Ren found himself waking up in a bed—
but not the clean, middle-class lifestyle bed he remembered.
No.
This was a crappy bunk in a multi-room bachelor dormitory, stuffed with ten other guys, creaky floors, cracked windows, and the faint lingering smell of instant noodles and cigarette smoke.
It hit him like a punch to the gut.
He knew exactly where he was.
He’d been here before.
Before the game.
Before Towerbound.
Before everything had gone right—and then so very, very wrong.
Ren Varrow had grown up an orphan.
Not the way people liked to imagine it—not tragically abandoned with no parents at all.
No, his parents were still alive.
Very much alive.
But they had decided early on they didn’t want the burden.
They handed him over to the Infinite Hopes Orphanage, claiming they were giving him a “better life.”
Too young, too poor, too religious, too something—they always had a reason.
But it didn’t change what it felt like to be handed off like a package no one wanted to deal with.
Still, Ren the orphan had done okay.
The Infinite Hopes Orphanage had done their best. They weren’t some storybook nightmare, all moldy gruel and sadistic caretakers leeching off government checks. No, they had systems. Schedules. Real effort. The kind that came from people who genuinely cared—even if the funding didn’t.
Ren remembered the cracked tiles, the bunk beds that creaked like they were mourning every night’s weight, and the group hugs after someone got adopted and left behind their favorite blanket. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t easy. But it was decent.
He appreciated it. Truly.
But still… if he ever had a second chance?
He’d trade all of it—the patched-together community, the shared birthdays, the kind but tired smiles—for something else. Something simpler. Two loving parents. A home that didn’t come with shared chore rotations and secondhand everything.
Not because Infinite Hopes failed.
Because no one should have to grow up grateful just for not being abandoned.
He got through school with decent marks.
Not genius level, not dumb.
Good enough.
But good enough didn’t buy you much.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
He hadn’t qualified for any scholarships.
Maybe it was his background.
Maybe it was the diversity programs kicking into high gear that year.
Maybe it was because he hadn’t been able to pad his application with time consuming extracurriculars.
It didn’t matter.
The result was the same.
When he aged out, he was given the usual speech.
Three months to move out.
Nothing personal.
They needed the bed for the next kid coming in.
The Infinite Hopes Orphanage wasn’t cruel.
They were doing the best they could with what they had.
They gave him a list of cheap rentals, handed over a packet of advice, a few warm hugs.
But no cash.
No credits.
No miracles.
He had watched other orphans age out before him—
some did well,
some didn’t.
But most came back to visit, to share news, to drop off little presents when they could.
Because Infinite Hopes had always been a real family.
Their director, Mrs. Ellara Greaves, had made sure of it.
Strict but kind.
Firm but fair.
She treated every kid who walked through those battered front doors like they mattered.
And that was why, when Ren woke up on the sagging mattress of his tiny rental bunk,
he knew exactly where he was.
Exactly when he was.
This was his new beginning.
The brutal one.
The reminder that not everyone was family, not everyone cared, and sometimes, you really were on your own.
At the orphanage, even when kids fought, they remembered:
they were all in it together.
All from the same broken beginnings.
But here?
Here in the bachelor dorms, it was survival of the fittest.
Harassment.
Bullying.
Or worse—complete, cold indifference.
Ren sat up slowly, staring around at the cracked walls, the shared bathroom down the hall, the taped-up window with a broken lock.
His heart ached.
Not just from the crappy bed or the cold room—
but from the brutal slap of memory.
He knew exactly where this led.
Exactly what this place was.
And this time, he wasn’t going to let it play out the same way.
Not after what they had done to him.
Not after Prosperous Guild had betrayed him.
Used him.
Sacrificed him.
‘This time,’ Ren thought grimly, clenching the thin blanket in his fists,
‘I’m going to be the one laughing at the end.’
***
Since he had this whole second chance thing, Ren did the obvious thing first.
He ran a tally.
“Status,” he muttered automatically.
Nothing appeared.
No glowing system window.
No character sheet.
No list of stats and abilities.
Just the peeling ceiling above him and the sound of some guy two bunks over snoring like a dying chainsaw.
“Fuck,” Ren thought grimly.
“I’m not in the game yet.”
He slumped back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, letting the realization sink in.
By 2039, VR gaming had gotten so big, so real, that hardcore players—especially those who lived in the worlds more than they lived outside them—had started developing what psychologists called VR Dissociative Identity.
A fancy way of saying: they had trouble telling the difference between what was real and what was virtual.
It wasn’t a disease.
It wasn’t a disorder.
It was just… how things were now.
VR wasn’t just gaming anymore.
It was school.
It was work.
It was training.
People graduated from virtual academies with degrees that were recognized around the world, sometimes more respected than real-world universities.
You could attend entire classes in VR, run experiments, build projects, and never once have to deal with a real human breathing down your neck.
If those options had existed when Ren was aging out of Infinite Hopes Orphanage, he would have been fine.
He would’ve had a shot at something better.
But time didn’t stop for anybody.
And back then?
They had offered him a hug, a pamphlet full of depressing rental listings, and a shove out the door.
Ren sat up again, rubbing his face.
‘Okay,’ he thought.
‘Focus.’
He was alive.
Back before the betrayal.
Back before Towerbound launched.
He checked the cheap digital calender duct-taped to the wall.
He remembered exactly where he was now.
He had five days.
Five days before Towerbound opened.
Five days before everything changed.
Ren’s fingers clenched into fists.
This time, he wasn’t going to wander into it blindly.
This time, he wasn’t going to hand over his future to smiling assholes who talked about “family” right before stabbing him in the back.
This time, he was going to take full advantage of what he knew.
Five days.
Plenty of time to flip the board, break the rules, and stack every advantage he could get his hands on.
‘This time,’ Ren thought, ‘I’m not playing fair.’
He smiled, cold and sharp.
He was going to be ready.
And when Towerbound opened?
It was going to be his world.
***
