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A glowing white line of text “NEW MESSAGE” shimmers across my wrist like a tattoo. I touch it with one finger. Rosie’s full holographic note blooms in the air above my arm, obnoxiously cheerful.

The only way out is through.

Through what exactly—a cave of nightmares?

A chill slides down my spine. A towering rock face looms ahead, dark and slick like a waiting monster. Metal staples jut from the stone, pinning the mountain together. Halfway up, the rock turns unnaturally smooth. And far above, a single scrap of light. A possible exit.

Illuminating this cavernous horror show is a massive, blinking red countdown, the numbers big enough to crush me if they fell. So, that’s comforting.

This isn’t what a school looks like. There are no creaky blue desks, chipped posters, or gum-stuck floors like those of West Orange High. This place is dark. Like my life’s been deleted and replaced with a nightmare beta test.

A woman glides toward me, appearing out of nowhere. With her perfectly curled bob and long, slender frame, she reminds me of a walking Q-tip. But she’s smiling at me, which I take as a good sign.

I let out a small, nervous laugh. I’m going to have to tell this smiling stranger that I actually don’t want anything to do with this death-trap looking school.

“You must be Ava Lumen,” she says, her voice surprisingly high-pitched. “I’m Elia Custos, Head Guardian here at Sen Academy.”

She knows my name too, like she’s been expecting me. Maybe she knows how I got sent here. Maybe she can help me get out.

“Arrivals this late in the school year are highly irregular. You must know someone very important.” Her tone makes it sound more like suspicion than admiration.

“I don’t.” I bite my lip. Here goes nothing. “This is all a big mistake.”

Custos’s voice carries the weight of practiced skepticism. “A mistake?”

I eye her tidy demeanor. This lady screams Type A personality. She’ll fix this. She seems like the kind of person who meticulously plucks her eyebrows in real life, leaving no straggler behind. Surely she’ll see that I too don’t belong here.

“I think there’s some error with my implant. I’m supposed to be starting the new Workforce Program, but when I entered Senium, something strange happened. I got an error message and I ended up on the ferry with Rosie.”

Custos exhales slowly, the way adults do when they’re trying not to roll their eyes. “It’s completely normal to feel disoriented upon arrival. You’ve just been granted access to something much bigger than yourself. Every hero hesitates when the call comes.”

Why doesn’t anyone understand? I’m not disoriented or getting cold feet, I literally am in the wrong place.

I try again. “This is important. My brother’s in the hospital. My job in the Workforce Program is going to help him. I agreed to the implant for the paycheck. I need that job.”

Custos looks vaguely bored. “I see. Unfortunately, Sen Academy is a highly classified Senium institution. Once you’re here, you can’t simply leave. Only Levi Sen can authorize a transfer.”

“Is Levi Sen around? Maybe I can talk to him?”

My voice sounds pleading and pathetic, but I don’t care. The longer this takes, the longer Leo will go without the funding for the treatment he needs.

She laughs. LAUGHS. Like throws-back-her-head and laughs out loud.

“Mr. Sen is inaccessible.”

My stomach sinks. “So, I’m stuck here?”

“Until your sleep cycle ends. Eight hours, give or take. When you wake, you can file a formal report with Cloudkind and request a transfer. I should warn you, though, it’s never been done. They may decide to deactivate your implant instead.”

Deactivate my implant? I can’t do that to Leo, no matter how much I might want to get this glitchy tech out of my head. I need to find a way back into the Workforce Program.

But it looks like I’m trapped here for an entire night of sleep before this mistake can be fixed.

“Now,” she says, pivoting toward the cliff wall, “you’ll complete the Entrance Ascent.” She gestures toward the imposing rock face. “All students must complete it. Alone.”

She’s grinning at me with giddiness, like she just handed me a ticket to a popular thrill ride. Yeah, sure. Just climb the rock wall of death to the training academy I didn’t sign up for. That sounds like a great use of my time.

“Oh, fun,” I say, my voice flat. “But I really don’t think I should.”

She shrugs. “Then you may wait out the sleep cycle in this chamber. Your choice.”

I turn around to where the ferry was, where the cave opening was, but nope. Both are gone. So much for Rosie’s cute little message. The only way out isn’t through, it’s apparently up.

I turn back to face Guardian Custos, hoping to convince her to at least send a message to my dad, but she too has vanished.

“This is so stupid,” I mutter, glaring at the cliff.

I whisper a curse, gazing up at the impossible climb. How is anyone supposed to do that?

My breath fogs in the air and I realize the cave is freezing, like someone just turned the temperature gauge down to zero. That’s when I hear the voices coming from the rock.

One by one, faces peer out from jagged crevices and shadowy openings. Students, I assume. Watching from above. Their eyes gleam, hungry for spectacle.

“This should be good,” one boy snickers, his voice echoing.

Another laughs.

I search desperately for one kind face in the crowd. Someone who might give me a nod of encouragement. But every gaze is sharp with ridicule. They want me to fail.

I stare at the greasy metal rungs. My breath comes too fast, too loud. The cliff is sheer, endless, lethal. My brain shrieks: I can’t do this. And my body already believes it. I wipe the excess sweat from my hands onto my black slacks.

But if I stay here, I’m stuck. Eight hours in this freezing cavern. Alone, yet gawked at by tens of sneering faces. While Leo lies in a hospital bed waiting for a paycheck I may never earn.

Fuming, I set down the survival guide and grab the first rung.

It’s slick as oil, but I manage to pull myself up and find a foothold in the rock. My foot slips, my knee scrapes hard against stone. Laughter erupts from above. My muscles are already trembling, my stomach a lead weight of panic, but I force myself higher.

Echoes of my own rigid breath push me along as I slowly inch my way up. It’s surprisingly realistic, this climb. My arms already ache. My legs quaver.

I can’t slip. I don’t want to fall down to my simulated death only to discover that it caused me to die in reality. What if I don’t get extra lives? What if I’m the one who doesn’t regenerate?

The voices grow louder and meaner.

Students lean out of their openings, shadows with teeth. One shines a strobe of bright light down at my eyes until spots dance in my vision. I blink furiously, fighting vertigo. The laughter that follows scrapes down my spine.

“Don’t look down,” someone sings.

Another pelts me with rocks that ping against the rungs. Sharp edges slice across my knuckles. More cheers.

“She’s already shaking!” another hollers.

Assholes. What is this, some sort of messed-up hazing ritual? I’m not going to feed into this lunacy. I tune them out as I continue on. If all those jerks made it, who’s to say I can’t as well?

Every sound ricochets inside me, louder than the pounding of my heart. My throat tightens, my breath too short, too fast.

There’s no mercy in the faces looking down at me, no friendly witness. Just a hundred bright eyes, delighted to watch me break.

Halfway up, I look down. Bad idea. I’m instantly dizzy. The cavern floor is way too far. I look up. Worse idea. The rest of the rungs are gone.

“Fall! Fall! Fall!” they chant, throwing more light, more rocks, as if the spectacle isn’t thrilling enough without my suffering in stereo.

I press my forehead against the stone, the nausea sharp, my arm quaking. My vision flickers from the blinding flashes. My hands are cut from the rocks, my grip is failing, and still they taunt, raining distraction and cruelty down.

I shouldn’t have started this climb. I should have just sat on the cold cave floor and shivered for eight hours. Would have been better than dying this way.

Leo’s face flickers in my mind—the beeping machines, the sharp antiseptic sting, Leo cracking dumb jokes through a haze of meds—those memories crowd me, press into my chest as if the cliff itself wants me to remember why I can’t fall. He wouldn’t stop here. And he wouldn’t let me.

I gaze up at the remainder of the climb. It’s impossible. There are no more rungs, just wet rock that juts out overhead. I’d have to defy gravity and hang upside down to climb over the edge.

“She’s never going to get it.”

“Fall already!” someone shouts.

I ignore them and try to reposition my grip. Every moment sends fresh fire up my arms and my muscles scream, but I cling to the wall anyway. I can’t die now.

Leo would think this is all some great adventure game. Entering a cave that looks like Batman’s hideout. Being tasked to climb some impossible cliff just to get inside. Use magic to conjure a dangling rope ladder.

And then, as if the cliff hears my thoughts, something shifts.

The exact thing I imagine unfurls from over the edge—a dangling rope ladder. I stare at it behind me, almost laughing.

“Who bet a creation?” someone shouts from above.

“Useless,” hisses another.

And it is useless because the ladder hangs too far away for me to reach, about five feet behind me. I’d have to jump for it and not only hope to catch it mid-air but be light enough that the ladder I manifested with my mind won’t snap on me and send me plummeting. With a shaky hand gripping the wall, I ready myself.

“...Okay. Here goes nothing.”

A glass-shattering scream escapes my lips as I leap through the air and windmill my arms, reaching and clawing for the hanging ropes like a desperate cat. But it swings away from my grasp. I snatch only empty air as I freefall.

I shriek, shrill and sharp. The world goes quiet.

In that endless second I realize I was never supposed to make it, because I was never supposed to be here.

I watch the rope ladder swinging, already shrinking as I plunge.

Down.

All the way down to my death.

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Entering the dream—or my new sleeping alternate reality—feels like being pulled under water by a stranger. I haven’t even had time to process the eerie feeling before a corporate onboarding message emerges in my field of vision, all cheery font and fake enthusiasm.

And then an error? Conflict detected.

The message dissolves into blackness.

There’s no text. No blinking prompts to interact with. Just darkness. Then white. Then, even more unsettling, static.

FLASH.

A figure stands at the water’s edge, motionless. Something about them tugs at me, low in my stomach. Recognition. Or fear. I can only see their outline. It’s fuzzy, like a dark shadow. My breath hitches. Their head tilts, as if listening to the sea. I inhale and the world snaps.

FLASH.

The figure is in a rowboat now. Pale hands. Heavy water. Jagged black rocks ahead—like something that shouldn’t exist. The image tears. Bars of static carve across the scene. Lines of code flicker at the edges, nonsense to me: // external stream // trace-id: obscured //

FLASH.

The boat jolts. The figure has their back to me. They look down over the side of the boat before standing and diving into the water. Vanishing without a sound.

Something cold opens in me like a door I didn’t agree to walk through. One minute I’m reading a predictably stale corporate greeting, the next I’m getting an error message and being flooded with confusing images of someone throwing themselves into the ocean.

A high-pitched whining noise claws at my skull. My teeth ache and my jaw locks. I can’t tell if I’m screaming or if the simulation is screaming for me. My throat burns like I’m the source and I try to stop it, but the sound won’t break, just keeps rising and rising.

Make it stop. I want the piercing screech to stop.

The noise stretches like a wire pulled tight through my skull. The static thins, and a layered, filtered voice slides into whatever is left of my composure.

“Follow.”

One word. Ominous and confusing.

Then everything collapses into white noise.

A wave of salty air slaps into me. I can taste brine on my tongue. But I’m not wet.

My eyes sharpen and I see that I’m on a ferry.

Not a cute commuter ferry. This thing is wide and riveted, brass railings, and a deck that shines like someone forgot to let it dry. No crew, no passengers, only empty benches and lights that sputter as though haunted.

I stumble backward. My legs hold me, solid and shaking all at once. I grip the railing hard. I’m awake, but this isn’t real. It can’t be. My hands won’t stop trembling.

I check my pockets. No phone. No wallet. No ID. I’m in virtual reality after all, so I guess that makes sense. My clothing is wrong. I’m in an emerald-green button-down and black slacks—not what I was wearing before. Not what I would ever choose to wear.

Okay. Deep breath. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. That was weird, but I appear to be in Senium now. I must be traveling to the place I’m supposed to be testing.

I walk around the ferry, trying to make sense of how I ended up here. The deck is lined with empty benches, their metal seats rocking slightly with the motion of the water. Inside is no different—rows of vacant chairs, the air stale and waiting.

I’m about to descend the stairs to the lower deck when a loud, echoing song slips through the empty interior and lures me to the top deck.

There, balanced on the railing, is a woman belting a ballad so confidently it should be illegal. She wears a slick black gown that clings to her like liquid and her matching hair flows like a long waterfall, disappearing over the railing and into the sea. She manages to hold a sloshing martini glass in one hand without spilling a single drop.

I’m suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. Everything about her face is too perfect, the way someone tries to reconstruct a person from memory and forgets the quirks that make them human. Nothing about this is normal.

This is definitely Senium.

“Uh, excuse me?” I say, hesitant to interrupt the song she’s clearly enjoying.

She holds up a finger, motioning for me to wait while she absolutely nails a high note.

Wow. Okay. Rude, but talented.

She continues singing and something inside me bristles, probably the part that’s spent a lifetime smiling and nodding through nonsense. But I don’t have time for nonsense right now. I need some freaking answers.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt again, “but can you tell me what’s going on?” The words burst out of me in a single panicked breath.

Singing lady stops and smirks.

“Welcome to Senium, Ava Lumen.” She extends the back of her free hand up to my mouth and says, “I’m Rosie, your AI Guide.”

I take her hand awkwardly and shake it, although she leaves it lingering there like she wants me to kiss it or something.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, withdrawing my hand. “So, is that where we’re going?”

I gaze out toward the dark mountain that looms before us. It’s not at all the cubicle-office scenario that I had envisioned for day one.

“Bit dramatic, isn’t it? The pointed cliffs, the ominous fog, the whole ‘island of doom’ aesthetic,” she says, a wide smile plastered to her face, “Fitting for Sen Academy.”

My breath catches. That death-trap mountain is the Sen Academy?

I’ve heard whispers about it. Only five percent of implanted young adults make it in, the best and brightest. Because it’s the elite training ground for Senium’s future leaders. They’re entrusted to create and maintain the virtual world, enforce its laws, and protect its users. I’ve heard they’re trained to wield specialized powers; abilities people are desperate to have.

“No. That’s impossible. I’m supposed to be in the new Workforce Program, not building the virtual world.”

I have no business being at that Academy. I’m no leader. Leo needs me, he needs money for his treatment. He doesn’t need me fooling around with special powers or building some lame simulated castle or whatever it is these people do all night.

I smile though, half-expecting her to tilt her head back and laugh like it’s all some big joke or offer some explanation about a change in office headquarters. But neither happens.

“And yet, here you are,” she says. “This special ferry trip is quite unprecedented. You’re a late arrival and students aren’t usually admitted after the start date. I just had to find out: what makes you so special, hmm?”

I sputter a nervous laugh. She’s got this wrong, all wrong.

“I’m not special,” I murmur, shaking my head. “This is a mistake.”

Rosie sighs. “Ugh. So ungrateful. Do you know how many of you humans would kill for this opportunity?”

But I don’t want this opportunity. This is not at all what I signed up for. I’m supposed to be earning money for Leo, money I won’t be getting staying here on this boat.

Panic sets in. I have to get out of here. I have to wake up and tell Dr. Kasian my implant malfunctioned. My gaze skitters around the deck, unable to settle. Railings. Empty benches. Vast ocean waves. We’re completely alone.

“How do I get out of here?” I say, frantic, leaning over the railing. I could jump. I could swim. But to where?

The ocean stretches out before me, so vast and real that my stomach flips. But maybe if I just jump, I can swim to shore. Maybe there will be some kind of back door. It’s a virtual world so, I can probably dogpaddle my way there. Or… I don’t know, leapfrog across the waves.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, darling,” Rosie singsongs, as though reading my thoughts.

I stiffen. “Why not?”

She turns to face me, sipping her martini slowly before answering, like she has all the time in the world.

“Swimming is an advanced control,” she says. “Not that you’d know that. You’d last all of five seconds before perishing.”

I stare at her, processing the grim weight of her words.

She smirks, clearly enjoying my terror. “You might regenerate, of course. But I have heard from several other unfortunate souls that simulated drowning deaths are by far the most uncomfortable.”

My stomach turns. Okay. That sounds terrible.

“But if I die here, I’ll wake up in reality?”

If I can just get out of this, no matter how painful drowning feels, I can figure out what went wrong and fix it.

“That’s the thing about simulated deaths,” she says lightly. “It’s really a roll of the dice. Some wake up. Some… don’t.”

Time stretches thin. What the hell? Real-world death? I thought Senium users always regenerated in VR. Dr. Kasian never said actual death was possible.

“Looks like you could use this,” Rosie says, handing me a book. “Try not to die too much. Unless you want it to be permanent.”

I take the surprisingly heavy thing like it might bite me. It’s an emerald green book with glowing white text on the front that reads, The Viridis Survival Guide.

“Does this say how to undo a life-ruining clerical error?”

Rosie doesn’t blink. She just smiles with that vaguely apologetic AI face, like she’s been programmed to register disappointment but not actually fix it.

“Look, I shouldn’t be here,” I say, flipping the book open just to give my hands something to do. “I’m supposed to be testing out features and getting a paycheck. Not this— whatever this is.”

Rosie’s eyes narrow as she studies me. “Darling, you’re not a Legacy are you? Is that why you’re so willing to jump to your grave?”

A shiver runs down my spine at her words, at the way she says them so casually, like she’s discussing an errand.

“I’m not dead if that’s what you’re asking.”

When a Senium leader or Sen Academy student dies in the real world, their family can choose to have their consciousness uploaded into the virtual world. These “Legacies” continue living virtually, able to see their loved ones, continue their work, and return to the hobbies and routines they once had. It’s one of the perks of being specially chosen.

I can’t be dead. Not only would I remember something as consequential as that, I’m not supposed to be a Sen Academy student.

She shrugs, taking another sip of her martini, savoring it like she’s savoring my discomfort. “Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Students aren’t placed here by accident.”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. If I died during implantation, after being sent to Sen Academy by mistake, I would qualify as a Legacy. But would my dad choose for me to stay in Senium forever?

I don’t know if I believe in an afterlife or heaven, but I do know that my mother died before Senium even existed, when I was just a baby. And if her consciousness, or her soul, or whatever it is, doesn’t reside here, then I don’t want mine to either.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t right. I need to talk to someone. A real person. Or—whatever counts as real around here. I can’t stay.”

Rosie scoffs, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Leave? You want to discard such an incredible gift?” She shakes her head, her expression one of genuine disappointment. “There are only two ways you leave Sen Academy. One is graduating. And two is Levi Sen himself creating an exit for you.”

“Is that an option? How can I talk to him?” I ask. I know he’s the creator of the world and all, but there’s got to be a way to speak to him, especially if there’s an emergency. And this is definitely an emergency.

Rosie leans back, studying me with a bored expression.

“Why are you such a dud?” she says, her tone almost petulant. “You’re standing at the threshold of greatness and all you can think about is leaving?” She picks up her martini glass, which has been balancing impressively on the railing, and finishes the drink in one smooth gulp before tossing it into the simulated ocean.

Before I can respond, she winks at me. “Good luck, Darling Dud. You’re going to need it.”

With that, she vanishes into thin air, leaving me alone, survival guide in hand, as the ferry enters the gaping mouth of a cavern that swallows all the light.

So much for AI guidance.

I glance over the rail one last time. The waves look brutal, but maybe survivable. If I jump now, maybe I can still get out. Get back to the real world. Back to the program. Back to Leo.

A floating walkway unfolds, leading to an entrance in the rock. I hesitate. I need to wake up, claw my way out of this nightmare. But what if I die and don’t wake up? I don’t want to be stuck here forever. I need to get this glitch sorted fast so that I can start earning for Leo.

I glance back at the sea. The cave opening is gone. Just like that.

I take a breath. Okay. This is happening.

The shadows press in as I step onto the unfolding ramp, and something deep inside me knows—

This is only the beginning of something much worse.

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I decide I will survive this the same way I survive physical exams and bra fittings and going dateless to school dances, by pretending I’m fine.

I am exceptional at pretending I’m fine.

I smile when Dr. Kasian congratulates me. I nod when Dad tells me I’m doing the right thing. I thank everyone at the Cloudkind clinic when the word “opportunity” gets said like a blessing instead of a warning.

If I were honest, I’d admit this feels less like a door opening and more like a floor giving way.

But honesty is not what got me here.

Leo’s message buzzes against my wrist: “Good luck Ava, your new job’s gonna be fire. Also, you HAVE to tell me what it smells like in there.”

I smile, hovering my finger over my watch’s reply window. Good sisters answer right away. Good sisters don’t cower behind tech, no matter how tempting it may be.

“Sure,” I mutter, watching it transcribe my words in slow, punctuated beats. “Bet it smells like old batteries and indentured servitude.”

Too honest. I cut it like a clean incision.

“Bet it smells shiny and new.” I hit send.

I paste on a smile for no one, more out of habit. The clinic machinery hums around me like it knows when I’m faking it.

Dad paces in precise, clipped steps and I can read the tension in his jaw. Only he sees through my smile, through the way I pretend this is celebration and not sentencing. His worried glance ricochets off of the curved walls: Don’t mess this up.

Everyone treats tonight like it’s my birthday and graduation rolled into one. I’m supposed to be thrilled for the upgrade. I nod and play my part, but it feels less like a milestone and more like an execution chamber built just for me, where applause replaces the final prayer.

Maybe it won’t be completely soul-crushing. Maybe the first night will be like this room—small and clean and manageable. Just logging in, learning the rules, getting shown around like a normal new hire.

“That’ll need to come off now,” Dr. Kasian says, nodding at my wrist.

My watch. It’s a scratched-up, passed-down relic that barely texts and keeps worse time.

I hesitate. “It’s just an old watch,” I manage. Admitting what it truly means would split me open.

“Sorry. It’ll interfere with the mapping.”

I unbuckle it slowly, almost expecting the thing to fight back. I wore it the first time Leo collapsed in the yard. I wore it when our family sat in waiting rooms, while the minutes dragged like years. It was how Leo and I stayed tethered—me glancing at it between classes, him sending me texts from a hospital bed, both of us measuring the same hours apart when everything started unraveling. Now I’m supposed to hand it over like it’s just meaningless metal and plastic. Not the last fragile thread between us.

“It’s fine,” I say, forcing a small smile.

Dad takes it from me and tucks it in his pocket with the same absent care he’d give a plastic trinket from a birthday goodie bag, already forgetting it was ever in his hand. His eyes are fixed instead on the computer Dr. Kasian begins typing on.

“She starts tonight, then?” Dad clears his throat. “And the first paycheck?”

My shoulders tense at this question, bearing more of the heavy guilt that’s been crushing me ever since we found out about the treatment Leo needs. I could have applied for this job months ago. I could have already earned enough to cover the costs. Instead, in true Luddite fashion, I’ve avoided the microchip and everything related to Senium.

Dr. Kasian doesn’t look up from her screen, fingers still moving.

“She starts immediately. First paycheck in a week.”

Dad exhales, slow and careful, shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Good. That’s good.”

Of course, Dad thinks this is all good. He thinks the implant is some kind of bodily enhancement, not a shackle. He doesn’t care that I despise virtual reality. I’d rather live inside a book than in a synthetic world stitched into my skin.

“Seventeen is on the younger side for our Workforce program. You must be excited,” Dr. Kasian says, trying for small talk, the kind that’s supposed to distract me from the moment about to split my life in two.

“It’s a big opportunity,” I say.

“And no prior VR use,” she says, sounding impressed. “That makes you a perfect candidate.”

“Lucky me,” I whisper. I don’t mean it at all.

Dad doesn’t beam with pride or thank me. He doesn’t even acknowledge what I’m giving up, only what I’ve delayed.

“We could have used the extra paycheck,” he says, his voice a guilt-laced needle poking me, “I still can’t believe you missed the first interview.”

I flinch and stare at my hands, wishing I could fold myself small enough to disappear from the room.

He scheduled the first interview for me last year. The one I no-showed for, and he forgot all about. With Leo being in and out of the hospital, it was just one more thing of mine that fell through the cracks.

I swallow and say nothing, letting his version of the story stand. I don’t need a lecture. I already know I messed up.

“Forget it.” Thankfully, he waves it off. “You’re getting it done now. That’s all that matters.”

After Leo’s last hospitalization, the doctors gave us five months. They said it gently, like kindness could change the math. If Leo doesn’t get the new treatment by January, there’s almost no chance he’ll make it.

I breathe in. The antiseptic smell stabs my nose like the clinic’s offended I’m still 100% human. Dr. Kasian’s fingers fly across the keyboard, checking and rechecking something on the screen, probably making sure the shiny new chip won’t fry my brain on first boot-up.

Dad launches into a detailed description of a treasure hunt he found in Senium last night. Something about floating ships and hidden maps. I barely register any of it. His voice drifts past me, relaying adventures of a world I don’t want, while I’m trying not to panic in this one.

“So, I say to him,” Dad rambles, “you think you’re Levi Sen or something? The idiot dives into the sea and swims all the way to the sinking ship. Just like that. So, I’m thinking must be some Sen Academy type, right?”

Dr. Kasian humors him with a polite nod. “Must be.”

Heat crawls up my neck. He already lives half his life in Senium. If that didn’t disqualify him, he could be the one sitting in this chair. He could be the one earning. Instead, it’s me—because I’m the only one in this family who stayed stubbornly unimplanted. The only one untouched enough to be useful.

He’d pay for it if he could, I know that. He already burned through everything on my brother. Every doctor, every test, every hospital stay that was supposed to fix it, all of it stacked into a mountain of debt so high he can’t even pretend to see over it anymore. My employment in the Workforce program is his last resort. I’m Leo’s last resort.

I sit rigid in the prep chair as Dr. Kasian lifts a sleek, ring-shaped scanner, the metal glinting under the lights before it hovers above my head. The hum isn’t gentle at all, it’s sharp and needling, like a swarm that knows exactly where to sting. My palms sweat against the armrests, but I keep my face still. I’m supposed to act like this is routine, like a trip to the dentist, I remind myself. Even though no dentist ever made me feel like I was about to be erased and rewritten at the same time.

“Stay very still,” Dr. Kasian says. “We’re mapping your neural patterns. It’s like fitting custom software.”

Custom software. I almost laugh. That’ll make this totally fine.

She lowers the scanner until it almost touches my hairline, and a dozen cool, metal tendrils unfold from its edge, gently pressing against my scalp.

I take a deep inhale. I can do this. It’s just an implant. A tool.

The scanner hums louder.

Dr. Kasian has me blink in patterns, do mental math, think of a happy memory. Lights blink on a nearby screen. A stream of code scrolls alongside it like my consciousness is being debugged in real time.

“We’ll begin the procedure soon,” she says.

The humming intensifies. I glance toward Dr. Kasian and dad off to the side of the room.

Dr. Kasian lowers her voice, not quite a whisper, but not meant for me either. “She’s aware of the side effects?”

Dad doesn’t blink. “Of course.”

The humming stops, replaced by a tight, shrill ding.

Dr. Kasian hesitates just long enough to make it obvious. Then she taps something on the screen. A soft chime echoes through the room. “You’re synced.”

I’m still processing what I just overheard.

“Wait,” I say. “What kind of side effects?”

Dr. Kasian glances at my dad, then back to me. She’s good at the soft face adults use to make difficult things sound manageable.

“Microseizures. Chronic migraines. Cognitive lock-in. Memory distortion, in rare cases.”

Dad clears his throat. “Ava. We talked about this.”

We didn’t. He talked while I nodded until my jaw cramped. I never got to ask the questions I wanted to ask.

“Your mom would be so proud of you,” he says softly, and it catches me off-guard. He never talks about her and the surprising mention makes me fold.

He adds, “And you’ll be helping your brother.” That alone justifies everything. Leo may only be my half-brother, but he’s the whole world to me. After Leo’s mom left, dad and I are his whole world too.

I press my hands between my knees to stop them from shaking. My fingers need something to do that isn’t spiraling into panic.

“Can I ask something else?”

Dr. Kasian nods patiently as Dad sighs. He gives me that tight, stretched smile. The one that screams to just go along with it

“What kind of things will I be testing?” I ask. “It’s not… dangerous, right?”

They were tight-lipped and vague about it in the interview, and I needed the job badly enough not to press for details.

“The implant is calibrated exclusively for Senium. You’ll be entering a controlled, tightly monitored sector,” she explains with a reassuring smile. “Your job is to test new features, explore environments and scenarios before they reach the public, and report anomalies.”

There’s a knock at the door and a nurse enters with a tray, a needle ready. I hate needles.

Dad says too quickly, “She’s ready.”

“You’ll feel drowsy in seconds,” Dr. Kasian says, like that’s a comfort. “If everything looks good after your first night of observation, you’ll be able to sleep back at home.”

Dr. Kasian explains the microinjection and guided fusion like she’s talking about gluing two Lego pieces together. No scalpels. Minimally invasive, the consent form said in neat typed words. The needle is in her hand.

The heaviness sinks in.

I hear Leo’s voice, bright with curiosity: Tell me what it smells like in there.

I wish I could lie. But there’s no smell I can describe as I fade—no treasure hunt scent or battery-stench, nothing cinematic. No sound.

It’s hollow, like the space before a scream.

Table of Contents | Next Chapter

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The Viridis Survival Guide is a YA sci-fi serial about Ava, a people-pleasing 17-year-old who enters a virtual program while she sleeps to save her dying brother, only to discover she may never wake back up.

How to Read

New chapters drop every Monday, with the first three available now.

I’m adapting and revising this novel in real time for a serialized format. Chapters vary in length, but I hope to keep them under 3,000 words.

Start with Chapter 1 here.

Table of Contents

1. Chapter 1: The Clinic

2. Chapter 2: Onboarding

3. Chapter 3: The Entrance Ascent

4. Chapter 4: Coming… May 4th

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If you’re enjoying the story, you can subscribe to get the new chapter delivered straight to your inbox.

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I wrote this story as a form of therapy for my chronic people-pleasing, which felt more affordable (and more fun, tbh) than actual counseling.

I hope you enjoy it.

Helena xx

Here’s the premise:

To save her dying brother, people-pleasing Ava agrees to work inside a virtual world that activates while she sleeps. But when she’s trapped inside a brutal academy designed to break its recruits, pleasing the wrong person could cost her any chance of waking up.

Instead of pursuing traditional publishing right away, I’ve decided to share the story the way many novels once appeared: as a serialized narrative, released one chapter at a time.

Beginning in late April, I’ll be publishing the novel here in weekly installments. Each chapter continues the story from the previous one, so readers can follow along as the world, and the dangers within it, unfold.

If you subscribe, each new chapter will arrive directly in your inbox.

Between now and the launch, I’ll be sharing a few glimpses of the story’s world: introductions to the characters, small previews, and occasional notes from the writing process.

If you enjoy discovering a story as it grows, I’d be glad to have you along for the journey.

You can subscribe below to follow the series from the beginning.

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And when the first chapter arrives, you’ll be able to start reading here:

Start Here

Thank you for being an early reader and following me as I begin this journey.

Helena xx