Marcus Chen stared at his cracked phone screen, refreshing the Eclipse Online store page for the hundredth time that hour. The clock in the corner of his cramped studio apartment read 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until release.
Thirteen minutes until his life changed.
Around him, the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling seemed to close in, a physical manifestation of his failure. Twenty-four years old, college dropout, three months behind on rent, surviving on instant noodles and shame. His younger brother was a surgeon. His sister ran her own tech company. Marcus delivered food on a broken scooter and got yelled at by customers who didn't tip.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
His phone buzzed. A text from David: "You actually buying that game? Waste of money for someone who can't even afford rent lmao."
Marcus's jaw tightened. David had been his roommate before Marcus got kicked out for missed payments. The same David who'd stolen his girlfriend, his friend group, and apparently his dignity.
Another text: "Sarah says hi btw. We're watching the Eclipse launch together 😏"
Marcus threw his phone onto the couch, then immediately picked it up again. He couldn't afford to miss the launch. He'd saved for three months, skipping meals, taking extra shifts, selling everything valuable he owned. The neural interface headset had cost him two thousand dollars—money he absolutely didn't have.
It sat on his coffee table now, sleek black polymer with silver neural contacts, looking like alien technology next to his thrift store furniture. The packaging promised "True Consciousness Transfer" and "Experience Your Second Life."
His laptop dinged. 11:52 PM. The official Eclipse Online forums were exploding.
"EIGHT MINUTES!"
"Already got my Neural-Link calibrated! VAMPIRE CLASS HERE I COME!"
"80% of Earth's population on waitlist. This is history."
"Did you read the updated terms? We're TRAPPED INSIDE until dawn??? Time dilation is INSANE. One hour real time could be DAYS in-game!"
Marcus had read every article, every interview, every leaked detail. Eclipse Online wasn't just a game. The technology was revolutionary—actual consciousness transfer to a duplicate Earth while your body rested. The game world operated on accelerated time, allowing players to live entire adventures during a single night's sleep.
But there were rules. Strict ones.
You could only play from 10 PM to 6 AM. Eight hours. Your consciousness would transfer to the game world, and you couldn't log out until morning. Time inside moved differently—the developers were vague about the exact ratio, saying it "fluctuated based on server load and Admin updates."
Some players reported spending days in-game during one night session. Others experienced weeks.
And the game world itself was brutal. A duplicate Earth ravaged by apocalyptic conditions that changed with Admin updates. Last week's beta test had featured acid rain storms. The week before, gravity anomalies. The developers called it "Dynamic Apocalypse Events"—essentially, the game world could transform into any nightmare scenario the Admins designed.
Players chose supernatural abilities to survive. Werewolf packs hunted in the ruins. Sorcerers commanded elements. Frankenstein-class players became undead juggernauts. Vampires stalked the night with predatory grace.
Marcus had made his choice weeks ago. Vampire. The class offered speed, strength, regeneration, and blood magic. Perfect for a solo player who'd spent his life being weak.
11:57 PM.
His hands shook as he lifted the neural interface. It was heavier than expected, cold against his palms. Instructions glowed on his laptop: "Place headset on head. Lie down in comfortable position. Close eyes. System will initiate automatically at launch."
Marcus positioned himself on his lumpy couch, suddenly aware of every spring poking his back. What if this didn't work? What if he'd wasted everything on a glorified sleep mask?
What if it did work, and he was still useless?
11:59 PM.
He placed the headset over his eyes. The neural contacts were cool against his temples. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then his phone exploded with notifications. The Discord servers were screaming. The forums crashed. Someone was livestreaming their setup, counting down.
"TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"
Marcus's heart hammered against his ribs. His entire body felt electric, suspended between one life and another.
"FOUR! THREE! TWO!"
The neural interface grew warm. A low hum vibrated through his skull, not unpleasant but utterly alien. His laptop screen flashed: "ECLIPSE ONLINE SERVERS ACTIVE. CONSCIOUSNESS TRANSFER INITIATING."
"ONE!"
The world went white.
Not black. White. Pure, absolute, consuming white that erased thought and sensation. Marcus felt himself come apart, like someone had grabbed the threads of his being and pulled. His body disappeared. His studio apartment vanished.
For an instant that could have been a second or an eternity, Marcus Chen didn't exist.
Then existence returned with violent force.
Sound crashed into him first—screams, explosions, sirens. Then sensation: cold concrete beneath him, smoke burning his throat, heat from nearby fires. Finally sight, his vision assembling itself piece by piece.
He was lying in a street. Not his street. The buildings around him were familiar but wrong—crumbling, overgrown with strange vegetation that pulsed with bioluminescence. The sky was the color of a bruise, purple-black with veins of sickly green light.
Other players materialized around him, appearing in flashes of light. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. All looking as disoriented as he felt.
A massive screen appeared in the sky, words burning across the apocalyptic horizon:
"WELCOME TO ECLIPSE ONLINE. ADMIN UPDATE: OUTBREAK PROTOCOL ACTIVE. SURVIVE. EVOLVE. DOMINATE."
"CHARACTER CREATION INITIATING."
A translucent menu appeared in Marcus's vision, hovering in the air before him. Classes were listed, each with intricate skill trees and specializations.
His finger—or whatever passed for his finger in this space—moved toward "Vampire."
This was it. His rebirth.
He selected the class.
The screen glitched.
Marcus Chen stared at his cracked phone screen, refreshing the Eclipse Online store page for the hundredth time that hour. The clock in the corner of his cramped studio apartment read 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until release.
Thirteen minutes until his life changed.
Around him, the peeling wallpaper and water-stained ceiling seemed to close in, a physical manifestation of his failure. Twenty-four years old, college dropout, three months behind on rent, surviving on instant noodles and shame. His younger brother was a surgeon. His sister ran her own tech company. Marcus delivered food on a broken scooter and got yelled at by customers who didn't tip.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
His phone buzzed. A text from David: "You actually buying that game? Waste of money for someone who can't even afford rent lmao."
Marcus's jaw tightened. David had been his roommate before Marcus got kicked out for missed payments. The same David who'd stolen his girlfriend, his friend group, and apparently his dignity.
Another text: "Sarah says hi btw. We're watching the Eclipse launch together 😏"
Marcus threw his phone onto the couch, then immediately picked it up again. He couldn't afford to miss the launch. He'd saved for three months, skipping meals, taking extra shifts, selling everything valuable he owned. The neural interface headset had cost him two thousand dollars—money he absolutely didn't have.
It sat on his coffee table now, sleek black polymer with silver neural contacts, looking like alien technology next to his thrift store furniture. The packaging promised "True Consciousness Transfer" and "Experience Your Second Life."
His laptop dinged. 11:52 PM. The official Eclipse Online forums were exploding.
"EIGHT MINUTES!"
"Already got my Neural-Link calibrated! VAMPIRE CLASS HERE I COME!"
"80% of Earth's population on waitlist. This is history."
"Did you read the updated terms? We're TRAPPED INSIDE until dawn??? Time dilation is INSANE. One hour real time could be DAYS in-game!"
Marcus had read every article, every interview, every leaked detail. Eclipse Online wasn't just a game. The technology was revolutionary—actual consciousness transfer to a duplicate Earth while your body rested. The game world operated on accelerated time, allowing players to live entire adventures during a single night's sleep.
But there were rules. Strict ones.
You could only play from 10 PM to 6 AM. Eight hours. Your consciousness would transfer to the game world, and you couldn't log out until morning. Time inside moved differently—the developers were vague about the exact ratio, saying it "fluctuated based on server load and Admin updates."
Some players reported spending days in-game during one night session. Others experienced weeks.
And the game world itself was brutal. A duplicate Earth ravaged by apocalyptic conditions that changed with Admin updates. Last week's beta test had featured acid rain storms. The week before, gravity anomalies. The developers called it "Dynamic Apocalypse Events"—essentially, the game world could transform into any nightmare scenario the Admins designed.
Players chose supernatural abilities to survive. Werewolf packs hunted in the ruins. Sorcerers commanded elements. Frankenstein-class players became undead juggernauts. Vampires stalked the night with predatory grace.
Marcus had made his choice weeks ago. Vampire. The class offered speed, strength, regeneration, and blood magic. Perfect for a solo player who'd spent his life being weak.
11:57 PM.
His hands shook as he lifted the neural interface. It was heavier than expected, cold against his palms. Instructions glowed on his laptop: "Place headset on head. Lie down in comfortable position. Close eyes. System will initiate automatically at launch."
Marcus positioned himself on his lumpy couch, suddenly aware of every spring poking his back. What if this didn't work? What if he'd wasted everything on a glorified sleep mask?
What if it did work, and he was still useless?
11:59 PM.
He placed the headset over his eyes. The neural contacts were cool against his temples. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then his phone exploded with notifications. The Discord servers were screaming. The forums crashed. Someone was livestreaming their setup, counting down.
"TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"
Marcus's heart hammered against his ribs. His entire body felt electric, suspended between one life and another.
"FOUR! THREE! TWO!"
The neural interface grew warm. A low hum vibrated through his skull, not unpleasant but utterly alien. His laptop screen flashed: "ECLIPSE ONLINE SERVERS ACTIVE. CONSCIOUSNESS TRANSFER INITIATING."
"ONE!"
The world went white.
Not black. White. Pure, absolute, consuming white that erased thought and sensation. Marcus felt himself come apart, like someone had grabbed the threads of his being and pulled. His body disappeared. His studio apartment vanished.
For an instant that could have been a second or an eternity, Marcus Chen didn't exist.
Then existence returned with violent force.
Sound crashed into him first—screams, explosions, sirens. Then sensation: cold concrete beneath him, smoke burning his throat, heat from nearby fires. Finally sight, his vision assembling itself piece by piece.
He was lying in a street. Not his street. The buildings around him were familiar but wrong—crumbling, overgrown with strange vegetation that pulsed with bioluminescence. The sky was the color of a bruise, purple-black with veins of sickly green light.
Other players materialized around him, appearing in flashes of light. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. All looking as disoriented as he felt.
A massive screen appeared in the sky, words burning across the apocalyptic horizon:
"WELCOME TO ECLIPSE ONLINE. ADMIN UPDATE: OUTBREAK PROTOCOL ACTIVE. SURVIVE. EVOLVE. DOMINATE."
"CHARACTER CREATION INITIATING."
A translucent menu appeared in Marcus's vision, hovering in the air before him. Classes were listed, each with intricate skill trees and specializations.
His finger—or whatever passed for his finger in this space—moved toward "Vampire."
This was it. His rebirth.
He selected the class.
The screen glitched.