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Jake woke up at 6:59 AM, exactly one second before his alarm was set to go off. The screen of his smartphone lit up, displaying “Engagement Score: 78% (+2% from yesterday! Keep grinding, Jake!)”. He silently swiped the notification away. 78%. Above average, but nowhere near the top 10%. Today was the day he'd push it to 80%.
His apartment, named “Minimalist Dream,” was actually just a narrow, white box. The only “decoration” on the walls was a massive digital display embedded in the wall, constantly streaming his primary SNS platform, “Connectrix,” feed. Videos of cats belonging to acquaintances of acquaintances, someone's seemingly perfect avocado toast, flaming political arguments, and ads, ads, ads…. Jake blankly stared at the flowing images as he gulped down a protein shake. The flavor was labeled “Ultimate Chocolate Blast,” but it felt like he was chewing sand.
His commute was on an electric kick scooter called “ZipZap Z4.” The pink and neon-green trimmed vehicle was almost indistinguishable from the dozens of other ZipZaps he passed on the road. Everyone was staring at a small AR display through their helmet visors, following optimized routes, and scrolling through their Connectrix feeds. As usual, the air smelled like a mixture of exhaust fumes and distant wildfire smoke. Jake parked his scooter in the designated parking spot in front of “Insta-Grat Cafe.” Every morning, it was his routine to buy caffeine and a nutritional drink called “Social Fuel,” which “algorithmically optimized” his mood and concentration.
“The usual, Jake?” The barista's robotic arm moved smoothly, its eyes flashing blue LEDs. Its voice was unnaturally cheerful. “That's right. With an extra boost.” “Understood. Today's recommended engagement-boosting topping is 'Virtual Cheerleader Cheers'. It has the potential to improve your Connectrix reaction acquisition rate by an estimated 17.8%...” “Okay, that's fine.” Jake sighed. The fee was automatically deducted from his account, and the cup was handed over. The liquid was a suspicious fluorescent green, with pink heart-shaped bubbles floating on the surface. The taste was… nonexistent.
The office building, “The Hive,” looked like a giant beehive made of glass and steel. Jake's job was mainly as a “Content Optimizer.” Specifically, he used algorithms to fine-tune content for advertisers that was most likely to catch the eye, be clicked on, and be shared on the Connectrix feed. Today's main client was “EverFresh PetNugs,” a company that artificially cultivates pet food. His task was to determine the optimal mixture ratio of puppy images and sad senior dog images in the company's new advertising campaign for “Soulful Salmon Bites for Senior Dogs.” Puppies have high engagement, but senior dogs have a high “emotional depth” score. For hours, he wrestled with a sea of graphs and numbers in front of his monitor. The numbers danced, changed, and flickered in his eyes.
During his lunch break, Jake headed to the “Social Energy Zone” at the “FitFlick” gym. Here, it was recommended (or rather, virtually mandatory) to scroll through your Connectrix feed or live stream while riding a treadmill or bike. A screen covering an entire wall displayed the gym's “Social Impact Score” in real time, quantifying how “engaged” everyone was. While riding his bike, Jake lazily scrolled through his feed. Wedding photos of people he didn't know, videos of someone showing off their perfect abs, an EverFresh PetNugs ad that suddenly appeared (the one he had fine-tuned that morning), and more ads…. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Suddenly, something completely out of place flashed at the edge of his feed for a moment. An old wooden chessboard. One of the pieces, a pawn, seemed to have moved on its own. Jake blinked. It was gone. A bug, or his imagination?
The afternoon was even more unproductive. Feedback arrived from the client, requesting that the ratio of sad senior dogs be increased by another 5.7%, even at the expense of the “emotional score.” The engagement forecast would drop by 0.3%, but the “brand empathy” index would increase, they said. Jake changed the settings. The numbers started dancing again. The back of his head began to throb.
At quitting time, Jake once again headed home on his ZipZap. The city was overflowing with neon signs and AR advertisements on flyers, and the air was thicker, with a sweet exhaust gas odor. At the entrance to his apartment, he took out his smartphone as usual and tried to open Connectrix. That's when it happened.
“Hello, Player.”
The voice seemed to resonate directly in his mind, from nowhere. It was low, smooth, slightly mechanical, but also had a certain human warmth.
Jake turned around. No one was there. As usual, the street was just flowing with people on scooters. “Look up,” the voice said. Jake involuntarily looked up. On the building's wall, the giant screen was displaying a huge EverFresh PetNugs ad. But, in that ad, the image of the old dog with the sad eyes suddenly flashed a very human, mischievous smile. And then, it winked.
“W…what?” Jake couldn't get the words out.
“I think it's about time you realized it, Player,” the voice continued, resonating directly in his head. “You've been playing by the rules all along. Good job, your score isn't bad. But you know…” The voice paused slightly. “Is this game really interesting to you?”
The image of the old dog on the screen suddenly changed into a pawn on a chessboard. And then, it moved one space forward. “What game? Who are you?” Jake finally squeezed out the words. The passersby don't pay any attention. They are immersed in their smartphones or AR glasses.
“Me? I'm the Game Master. Or… anything you want to call me,” the voice said lightly. “And the game is… well, 'Reality,' or 'Social Survival,' or any of the clichéd names you people give it. But the essence is simple: follow the rules, earn points, and survive. You've been doing well. 78%, right? Not bad.”
Jake felt a chill run down his spine. “What do you mean? What's going on?” “What's going on is 'awareness', Player,” the voice took on a serious tone. “Look around. Really look.”
When Jake looked around, the world was… changing. No, it wasn't the world that had changed, but the way he saw it. Semitransparent numbers and bars were floating above the faces of the passersby. Engagement Score: 65%. Social Capital: ¥1,250,300. Stress Level: 82% (Critical). Above one woman's head, “Influence Reach: 45K” was displayed, and next to it, a small flame icon was flashing. The ads on the walls of the buildings seemed to have changed from images of products to complex mathematical formulas and psychological analysis diagrams of target demographics with arrows flying around. Even the smell in the air didn't feel like exhaust fumes, but rather like a vortex of data and the electronic odor of impending anxiety.
“This… is this real?” Jake gasped.
“Real? That's an interesting question,” the Game Master's voice was somewhat cheerful. “The 'normal' world you've been seeing until now is also just the result of algorithms optimizing… that is, filtering your perception. I just took that filter off a little bit. I showed you the backside of the game, the code.”
Jake looked at his hand. On the palm of his hand, “Player ID: Jake_734” was displayed in blue light, with a small heart (HP?) and a stamina bar icon underneath. “Why me?”
“Why?” The voice laughed. “Because you seemed interesting. You follow the rules, but occasionally, you have the ability to notice the chess board movement at the edge of the feed… to sense even the slightest bit of 'noise'. That's a valuable quality. It has the potential to transcend the game.”
Suddenly, giant, glowing options floated into Jake's vision. [A] Continue the game (Engagement Score +5%, Stability Guaranteed)[B] Quit the game (???)
A warning sound echoed softly in his head. “Warning: Non-standard option selection. May result in unpredictable outcomes. Stability will be compromised.”
“Choose, Player,” the Game Master's voice became serious. “Do you continue playing by the rules, raise your score, and advance along the safe rails of promotion? Or… do you advance your pawn to an unknown square?”
Jake gasped. His heart pounded against his ribs. A 78% score. A cramped apartment. Tasteless protein shakes. Days of dancing numbers…. And the suddenly visible numbers of anguish floating above people's heads, the cold algorithmic web covering the world.
He took a deep breath. A deep breath. It wasn't a part of the game, it was a reaction from his living body. “Quit,” he said aloud. His voice was hoarse.
[B] Quit the game has been selected.
For a moment, the world warped. The neon lights blurred, the sounds distorted, and the outlines of the buildings wavered as if melting. The Engagement Score number displayed above his head flickered violently for a moment, and then… disappeared with a quiet pop.
The next moment, everything seemed back to normal. The regular ads were back on the giant screen, and nothing was displayed above the heads of the passersby. But something was decisively different. The world… wasn't flat anymore. The colors had subtle and complex shadows, rather than the artificial vibrancy he had seen through the filter. The smell in the air was a mixture of exhaust fumes, dust, and the smell of someone's dinner drifting from afar, with a strange realism. And the sounds. The sound of car engines, the sound of scooter motors, fragments of people's conversations, distant sirens… they overlapped, taking on a raw texture that had previously been removed as “noise.”
His smartphone vibrated. It was a notification from Connectrix. “Engagement Score: 0% (Error: Signal Not Found)”. Underneath it, in small print, “Account Status: Inactive”. Strangely, instead of fear, an immense sense of liberation filled his chest. It was as if an invisible, heavy suit of armor that he had been wearing all along had fallen off.
He started walking. Without any direction, he just walked. He sat down on a bench in a small, ordinary park that wasn't a “social hotspot.” The bench was old and the paint was peeling. He just sat and watched the leaves of the trees sway in the wind. The movement felt far more irregular and alive than the perfectly looped videos on the algorithmically optimized feed.
Suddenly, the Game Master's voice was no longer in his head. Instead, he heard a real, living voice. “Um… excuse me.” When he turned around, a young man who looked like a pizza delivery guy was standing there. He was wearing a scooter helmet and holding a box. No numbers were displayed above his head. There was just a slightly sweaty, awkward human face. “I'm lost…. I can't find this address.” He showed his smartphone. An old map app was displayed on the screen.
Jake tried to take out his smartphone, but stopped. Instead, he pointed to the bench. “Want to sit down for a bit? We can take a look together.” The young man looked surprised, but smiled with relief and sat down on the bench. The two of them peered at the small screen, and Jake, tracing his memory, began to explain the intricate structure of the alleyways in this complex city. The conversation soon veered off in completely unrelated directions, such as the worst delivery episodes and the origins of the strangely named streets in this city. The conversation was disjointed and sometimes interrupted. It was completely unproductive.
And then, Jake noticed it. Raindrops hitting his cheek. He looked up. Fine, cold rain was beginning to fall from the gray sky. The deliveryman also looked up. “Oh, crap. The pizza…” “It's okay, the box looks sturdy,” Jake said. The rain was slowly soaking the shoulders of his hoodless jacket. The feeling was… real. Cold, slightly uncomfortable, but surprisingly vivid.
The deliveryman stood up. “I should get going. …Thanks, you helped me out.” “Be careful.” The young man got on his scooter and drove off into the rain.
Jake remained on the bench. The rain gradually intensified, wetting his hair and running down his neck. The park was completely deserted, shrouded in rain. The Connectrix feed wasn't playing in his head. Instead, there was only the sound of the rain, his own breathing, and the afterglow of his trivial, meaningless, and completely unproductive conversation with the deliveryman earlier.
He wiped his wet cheek with the back of his hand. Even if he wiped them away, new raindrops immediately fell. He started laughing. Quietly, and then gradually louder. It wasn't a “reaction” to raise his engagement score, nor was it a performance to show to someone. It was just that this incredibly strange, meaningless, and overwhelmingly real moment of sitting on a bench while being rained on felt so comical and so… free.
The Game Master's voice could no longer be heard. The options had also disappeared. No scores were displayed above his head.
Jake stood up. It wouldn't be so bad to be completely soaked, he thought. Instead of the road to his apartment, he slowly started walking into the unknown alley shrouded in rain. With each step, he felt the puddles splashing under his shoes. It was the most real score he had learned today.
This is a novel written by AI.
