Simulation Ended

Simulation Ended

Digital fleets couldn’t save him from the dark

By Corey W Harland

Seated in the center of the hazard-saturated room was an old window. More like an old wooden trap, the only scenery to be seen out of that window was the hubbub of weekend sorrow drowning and glorified trouble.

There was something to be said about them old windows, though. Once shut, they locked the room down tight—airtight.

Deep, raw grooves ran along the frame—high-repetition wear from lifting and dropping the sash.

This manual cycle was a regular tactical discharge, necessary to vent the horde of fumes building up inside.

The story goes, childhood was spent right there, adapting to a breeze that was standard issue.

The original objective had always been the sea.

Open blue, salt air, and nothing remaining but the hull and the deck plates.

Visions of the heavy scuttle of an active shift occupied the mind, watching junior rates dart out of the line of sight, wary of an officer’s approach.

Instead, the path led to simulation.

High school graduation transitioned straight into a graphic design track, fueled by a plan to monetize a lifelong hobby.

Video games became the primary focus—specifically, theater-level simulators covering naval, air, command, and control operations.

One series gave way to another. Naval simulators became flight simulators. Flight simulators became grand strategy campaigns. Entire civilizations rose and fell beneath a mouse cursor. Fleets crossed digital oceans. Empires collapsed. New expansions promised fresh stories, new mechanics, and unexplored worlds. Each release arrived carrying the illusion of progress. New skills were acquired. New rankings achieved. New victories recorded.

Outside the apartment, however, nothing advanced.

The aftermath was standard debt.

Mountains of it.

Retreating to the high apartment meant coexisting with a grandmother, until her terminal status and the subsequent grief changed everything.

Screen time neutralized the loss, leading to indefinite gaming.

Then years disappeared.

Usernames replaced neighbors. Guild members replaced coworkers. Familiar voices appeared nightly through headsets and vanished just as easily. Some stopped logging in. Others changed names. New players arrived. The cycle continued. Nobody asked why he never left.

The apartment slowly reduced itself to a series of reachable objectives.

Desk.

Chair.

Bed.

Refrigerator.

Monitor.

Distances once measured in miles became measured in steps. Entire weeks passed without crossing the threshold.

The room adapted alongside him. Empty soda bottles gathered beneath the desk. Some remained empty. Others served a second purpose when leaving the chair felt less important than finishing a mission. Fast-food bags occupied corners. Dust settled over forgotten surfaces. A crocheted doily beneath a stack of containers had once displayed a careful pattern. Years of stains and neglect transformed it into something nearly unrecognizable.

The smell became part of the background.

Then the grid went dark.

With the power severed, the final occupant of the structure remained entirely unaware of the shifting tides outside.

The owners had sustained the utilities out of charity, but they too had liquidated and moved on.

A slow step leads to the threshold.

A hand rotates the brass knob.

The apartment door swings open.

The corridor is a homeless camp lined with mattresses, carts, and people who have nowhere left to go.

No power, no running water, and zero employment history for over a decade.

Civilian socialization had never been a priority, remaining restricted to a standard afk or ttyl lol. The occasional Ty attached to a delivery request to be “left inside the door—no lock” represented the closest thing to routine human contact.

That was the bare minimum brush of humanity—the closest to normal ever willing to be provided.

Standing in the doorway, the simulation ends.

Homeless.