Julian's world didn't melt.
It booted up.
With a blink, the wooden floor beneath him shattered into polygons, fragmenting like glass code. The soft hum of his apartment was overwritten by the sterile buzz of servers. Fluorescent lights flickered to life above cracked concrete floors. Neon signs hissed through digital static, casting sickly green reflections on steel walls.
System online.
In the corner of his vision:
[HP: 100%]
[Ammo: 60/240]
[Radar: ACTIVE]
"Huh... guess I unlocked the deluxe edition of psychosis," Julian muttered, casually picking up the assault rifle that blinked into existence by his feet.
"Wonder if it comes with the Season Pass to PTSD."
The gun was cold and heavy. Too real. His gloved fingers adjusted instinctively. It even had a custom grip. His custom grip.
Julian turned on his heel with his signature cocky half-swagger, eyes sharp, grin sharper.
And then—he saw himself.
Across the abandoned city street stood another man, same jawline, same scar on the brow—but the rest? All wrong. No lazy posture. No headphones slung around the neck. No smirk.
He wore a plain shirt and wireframe glasses, standing like a librarian clerk holding a loaded confession.
Hands calmly folded behind his back. Still. Silent.
"Yo… cosplay's lookin' tight, my guy." Julian grinned.
"You lose a bet or just too broke for drip?"
The doppelgänger tilted his head ever so slightly.
"Still hiding behind punchlines?"
Same voice. Different texture. Where Julian's words were flares, his were scalpels. Clean. Precise. Effortless.
Julian clicked his tongue.
"And if you're my inner voice, you sound like Audible had a clearance sale on depression."
"Or maybe," the other replied calmly, "I'm the version of you that doesn't need an audience to breathe."
Julian's grin thinned.
"Damn, you pull that one from Tumblr?"
Still no smile. Still no blink. The other Julian stepped forward like a priest in no rush to exorcise the demon because he already knew where it lived.
"I watched you build yourself achievement by achievement. Unlock every upgrade. Craft the myth piece by piece, until you forgot the difference between wanting attention and needing distraction."
Julian exhaled sharply, circling now.
"Alright, knock-off DLC, I don't know what side quest spat you out, but I'm not here for therapy. I came to vibe, maybe drop some headshots, not get roasted by the IT department."
The other stopped, standing dead center in Julian's crosshairs. Calm. Unarmed.
"Then let's do what you do best."
"Let's play."
DING.
The world shuddered.
Wind roared as the sky split open, and Julian was sucked upward into digital clouds. His HUD glowed crimson.
[MATCH FOUND – 12 Players Remaining]
He dropped from the heavens like a corrupted angel, parachute ripping open above a war-torn city. Craters burned. Sirens wailed. Drones buzzed overhead like angry metal wasps.
Julian landed hard, boots cracking the pavement. AI enemies spawned like ghosts in soldier skins. He moved quick—slide, roll, pop-pop—two went down clean.
"Ooooh, let's gooo. Y'all really lettin' me cook today!"
A bullet hissed past. Another grazed his shoulder.
Health dipped.
[HP: 72%]
He turned.
And there he was again.
Other Julian.
No helmet. No cover. Just dead-on accuracy and terrifying calm.
"Oh great," Julian muttered, ducking behind a burning car.
"The man's got aimbot now."
One by one, the other players dropped.
Until it was just them.
1v1.
They clashed across rooftops, down alleyways, into neon tunnels. Grenades lit up the dark. Julian flanked left, flashbanged right. Nothing landed.
Every time Julian blinked, his double was already three moves ahead.
And all the while… they talked.
"You don't get it," Julian panted, ducking behind a vending machine bleeding sparks.
"People don't want quiet truths. They want the fireworks. The explosion. You think I wanted to become this? I had to."
"You became noise to drown out the silence."
"I became what people respect!" Julian snapped, vaulting over cover.
"You know how easy it is to be someone no one can criticize? You just make yourself the punchline first."
"You made yourself a mask."
"You made yourself a circus so no one would ask where the pain lived."
Julian finally landed a clean shot, mid-torso.
Other Julian staggered.
[Enemy HP: 50%]
"So what now?" Julian growled.
"You want me to cry on a Twitch stream? Do emotional reaction vids while Lo-fi plays in the background?"
The other Julian lowered his weapon.
"No. I want you to sit in silence… and not implode."
Julian's breath caught.
One heartbeat.
Two.
BLAM.
The other Julian fired.
Square in the chest.
No blood. No explosion. Just a weight dropping into his soul like a memory he never wanted to admit.
He hit the ground hard.
His HUD flashed red.
[YOU DIED.]
But the screen didn't fade.
It reset.
A gargantuan cathedral loomed in ash-colored fog, gothic spires like bone fingers clawing at the blood-red moon. The world was silent—until he stepped from the mist.
Julian exhaled, twin blades in hand—slender, curved, twitching in armor shimmered with cracks of violet code. Breathing heavily, he rolled his neck.
"Alright, you Elden Ring NPC reject. I see we're in phase two now."
The arena rumbled.
Before him stood his reflection again—but transformed. His other version now towered, draped in flowing obsidian robes that flickered like smoke. A gleaming, jagged greatsword crackled in his grasp, its edge pulsing red like a heart under strain.
As he raised it, a name flashed across Julian's inner HUD like a Souls boss title:
[The Quiet Sovereign]
A choral scream erupted from the cathedral walls. The battle began.
Julian darted forward, a blur of motion—twin blades whistling like wind through shattered glass. The Sovereign met him with a wide horizontal swing, the kind every veteran knew well, the Lorian-style arc that punished greedy rolls.
Julian dodged.
Barely.
"Oh great, you got the Greatsword of Meta Tryhards. What's next, infinite poise?"
The Sovereign struck again, overhead this time, a plunge, crashing into the stone and sending up a wave of white-hot sparks. The arena cracked beneath the force.
Julian spun to the side, countering with a flurry of slashes.
They bounced.
"You're cheesing the poise system now? Real original, Miyazaki."
The Sovereign didn't reply. He simply pressed forward—graceful, terrifying. Every swing was a reference, a memory Julian never wanted to face.
Julian deflected, parried, spun mid-air, channeling the elegance of twinblade masters, weaving through blade and flame.
But the pressure mounted. Fatigue set in. His stamina bar blinked.
"C'mon… I've solo'd Midir. I've parried Gundyr. I can take me."
The Sovereigns sword flared black-red, and suddenly the arena changed.
Gone were the crumbling cathedral stones, now they stood in a field of endless swords, like the Kiln of the First Flame reborn.
And in that world of burning steel, the Sovereign whispered
"You always fought to be seen… but never to be known."
Julian charged, screaming. His blades danced. He landed hits. The Sovereign staggered, cloak torn, his face half-revealed beneath the cowl. He looked… tired. Sad.
"If I'm so broken," Julian hissed, "why do you look like the one who gave up?"
"Because I did."
The Sovereign surged forward, blade burning bright, and unleashed a phase two combo straight out of player nightmares.
A sweeping crescent like scythe.
A delayed strike that punished early rolls.
And then, in true Soulsborne fashion… an explosion of light.
Julian went flying—his HUD crackling.
[HP: 13%]
He coughed, rolled, barely got to his feet.
"You're just a walking Best-of Boss Compilation. You steal moves like you steal meaning."
"No. I remember what each taught me. You only fight to forget."
Final clash.
Julian leapt into the air—spinning, shouting, twin blades blurring into arcs of lightning.
But the Sovereign met him midair—with one final, wide, telegraphed slash.
The kind that always hit new players who thought they were safe.
Julian didn't roll in time.
The world exploded in red.
He hit the ground. This time—he didn't move.
YOU DIED
The Sovereign stood over him, sword planted in the ground.
"You never played to win. You played to run."
Julian, bloodless, still breathing, choked a laugh.
"Yeah… well, you still roll too early. Asshole."
The Sovereign almost—almost—smiled.
He turned.
The broken sky behind the arena of their last duel fractured again, screen-tearing across dimensions.
Then the world recompiled.
New game. New rules.
A burst of synth music roared to life—arcade-style. Flashing lights. Neon banners. A digital announcer's voice echoed:
"MIRROR MATCH! Begin."
Julian blinked, now shirtless in loose fighting gi pants, his muscles faintly glowing with ember-orange veins. His twin blades were gone. Replaced by fists, crackling with raw pressure.
He flexed his neck.
"Street Fighter fever dream? Bet. I call dibs on Player One."
Across the cracked dojo floor, standing beneath a blood-red lantern, his opponent mirrored him, same stance, same build, but no fire in his eyes. Only clarity. His calm pulsed like a void. A perfected version of Julian stripped of flair, sarcasm, and façade.
They clashed mid-screen.
Julian opened with a fast 3-hit combo, chaining a gut jab into a spinning high kick.
The other Julian blocked all three.
Then punished.
Forward dash. Palm strike. Roundhouse. Elbow to temple.
Julian reeled, slammed into the bamboo wall as splinters exploded outward.
"Damn, what is that? Frame-perfect input buffering?!" Julian growled, coughing.
"Reaction. Precision," his counterpart said without exertion.
"You live in improvisation. I exist in purpose."
Julian roared back with a parry into uppercut, then canceled into a flurry of light punches and a launcher. He juggled the other Julian briefly and went for a signature divekick.
But before the hit landed—
Countered.
The other Julian vanished mid-air. Shadow-dashed behind him. Caught his leg mid-fall.
And then slam—Julian crashed through the ground, the floor pixelating into a new stage.
Now they were on a rooftop drenched in rain, lit only by city neon.
Julian was breathing hard.
He threw out a taunt combo.
"You think being emotionally constipated makes you deep? I'll take messy and loud over mute and mysterious any day."
The other Julian cracked his knuckles.
"No. You'll take whatever attention lets you forget you're hollow."
He moved faster now. Fluid. Impeccable spacing. Frame traps. Footsies that baited Julian like a novice.
Every roundhouse was an argument.
Every perfect block a rebuttal.
Every throw a rejection of Julian's excuses.
"People like me!" Julian snapped, backdashing.
"Because you twist yourself into what they'll accept."
"I'm fun!"
"Because that's easier than being honest."
"I built all this on my own!"
"No. You built it to never be alone."
Combo string. Stagger pressure. Low sweep. Wall bounce.
Julian's health bar plummeted, flashing red.
Final round.
"You're not better than me," he snarled, fists up, knees bent.
"I'm not trying to be," the other said, stepping forward.
"I just stopped pretending being loved was the same as being known."
Julian charged in for one last desperate combo. He landed two hits—
But then: Perfect Parry.
Counter. Grapple. Slam. KO.
A final slow-motion strike cracked across Julian's jaw.
Time froze as he hit the ground, his HUD flickering into static.
The announcer's voice echoed cold:
"YOU LOSE."
Julian lay still.
Chest heaving. Eyes wide.
His other self knelt beside him.
"Maybe next time… you'll stop playing."
The background faded to black, replaced by nothing.
Julian tried to speak—but no words came.
And for the first time since the trip began
he was silent.