Page 1 of Immersed
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For Ethan
LeviMercer’sfingerstrembledagainst the ring light’s adjustment knob, the cool metal slick beneath his damp palms as he angled the LED panel until soft white light bathed his face. The cramped studio apartment pressed in around him—three steps from his unmade bed to the streaming corner he carved between the stacked moving boxes that still hadn’t found permanent homes after two years. His dual monitors displayed the donation goal thermometer graphic in stark clarity: zero dollars raised for the Mental Health Awareness Foundation, the empty progress bar a reminder of how much tonight mattered.
This is for Ethan, he thought, swallowing against the tightness in his throat.
“Testing, testing.”The second word cracked, thin and reedy in the empty apartment. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders.
Sound confident. They can’t see how your hands are shaking.
The words echoed off the bare walls, hollow and brittle. Levi’s gaze drifted to the framed photo he positioned just beyond the camera’s field of view—Ethan’s senior portrait, his brother’s confident smile frozen behind the glass. One year and three months since the funeral.
He would have been streaming this himself if hewerestill here. Would havehada thousand viewers by now, probably speedrunning the thing just to mess with the AI.
“You should try streaming,”his grief counselorhadsuggestedduring one of their early sessions.“Channel that energy somewhere productive. Give yourself a routine, a purpose.”
The routinestuck, even if the purpose sometimes felt as hollow as his voice in the empty room. His usual strategy games and indie RPG reviews barely cracked fifty viewers on a good night, but theyweresafe. Predictable. Nothing like the psychological minefield hewasabout to enter.
Levi adjusted his auburn hair in the monitor’s reflection, noting how the ring light caught the natural copper highlights thathadalways made Ethan joke about their“genetic lottery.”His oversized black hoodie swallowed his lean frame, and the camera showed only his face and shoulders—safe, controlled, manageable.
“This one’s for you, E,”he whispered to the photo, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of his keyboard.“Even thoughyou’dprobably call me an idiot for being scared of a game you would have beaten in your sleep.”
His phone buzzed against the desk with a calendar reminder:“CHARITY STREAM - 7PM.”The notification made his heart rate spike, that flutter of panic beneath his sternum. Only 178 subscribers after a year of streaming. Hewasn’twrong. But the Mental Health Awareness Foundationfeatured his channel in their newsletter after he mentioned Ethan’s story during a particularly emotional Cities: Skylines build. Tonight could be different.
It could be a disaster, too. What if no one shows up? What if I freeze up?
Levi’s attention shifted to the unopened package dominating his unmade bed. The sleek black box bore the silver logo of Virtual Vice Technologies, its tagline etched in precise lettering below:“Reality is just the beginning.“The packagearrived three days ago with a note congratulating him on being selected for their beta testing program—apparently their algorithmflagged his channel after analyzing streaming patterns for“authenticity”.
Because nothing says ‘pick me’ like documented anxiety attacks during his one attempted Amnesia playthrough.
“I can’t believe they picked me,”he’dtold his friendPeter over coffee at their usual corner table.“Some PR person found my channel and thoughtI’dbe perfect to preview their new VR system. Said they needed streamers who showed ‘authentic reactions’ with horror content.”
“Perfect?”Peter laughed, choking on his latte.“You hate horror games. Didn’t you run out of your house when your brother played PT?”
“It’s for charity,”Levireplied, his fingers shredding the paper napkin in his lap.“And for Ethan. He loved horror games. Always said Iwasmissing out by being such a coward.”
Now, alone in his apartment with the weight of the evening ahead, the courage thatfueled his decision hung by a thread. He lifted the box from his bed with care, noting its lightness, and carried it to his desk where the streaming setup waited.
The unboxing revealed technology unlike any VR system he had ever even read about. The headset itselfwasa masterpiece of minimalist design—matte black polymer that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, with contours that followed the natural curve of a human skull. What made it truly unusualwerethe flat, ribbon-like extensions that dangled from each side like thin tentacles.
This looksmore like medical equipment than a gaming peripheral. The build quality is insane though—this probably costs more than my entire setup.
Levi lifted the headset, noting the precision engineering. The weight distribution felt perfect, the padding custom-molded.
“Okay, this is actually impressive from a technical standpoint,”he muttered, examining the connection ports.“This isn’t some modded Oculus.”
The inside of the box was white with a bold warning printed in red ink:“Psychological effects may vary. Use at own risk. Discontinue use if experiencing prolonged dissociation, memory gaps, or intrusive thoughts lasting more than 24 hours post-session.”
“G-great,”Levi muttered, his stutter emerging as stress tightened his vocal cords.“T-totally not ominous at all. Next they’ll want me to sign a waiver in blood.”
Maybe I should have read the fine print before agreeing to this. Then again, Ethan never read warnings either. He just jumped headfirst into everything.
A memory surfaced unbidden—Ethan hunched over his gaming chair at 2 AM, headphones on, lost in some nightmare scenario.“You gotta think like the game thinks,“he explained when Levi asked how he could stand playing horror games.“It’s all patterns, dude. AI behavior, environmental cues, narrative structure. Once you map the system, nothing can really surprise you.”
Levi pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until phosphenes danced behind his lids.
Focus. Tonight isn’t about being sad over him. It’s for him.
