The alarm blared across the quiet condo, a piercing shriek that seemed to shake the walls more than it stirred me. I rolled over, eyes half‑open, waiting for something that would never come — that soft, familiar "good morning" in a voice I knew better than my own reflection. It had been a year since Erica's calls stopped, yet my brain still expected them at sunrise, a cruel reflex I could neither train nor ignore. I used to tell myself that was why I was always late to work… an excuse wrapped neatly in denial.
The blinds flickered with morning light, spilling golden stripes across the floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, tiny dancers floating through the still air, like echoes of conversations long gone or laughter that had been silenced. I blinked, squinting against the brightness, and for a brief moment I imagined her silhouette there, standing by the window, hair tied in those familiar braids, smiling at some private joke.
Outside, the city was awake. Cars rumbled, horns honked, vendors shouted, and life unfurled in waves of indifference. The world had moved on. I hadn't.
I got dressed mechanically — gray slacks, wrinkled white shirt, the uniform of a man who was half-present in the day. The mirror caught my reflection: tired eyes, a jaw set too tight, a posture curled inwards, as if clinging to something that had long disappeared. I looked like someone who'd lost more than just sleep.
My manager never questioned my tardiness anymore. Maybe it was because I was the department's generation planner, the only one capable of forecasting power loads with near-perfect precision, the man who could see patterns in chaos. Or maybe… they just pitied me — a man whose fiancée had vanished without a trace, leaving only ghosts in the corners of his life.
I made my coffee slowly, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tendrils of memory. Each sip was bitter, and yet comforting, grounding me in a world that refused to stop spinning without her. I checked my phone again, half-expecting a message. Something simple. Something impossible.
Nothing.
I glanced at the VR visor on the desk, its soft blue glow pulsing faintly, like it was waiting for me to return. Waiting for her.
And for a moment, I allowed myself to hope. Just a flicker.
The city's noise grew louder outside, impatient. I straightened my shoulders, adjusted my tie, and stepped toward the door, carrying the weight of the year behind me. Another day had begun. Another day without her.
But maybe… tomorrow, or the next day, something would change.
Maybe the world wasn't done whispering her name.
When I first got that notification from Singapore, I thought it had to be a mistake. Some clerical error. A misrouted report. Erica's company said there had been a trace of her — not enough to explain anything, just enough to reopen a wound that hadn't healed.
I flew there myself. Walked the humid streets where the air clung to your skin like a second layer. I sat in sterile offices with glass walls and polite smiles, begging for answers from executives who spoke in rehearsed phrases and legal disclaimers. They promised internal reviews. They promised updates. They promised concern.
None of it meant anything.
The investigation fizzled out within weeks, quietly buried under newer, louder tragedies. Another missing name swallowed by reports and statistics. Another line item cleared from someone else's workload.
A year had passed since then.
The world forgot the mysterious disappearance of my fiancée. Everyone except me.
Work became my refuge. In the steady hum of monitors, in graphs and cascading data streams, I found rhythm — something predictable, something that didn't vanish without warning. I lost myself in projections and load curves, in systems that made sense when people didn't.
Sometimes, when I focused too hard, I could swear I heard her laugh behind me.
"You're overthinking again," she'd tease, light and effortless.
And for a split second, my body would react before my mind caught up. I'd almost turn around.
I never did.
Who would have thought that relogging into the one place I was afraid to touch — the world I had abandoned because it still carried her fingerprints — would be what pulled me back?
It started with a system alert.
[ Legacy Partner Detected: Meihua ]
[ Status: Offline… Data Activity Detected in Singapore Core Grid. ]
My breath caught in my throat.
Legacy Partner. A tag that shouldn't exist anymore. A connection marked inactive, archived, forgotten. And yet… there it was.
I grabbed the VR visor from my desk, my hands trembling despite myself.
"Alright," I whispered to the empty condo, my voice barely more than breath. "Let's find out what happened to you, love."
The visor slid into place, and the world dissolved.
Call of Duty: VR unfolded around me once more — neon lights cutting through smoke-filled skies, ruined cityscapes glowing with artificial suns, the familiar chaos of a battlefield I once called home. And somewhere within it, the ghost of a player who might still be out there. Waiting.
This time, there was no ranked queue. No warm-up in the training grounds. No ritual of testing weapons or tweaking settings.
I didn't even glance at my loadouts.
I wasn't here to play.
I was here to follow a signal — and whatever truth it dared to lead me to.
I stepped into the bustling VR replica of EDSA — Neo Manila — a tropical-industrial labyrinth that somehow captured every chaotic heartbeat of the real Metro Manila. Skyscrapers gleamed under a synthetic sun, digital billboards flickering with ads for holo-gadgets, esports tournaments, and high-stakes weapon skins. Cars roared alongside the carousel buses, their chrome impossibly polished, reflecting the neon glow of shopfronts and streetlamps. Cafés spilled holographic scents of coffee and pastries into the streets, enticing avatars and players alike. The air was thick with virtual heat and the faint hum of distant drones.
I had laughed when the developers boasted that the VR world mirrored Earth perfectly. I had scoffed. I was wrong.
In the exact spot where my real condo stood, a towering replica rose, all glass and steel. Nearby, virtual McDonald's arches glowed golden, and the Starbucks logo blinked in familiar green. I could even smell the roasted beans from here, rich and comforting, as if the scent itself were a memory. The tech was uncanny. Take a sip of a latte, nibble a sandwich in VR, and your mind would convince you you were sated. But remove the visor for thirty minutes, and the real world's hunger and thirst would come back like a reminder you could never escape.
I needed focus. A plan. Step one: track the signal. Step two: locate Meihua. Step three: find Erica.
"I'll do everything to find you, Erica," I muttered to the empty condo, and now here I was — surrounded by a sea of avatars and the neon hum of a city that never slept.
I sat at a VR Starbucks, fingers wrapped around a steaming latte, sensation almost too real. Avatars brushed past, chatting, gesturing, living lives I could only observe. I asked the barista.
"This place exists in real Eton Centris?"
"Of course," she said with a friendly smirk, wiping a holographic counter. "Shops register in VR to earn in both worlds—game credits and real money."
I frowned. I used to dismiss articles about the VR economy as marketing fluff. Now, sipping the latte, I realized: Call of Duty: VR wasn't just a game. It was a living, breathing economy.
She leaned slightly closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Players earn from tournaments and bets in the Eurasis Continent, crafting and trading in Pacifica — that's where the Philippines sits — blueprint sales, patents in Atlantis and Nordica. Pros make double income: game credits and real cash. Merchants, shop owners, same deal. Everyone's making real money here."
I felt a pang of regret. Drumstickkk — my online alias — kicked himself internally. All those nights dismissing articles, brushing off economy mechanics… and now I understood.
"And here I was," I chuckled to myself, "wasting time grinding real-world overtime."
She nodded slowly, turning my words over like a gem. Most players weren't just here for fun. They were here to earn, to survive, to thrive. And maybe, just maybe, I could use this world to find Erica.
Outside the café, the streets of Neo Manila throbbed with life — hover-drones zipped between skyscrapers, buses rattled past, holographic billboards threw kaleidoscopic reflections across wet pavement. Steam curled from my latte, weaving into the neon glow, and for a moment I almost forgot why I was here. Almost.
My visor HUD flickered open. A progress bar crawled across my vision:
Synchronizing Real-World Data — GeoMesh AI v9.4 Active
Nearby, a holographic screen floated to life, AI narrator voice smooth, metallic, and neutral:
"Thanks to the joint efforts of Google Earth, Microsoft Flight Simulator, and NASA's Earth Data Division, Call of Duty: VR proudly runs on the world's first fully-scanned planetary replica."
The display shifted seamlessly between satellite imagery, 3D meshes, and virtual cityscapes, overlaying streets, alleys, and buildings with uncanny precision.
"Using Google's photogrammetry and 3D mesh, Microsoft's Bing Maps plus Blackshark.AI for structure generation, and NASA satellite elevation grids, this world mirrors Earth — every street, every coast, every building."
I leaned back, letting the information wash over me. Neon reflections danced across the table, the barista's apron, the holographic steam rising from my latte.
For a moment, I forgot the mission.
"So… it really is Earth," I whispered, almost drowned by the murmur of avatars outside. "Just… one patch ahead of reality."
Even in the middle of a bustling café, I could feel the precision in every detail — the way streets curved exactly as they did in real Manila, the narrow alleyways between buildings, the flickering streetlamps. Every pixel mattered. Every detail could matter when hunting someone in VR.
I finished my coffee and left a tip in digital credits. The barista gave a small nod, a flicker of a smile in her avatar. I stepped back into the neon-lit chaos of Neo Manila, senses heightened, heartbeat syncing with the pulse of the city.
I decided to check the old Information Hub I used back then. In its prime, it had been a bustling nexus for beginners and veterans alike — a public terminal where you could dig through match analyses, blueprint loadouts, clan missions, black‑box patch notes, and any scrap of intel a player might crave. It was where metas were born and broken, where alliances formed over shared schematics and rivalries ignited over kill feeds.
Back then, it had felt like the beating heart of the city. A digital bulletin board for the elite.
Now, the building felt… different.
The neon glow that once flooded every corner had dimmed to a tired flicker. The open halls had been carved into tighter spaces, walls plastered with layered holo‑screens streaming neural traffic, encrypted market boards, and half‑decoded schematics that flickered like dying stars. Where laughter and ranked chatter used to echo, there was only the low hum of distant servers — constant, watchful — punctuated by the occasional mechanical whir of surveillance drones gliding along the ceiling rails.
Avatars drifted through the space like ghosts. Hooded. Masked. Faces hidden behind shifting holographic filters that glitched just enough to feel intentional. No one lingered in the open anymore. Shadows pooled in the corners where neon failed to reach, and the air carried the faint scent of virtual ozone — clean, metallic, artificial — the smell of too much data moving too fast.
"This used to be the NPC guide hall," I murmured under my breath. "Now it's… a player's lounge."
A movement caught my eye.
A young man leaned casually against a holo‑terminal near the far wall, posture relaxed but alert. His outfit was a strange hybrid — half tactical plating, half cyberpunk streetwear — worn like armor and fashion all at once. A mechanical lens replaced his right eye, pulsing red in slow, deliberate intervals as it scanned the room.
I focused on the glowing tag hovering above his head:
TraceZero
Class: Cipher
He noticed me instantly. A half‑smile tugged at his mouth, amused, curious.
"Whoa," he said, voice cutting through the digital ambience with a low hum. "A Legacy Operator? Haven't seen one of those in years."
"This used to be a data hub," I muttered, eyes sweeping the room. "Not a crime den."
Trace tilted his head slightly. "Depends who you ask. These days, data is the crime."
I exhaled slowly. "The means of transport to other countries… same as before?"
His mechanical lens flickered brighter as he glanced upward, processing. "Depends. Where exactly are you planning to go?"
"Singapore," I said, shrugging.
He chuckled, a short, sharp sound that echoed off the metallic walls. "Well, isn't that convenient. I'm heading there too." He straightened, pushing off the terminal. "Lucky for you, I can show you how it's done in the current patch."
I raised an eyebrow. "The old ways… they're different now?"
"You have no idea," he said, smirking. He leaned closer, fingers dancing across a floating holo‑screen that bloomed into existence between us. Menus stacked on menus — neural sync protocols, passport verifications, travel permits, craftable boarding passes, faction‑restricted routes.
"Back then, you could just queue up, hop in a flight, and boom — instant transport," he continued. "Now? You've got layered security systems, region‑locked approvals, dynamic tariffs, and travel risks. The devs really went all in on intercontinental realism."
I rubbed my temple, staring at the dizzying interface. "And all this… just to move from Neo Manila to Neo Singapore?"
"Yeah," Trace said, laughing. "You really went AFK for a year, huh? Nine seasons passed while you were gone. This isn't your old meta anymore."
"No kidding," I muttered. "I preferred the old one."
"Don't worry," he said, that smirk never leaving his face. "Intermittent players like you don't get punished. You just level slower." He paused, tapping his cybernetic lens. "Meanwhile, grinders like us? We keep climbing."
He flicked something toward me. A glowing data chip spun through the air, humming faintly. I caught it, feeling the vibration resonate against my palm.
"You've got a lot of catching up to do, old man," TraceZero said. "Let me help you. For a price, of course."
I closed my fingers around the chip. "Fine. But if this transport system kills me, I'm blaming you."
Trace grinned, the red glow of his cybernetic eye pulsing brighter.
"Deal," he said. "Welcome back to the game, Legacy Operator."