, you still check on it, day after day, anxious for any sign of improvement or for the worst to happen.
A soft thud sounds out as you stand up, closing the cupboard door. With a practiced ease, you wrap the wound tightly, hissing slightly in pain at the familiar pressure against the tender area. The bandage is cut and pinned in place, and in a few moments you finish, quickly shrugging on your outfit for the day.
You exit the bathroom, glancing at the time as you do so. 6:30 am, just enough time to get something to eat before work. Making your way over to the small kitchenette, which in reality is a corner with a counter, crappy stove, and refrigerator, you can’t help but yawn. Maybe some coffee would do you good.
…If you had any left, that is. And, as you open the single cabinet under the counter, that feels less and less likely to be the case. The cupboard is barren; all that remains there is the end of a loaf of bread and half a tin of soup. You frown slightly at the sight. Has it really been that long since you last went grocery shopping?
With a resigned sigh, you grab the bread, deciding to just eat it plain. It looks like a shopping trip is necessary, and before that you have to figure out where you stand financially. If you were as close as you hoped to the savings needed to get out of town, living off of scraps for the next few days might be a worthy sacrifice.
Regardless, that would be an issue for you to sort out later. You tear into the slice of bread, cringing at the dry texture. Far from the nicest meal you ever had, but it's enough to keep you going, and that's all you need. With the 'meal' quickly finished, you slip on some shoes and grab your jacket from the back of the chair it rests on.
The well-worn fabric fits around you comfortably, and you can’t help but smile a little as you shrug it on. Through thick and thin, you always had this jacket, and it felt more like home than any place you slept, as threadbare as it currently is. And, luckily enough, your work doesn’t have a strict uniform policy, letting you get away with wearing the jacket to cover the bandages wrapped around your arm.
The clock ticks over to 6:45, and you quickly grab your apartment keys, heading out and triple-checking the door is locked before hiding them in a hidden pocket sewn inside your jacket. With how common getting robbed was, you didn't want to take any chances.
The path to work is a short one, thankfully, but still, you take care while walking, constantly checking your surroundings. Seeing other pedestrians at this time is unusual, but you still remain vigilant, keeping a mental note of the closest place you could run to should something happen.
After a few minutes, you make it to work. The commute was as uneventful as usual, aside from a few stray cats knocking over a trash can, making you jump a lot more than you would ever admit. But no hacker or exploiter crossed your path, and that was good enough for you, especially given how this place teemed with the folk.
Honestly, a part of you found it funny how the admins never seemed to keep this place in check. Most decent Robloxians had left long ago, leaving only those who couldn't leave or who had grown up in this place and, for whatever inexplicable reason, didn't want to leave. Even then, the law of the land demanded a level of harshness to survive. And those who couldn’t abide by that (a hand absently comes to rub against your right arm) didn’t stick around for long, for one reason or another.
Physically shaking that train of thought away, you clock in and begin your shift, praying silently that today would be easy. Last night's lack of sleep has long since caught up to you; the gentle, yet familiar, pull of exhaustion making you yawn.
It’s going to be a long day.
Finally, the clock ticks over to 8 pm, and you let out a loud groan, head hitting the counter. Another day, finished, and hardly anything to show for it other than whatever spare change you made on minimum wage and a fresh bout of aches and pains. But those are the drawbacks of customer service, you suppose, and a team of shitty coworkers on top of that. Constantly leaving you with more work than you get paid to do, leaving earlier than allowed, and forcing you to close up every single night.
Sighing, you pick your head up and go about closing the store. Wasting time wasn’t something you could afford to do, not when you left so late. Nights are dangerous in this town, and you couldn’t put yourself at a greater risk of something happening for the sake of being lazy.
In a matter of minutes, everything is closed and locked up, and you begin the short walk home, keys clutched tightly between your knuckles, just in case. Walking at night was always more nerve-wracking than the morning commute; shadowed alleys and noisy, rowdy groups doing nothing for the anxiety that constantly ate away at you.
Footsteps echo out in the silent night air as you walk quickly home, jacket pulled tighter to stave off the chill that seemed to come out of nowhere. A short gust of wind blows against you, and you shiver, speeding up slightly. It was…quiet tonight. Unusually so, but you weren’t one to discount blessings. Less noise meant fewer people around, and that meant less chance of something happening. But still, you keep your head up, looking, constantly observing, waiting for the slightest sign of–
Something moves. It’s nothing but a brief flash, barely visible from the corner of your eye, but you don’t hesitate, breaking out into a sprint, mind laser-focused on where to go, where was safe, where you could hide. You hear footsteps behind you—fast, heavy, and loud footsteps. The closest place was…your apartment. And that wasn’t for several blocks at least; you’d never make it in time.
Your arms and legs pump in unison as you speed up, trying to gain distance between yourself and whatever lies behind you. Panic begins to swell in your chest, but you shove it down; you have to think, have to focus; you couldn’t give in to panic right now! But as you feel your chest ache, desperate for more air than you can take in, you know you’ll have to stop soon. The only option was to hide.
Legs burning, you turn a corner sharply, nearly falling with the harsh turn. But you keep your balance, not even daring to look back. And yet despite that, you catch sight, from the corner of your eye, of a darkened figure moving closer. Tears gather at the corners of your eyes, stinging against the strong wind that suddenly picks up, blowing against you, but you keep pushing, keep running, keep going. An alley lies not too far from where you are, you know that; you just have to get there quickly.
Another sharp turn and…there! The alley waits, and you could break down sobbing at the sight of it, at the sight of a place to rest, to stay safe. Footsteps slow, and you pant heavily, catching your breath as you approach. But you waste no time, stepping into the alley and allowing the shadows to cover you, to keep you safe.
Taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly in an effort to calm the dread that seemed to pull at your very core, you stand still. Silent. The alley is barren, nothing to hide behind but the shadows that cling to the corners. Instantly, you regret your decision to stop here. If the person chasing you happened to look down the alley, then you'd be done for, cornered, and with nothing to hide behind or protect yourself with.
Footsteps sound out again. They’re getting closer now; you can hear them clearly, scraping against the concrete. Slower, this time, but that does nothing to stop your growing anxiety. Is it too late to run? To get out of here and sprint home? They were fast, that much you knew; they would probably outrun you, judging by how quickly they seemed to get to the alley.
The footsteps are close; only a few more, and whatever had chased you would be here, in front of your meagre hiding spot. You inhale shakily, holding your breath in the hopes that maybe, it would stop anyone from noticing you.
But you know that's an impossibility. And so when the figure steps into view of the alley, almost immediately turning to face you, the shock and terror running through your system isn't due to believing you would get away, no.
The figure's appearance causes that terror. The very texture of their clothes seems to swap every second, moving and folding in ways not physically possible. Eye-straining colours flash across the surface of their skin; the visible parts, that is, the parts not covered in a grainy static, black and white and neon blocks perpetually flashing and swapping and changing. The static crawls up their body from one of their legs in a branching, tree-like pattern, claiming most of the being's torso and left shoulder.
Their body glitches and spasms uncontrollably as they smile; a horrible, unnerving thing, in part due to their mouth and eyes moving positions on their face as they stand there, staring at you.
You know exactly what you're faced with. The very thing you fear becoming every day.
This person was infected with a virus.
Fear pulses through your body, your heart racing and sending adrenaline coursing through your veins, muscles tensed and ready to run. But you can't. You can't go anywhere; you can't run or hide. You cornered yourself, and now all you can do is stare at the thing that will surely kill you as they do the same.
The two of you remain locked like that for what feels like an eternity. Mind desperately racing, you try and think of something, anything you can do to get out, to be able to survive this, but nothing would work, would get you out alive. Barely surviving your last encounter with one of these beings had been nothing short of a miracle, a miracle that you wouldn't be blessed with twice.
A glint catches your eye, and your eyes snap to the being's hand. A knife. Images of being stabbed and left out here to bleed dry flash through your mind, and you shift backwards slightly, breaking the standoff the two of you were having.
That's all it takes. The infected Robloxian lunges forward, knife outstretched, as they grin manically. You step backwards instinctively, arms coming to a cross in front of you in some feeble attempt to block the oncoming attack, eyes squeezed shut tightly.
But as you step back, you stumble, losing your footing. The feeling of falling overtakes you, and the sharp pain of the impending attack never comes. Squeezing your eyes shut, you wince in anticipation of the impact you’re sure to make against the concrete street.
… But the impact never comes. It feels like you’re falling, still, and as you open your eyes, you find yourself surrounded by nothingness. Surely, you should have hit the ground by now, right?
Something clicks. The darkness, the unfamiliarity, the emptiness-all of it mixes into a cocktail of anxiety. Where are you? What happened? A thousand questions, thoughts, and fears fill your mind, finally bubbling over and spilling out, washing over you in a wave of panic. Eyes dart left and right as you search for something, anything in the darkness. Your mind keeps running, faster and faster, a leaky faucet of fear that just can’t turn off.
Adrenaline shoots through your system, and the same urge to run is replaced with the need to panic, arms flailing about uselessly as you continue in what seems like free-fall.
And then, there is something.
You’re being watched.
That single, horrifying thought is the last thing your mind processes before the darkness fully consumes you and your consciousness with it.