Leo looked down at his hands. They were becoming blocks of color. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a text bubble above his head: “Hello, World.”

Panic flared. He tried to Alt-F4, but the screen stayed frozen on a sprawling empire that now covered the entire map. The humans weren't fighting each other anymore. They were standing in a massive, pixelated circle, chanting a sound that began to bleed out of his physical speakers—a low, rhythmic hum that vibrated the glass of water on his desk.

He reached for the power cord, but his hand froze. On the screen, a tiny, pixelated version of himself was sitting at a tiny computer.

The log updated one last time:

He tried to delete the world, but the "Eraser" tool was locked. A text box appeared in the game log, where "A new kingdom is born" usually sat:

At first, things were normal. They built huts, mined stone, and worshipped the cursor. But as the version number— 476 —started pulsing in the corner of the screen, the simulation deviated. The humans didn't just build; they began carving Leo's own face into the mountainsides. Not the avatar's face, but his actual face, captured through his webcam.

Suddenly, a "Blessing" icon appeared over his own house on a map that looked exactly like his neighborhood. He hadn't downloaded a game; he’d opened a window. The little pixelated people began to strike the ground with hammers, and with every strike, the floorboards in Leo’s real room groaned.