The alarm blared like something out of a sci-fi movie during one of those scenes in which the monster escapes into the spaceship’s or research facility’s main corridors.

Adrenaline shot through Carey’s veins. Was this his chance to get away?

“Not again.” Sam’s sigh indicated he was more annoyed than frightened.

A group of techs rushed into the room and gathered around one of the pods that bore an ominous message on its monitor.

ZERO HP, it read in flashing black letters.

It was beginning to make sense now. The numbers on the monitors were vitals, and HP stood for Health Points, like in a game. Other figures and symbols represented what could only be Stamina, mana, and similar in-game stats.

A man in a white lab coat flung himself into the room and rushed to join the others. The capsule had begun to open. Something hissed.

“Get her out of there,” the guy, who was apparently some sort of doctor, shouted, already arming himself with a stethoscope.

The doctor and the technicians worked together to lift a body from inside the pod. Carey could not see much, his view blocked by the men at work, but he could tell it took some effort to unplug whoever was inside. He imagined feeding tubes and other grotesque attachments being removed with wet sucking sounds.

On a nearby slab, like something out of a morgue, the technicians placed the pale, shivering body of what appeared to be a girl in her twenties. Her body was wracked by a sudden string of violent coughs, which caused strings of phlegm to be ejected from her mouth.

The doctor had pulled some sort of machine that resembled a battery pack out of the back of the pod. Maybe a defibrillator? Was he going to try to jumpstart her heart? Why would a young woman’s heart have stopped in the first place?

But instead of readying a pair of defibrillator pads, the doctor lifted what appeared to be a black crown made from computer parts, wires snaking down from it to connect with the main pack.

Whatever it was, Carey felt it worked on the brain, not the heart. Something had happened to the woman’s brain...

He glanced in disbelief over his shoulder at Roger and Sam, who had remained in place. Terrance leaned against the wall next to the door, which was ominously shut. Probably locked.

“What’s wrong with her?”

Roger was shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. Sam took his phone out of his pocket and began to check it.

“Not everyone has what it takes to survive,” Sam said, sounding as casual as a guy remarking about a rainy day.

“If you die in the game...you die in real life?”

Sam swiped the tiny screen. Carey clenched his teeth, making fists with both hands.

“Put your phone away, you sociopath. Someone’s dying here.”

“You’re wrong,” Sam said, not taking his eyes off his phone. “She’s already dead. Zero HP. Game over. For her, at least.”

A demon impulse took over Carey’s mind and body. With the flashing red light turning this place into a tiny version of hell, it was easy to imagine he’d become some sort of soulless, imp-like demon intent on murder, consequences be damned.

He lunged for Sam’s throat.

Right hand extended, shaped like a claw.

Left hand swiping to send the phone flying away.

Terrance was on him within milliseconds. Grabbing him, he pried Carey’s hand off Sam’s neck, where it had lodged itself in a firm grip, then managed to spin Carey’s entire body around like they were dancing, finally twisting one of Carey’s arms painfully behind his back before kicking out his knees and slamming him face-down against the concrete.

Carey tasted blood in his mouth. Probably from a tooth that had been dislodged. The pain was fierce, but the adrenaline coursing through his body dulled it, a final favor from his demon self before it retreated into the depths of Carey’s personal hell.

“You...goddamned...cowards,” Carey spat, flecking the concrete with bloody saliva.

Behind him, Sam swore. “...cracked the screen and everything,” he was saying. “I just bought this phone. Son of a bitch.”

With Terrance pinning him to the floor, Carey managed to twist his head around and watch what was happening with the young woman.

Led by the doctor, two of the technicians had gripped the woman by her armpits and were dragging her toward the room’s only exit. Carey caught sight of her open, lifeless eyes and her head with its sweat-matted hair as it lolled back, exposing a fragile throat.

“No activity after revival program,” the doctor informed Roger along the way, his clinical nature off-putting. If Carey had been standing, he might have spit on the doctor’s face, for being a heartless co-conspirator of what was certainly a massive human-trafficking operation.

When the doctor and the technicians carrying the young woman’s corpse had disappeared back into the warehouse’s main area, on their way to whatever ominous burial ground or incinerator this place relied on to make their dead victims disappear, Terrance finally released Carey’s arm and let him stand.

“You goddamned...” Carey began, rubbing his shoulder as he carefully crafted a string of profanity at least ten words long that made even Sam lift his brows in amazement. “...pieces of worthless human waste.”

“I like the part about being child rapists,” Sam said, to which his dad shook his head.

“No need for profanity or insults,” Roger said. “I don’t like death, either. Especially when it’s caused by one of my machines. But we’re working on that. It’s the whole point of the experiment—to build a new brain without destroying the old one.”

“If you think you’re putting me into one of those things,” Carey said, “then I guarantee you you’re wrong. I’m not going anywhere near that death pod.”

A cold, penetrating look suddenly came into Roger’s eyes. Sam stood, watching his father with interest, arms crossed, as if this was the part he’d really been waiting for.

“You miserable little pissant,” Roger said, to which Carey could only respond with utter shock. The CEO had been decent up until this point—a little eccentric but, on the whole, a nice enough guy, conspiracy to kidnap and murder aside.

But this was like an entirely different side of the man’s personality coming out. The Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll.

Roger stepped toward him, Terrance flanking the CEO closely just in case. Then Roger stopped two feet away from Carey, his face red with rage.

He reached into his pants pocket.

Every muscle in Carey’s body suddenly tightened. Not that a gun could have fit in his pants pocket, but still. He suddenly seemed to hate Carey and his kind. Maybe he would pull a knife and slit Carey’s throat. He seemed angry enough to do it.

But it was just his cell phone.

Staring down at it, Roger swiped with his thumb, then traced a complex shape across the screen that would have been impossible to mimic. Within seconds, he had opened his Photos app and accessed the album he had in mind.

Light brightened Carey’s face as Roger showed him the screen.

It was a photo of a smiling, auburn-haired girl in her early teens sitting outside in the shade of a tree, reading a Harry Potter book. The book lay flat against drawn-up knees which were bare below her pink shorts. Too young for Carey to find attractive, though she was clearly just two or three years from being a complete stunner, her crystalline-green eyes like emeralds.

“Her name was Calliope,” Roger said. His voice was thick with scorn, as if Carey had been the one responsible for his necessary use of the past tense. “She was my daughter.”

“What happened to her?”

Roger swiped again, not even looking at the screen, as he revealed more of the album.

In the next photo, Calliope was much younger, eight or nine, caught in the act of painting a house, which sat next to the lake in the distance. She was obviously talented. Her shirt and fingers were smudged and stained a variety of different colors, and a wide, almost embarrassed, smile was plastered across her face.

“She died ten years ago,” Roger said, swiping across a seemingly endless string of photos. “Pretty, right?”

Behind him, Sam leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “She was my older sister,” he added. “She was smarter at age eight than you’ll ever be, DrollTroll.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Carey said. “So spare me your bullsh—”

“Enough!”

Carey fell back a step. Even Terrance looked momentarily shocked by Roger’s outburst. Veins stood out on the old man’s forehead and neck as he struggled to contain himself.

“Making others feel like trash,” Roger said, taking shallow breaths, obviously in the grip of some powerful emotion, some passionate sense of mission. “Attacking their vulnerable spots. Showing off in front of the world, as if you’re some sort of genius because you succeeded in stomping all over countless people’s emotions, making them cry themselves to sleep at night. Making them struggle to keep their pain a secret from those they love most. Making them feel worthless whenever they logged onto their social-media accounts in hopes of finding some shred of human connection in a world full of narcissistic zombies that can’t stop staring at their stupid phones, just waiting for someone to click the ‘Like’ button!”

Slightly bent and breathing hard like a bull sick of charging, Roger put away his phone and cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lightly panting now, his red face turning pink. “I lose my temper sometimes.”

“She...died because of social media?” Carey asked. “Did she... Did she kill herself?”

Roger nodded, staring down at the floor. “Another girl in her class was bullying her on Facebook. They were friends at first, but they both fell for the same boy in their class. He liked Calliope better, it seemed, judging by my analysis of both girls’ accounts. The other girl—Tracy—thought if she could target Calliope’s insecurities, prey on her weaknesses, then she might be able to convince my little girl she wasn’t good enough for the boy’s attentions.

“It worked. Cally became depressed. Even I noticed, obsessed as I was with work. Her mother thought she could solve the problem by deleting her social-media accounts. That was all it took to push Calliope over the edge. Turn her into a complete recluse. The boy shut down all communication with my daughter and called her ‘clingy.’ When it came time for prom, he went with Tracy. Calliope didn’t go at all.”

Shaking his head, Roger clenched his eyes shut. “I was so stupid. I had her see a therapist and honestly thought maybe medication was the solution. But the solution”—eyes on Carey now—“is to rid the world of trolls and bullies like Tracy, like the dead girl you saw emerge from the pod only moments ago, and especially online trolls like you, Carey Walsh. Sick people who prey on others in their most vulnerable moments, when they sit alone in their bedrooms in the dark, the weight of the world pressing down on their shoulders.”

“I didn’t kill your daughter, Roger.”

“No?” Roger’s eyebrows shot up inquisitively. “She cut her wrists open because of bullies. And who might dead because of you? Who else might have been depressed enough for your stupid, hateful Reddit comments to act as the final straw—that last, little push needed to send them over the edge?”

Carey shook his head and steeled himself against the accusation. But… what if Roger was right? Could it be that Carey had indirectly killed people just by trolling?

Didn’t matter right now. At this very moment, Carey was the victim, not some nameless stranger online. Carey was the one who’d been tasered, kidnapped, and threatened with almost certain death. No one deserved to be treated like this just because they were an asshole online.

… Right?

Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

But he was sure about one thing. “No matter what you accuse me of, I didn’t kill your daughter. What happened to her was a tragedy, but kidnapping innocent people—who didn’t break any laws, I might add—and sticking them into brain-melting death pods is just as bad, if not worse. Now, just—just let me go. I won’t tell anyone what I saw...”

His voice was becoming frantic. And why were Roger and Sam staring at him like that? As if they were enjoying his pathetic attempts to save himself? Even Terrance watched intently, as if curious what conclusion this petty drama might reach.

“...what I—what I didn’t see,” Carey continued in a trembling voice. “Because I didn’t see a thing, I swear. Just put me back on the plane. I promise I won’t hurt anyone ever again. I’ll stop trolling.”

Roger gave the nod. Terrance plowed forward like a bulldozer. Before Carey could react, the man had grabbed him and was shoving him toward the empty pod, the one from which the dying girl had been removed just minutes before.

“Wait,” Carey pleaded. “How do I get out? How do I beat the game?”

“Once you’re back,” Roger said, motioning for Terrance to pause, “we’ll wipe your memory, so you’ll never know this place existed. You’ll have your chance at a normal life again—with different brain chemistry, of course. I’ll even make you an offer. If you could have one branch of knowledge—could be Ancient Greek history, jet-plane engine repair, whatever, we have it all—if you could have that knowledge directly uploaded into your brain, instantly making you an expert on the subject, what would it be?”

“Evolutionary psychology,” Carey said. “Easy. So I can understand what women want.”

He chuckled nervously, sincerely hoping humor would lighten the situation and make them like him enough to give him a break.

Sam and Roger glanced at each other, uncertain but apparently impressed.

“Never heard that one before,” Sam said.

Roger shrugged. “Interesting guy you found here.”

“You said I can get out,” Carey pleaded. “Tell me how. I have to beat the game, right? How do I beat it? What do you want me to do?”

“Stop the Low Order from their nefarious mission, Carey. Then you’ll beat the game. I recommend trying to beat the game traditionally—by joining a party of allies, leveling up, and defeating the dark lord character, uh… what’s his name…”

“Riven Xor,” Sam said.

“Right. My son’s creation. Hell of a villain.”

Carey swallowed nervously. Yet part of him was strangely excited. If there was one thing in life he genuinely loved—besides booze and women with huge knockers—it was role-playing games.

Sam motioned for Terrance to proceed.

“This is criminal,” Carey shouted, trying to resist the bodyguard’s firm grip. “You’ll go to prison when they find out!”

The last he saw of Roger was the man’s back, and the ridiculous design on his T-shirt of a cartoon monkey holding a banana in one hand and a chili cheese dog in the other. Pepe’s, it read underneath.

Carey tried to fathom the extent of what was happening to him. None of it seemed real. Trapped on an island straight out of Jurassic Park, a virtual game like something out of a James Cameron movie, created by a billionaire CEO who had just issued an ultimatum that could possibly end Carey’s life—all while wearing a Pepe’s T-shirt, flip flops, and the most colorful, ridiculous pair of Bermuda shorts imaginable.

“Please,” Carey begged the bodyguard. “You don’t want to do this. I want to go home. You have a home right? A—A wife, maybe? Kids? What if someone did this to them?”

“Just win the game,” Terrance whispered, forcing him into the pod, albeit more gently than before. “It’s never been done, but people have come close. You got me?”

“But—but how?”

“The quests. Stick to the recommended levels. Never attempt more than your current level. That’s where everybody fails. They get arrogant.”

“Wait, please!”

“Remember,” Terrance whispered ominously. “Your body doesn’t matter in the game. Only the stats. You are your stats.”

The inside of the pod was a light beige color, and soft-looking, like the silky sheets and pillows that line the interior of a coffin. It was an image Carey couldn’t get out of his head—that soon he would be a pale, fleshy corpse stretched out inside this miserable tube, ready to be buried or incinerated on this nameless island in the middle of nowhere.

Once he was strapped in place, Terrance stuck on a facemask that covered Carey’s nose and mouth and had a plastic tube snaking out of the other end.

As the bodyguard backed away, Carey caught sight of the complex wires and harnesses attached to the interior of the pod’s door. Some of the more needle-like ones would presumably go into his head, while others were clearly designed to transport fluids—food and waste. It was a sickening mess of equipment, like the guts of some sort of hybrid insect both biological and machine. It reminded him of Ridley Scott’s Alien.

Frantic now, thrashing as wildly as he could against the straps, Carey expected the lid of his hi-tech coffin to close—but Sam’s face appeared above his own instead. He was wearing that same deadened expression Carey had first seen in his apartment, when he’d lifted his VR set to find the skinny-jeaned ass-muncher sitting calmly on Carey’s couch, holding Carey’s gun.

And then, suddenly, Sam was smiling—grinning like he’d been waiting months for this moment. He lifted a gun-shaped, red-and-orange device with one hand—a tool Carey had seen many times before but had never actually used (he wasn’t handy and dreaded even the thought of picking up a hammer or screwdriver). The device had a battery pack, a trigger, and a three-inch drill bit…

“Please,” Carey tried to shout, but all he could manage was a muffled moan through the mask.

Sam pressed the trigger. The drill bit spun to life, suddenly a blur, emitting a loud buzzing noise that made Carey picture bits of blood and bone splashing out of a growing hole in his skull.

“Once we’re inside that brain,” Sam said, elevating his voice over the high-pitched droning noise, “we’ll be in full control. Your pain will be my playground.”

Carey felt hot tears seep from his eyes. Sam lowered his face until his mouth was only inches away from Carey’s ear, the drill bit continuing its maddening scream.

“See you on the other side, DrollDouche.”

Sam lightly touched the spinning drill bit to Carey’s temple. Carey tried to scream, but his lungs felt as flaccid and useless as a pair of deflated airbags in a wrecked car, and then Sam was stepping back, laughing at his little prank, and the lid gradually shut, darkening the world...

… A new world emerged to replace it.