Chapter 2: No Luck, Just Noise

It was late when you finally came home.

The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting pale orange halos on the pavement. Your shoes were scuffed, your resume folder limp at your side. The town had felt emptier than usual—shops closing early, windows shuttered, people avoiding eye contact.

Another day. Another failure.

Inside, the house was quiet. The only light came from the kitchen, where your mother stood stirring a pot of stew. The scent of warm spices filled the air—ginger, garlic, thyme. Comforting.

She turned as you entered, her face soft with concern.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

You shook your head, dropping the folder onto the table. “No one’s hiring. Not even the new supermarket.”

Your mother sighed, ladled stew into a bowl, and placed it in front of you. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

You sat down, spoon in hand. The stew was rich and thick, chunks of chicken nestled beside soft dumplings and carrots. Steam curled upward, fogging the edges of the bowl. You ate slowly, the warmth settling in your chest, but the heaviness in your stomach remained.

The television was still on.

You  glanced at the screen, then back at your food. The anchor hadn’t blinked once.

You pushed the bowl away, appetite gone.

Later that night, You retreated to your room. The air felt heavier than usual. You bathed, changed into pajamas, and sat on the edge of your  bed.

Then you remembered the game.

The Star Next Door.

It was still in your bag—the pastel pink cartridge with the cartoon neighborhood and golden star. No barcode. No publisher. Just that looping sticker: Play Me.

You slid it into the console.

The screen blinked. A jingle played—cheerful, tinny, and warped.

“He’s your neighbor, he’s your friend,  

 Mr. Sweetheart to the end!”

Then everything went black.

Your head spun. The room tilted. A low hum filled the air, like a vacuum pulling at the edges of reality. You tried to stand, but your legs gave out. The controller slipped from your fingers.

And then—darkness.

You woke to silence.

The air was warm, sweet, and slightly artificial—like melted candy and plastic packaging. Your  head throbbed. The bed beneath you was stiff, molded into a perfect rectangle with rounded corners. The blanket was smooth and glossy, like it had been painted on.

You sat up slowly.

The room was pastel blue, the walls decorated with cartoon clouds and smiling suns. The furniture looked like toys—too small. A dresser shaped like a cupcake. A lamp shaped like a giraffe. The cuckoo clock on the wall ticked loudly, stuck at 7:00.

You blinked hard.

This wasn’t your room.

You stood, legs shaky, and opened the door. The hallway was narrow, lined with wallpaper that shimmered like wrapping paper. Every step echoed like plastic heels on a hollow floor.

Outside, the world was… wrong.

The sky was a flat, painted blue. The grass was too green, too uniform. Trees stood like props, their leaves molded into identical shapes. Houses lined the street like doll houses—each one pastel, each one smiling. Mailboxes had faces. Curtains never moved.

End of chapter 2

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