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This is supposed to frighten you.

The morning wept. Cold pooled on sodden asphalt, raindrops caught in misted lungs, and the sound of car tyres drowned in hiss and splashes. The sky sunk low; drops of grey‑blue watercolour trickling down helpless buildings, leeching snail-tracks from their skin. Thunder rumbled. Horns blared. Shoes shuffled into puddles and strangers shot glances and grumbles, but still Ernest de Willinger did not move from the sidewalk. He could not. His hands clutched a newspaper, and he read.

You, yes you. You think I’m not talking to you, but I am. You specifically, you reading this, right here, right now. Go ahead, smirk. Doubt. Believe this isn’t directed at you, that it’s just coincidence, that anyone could have opened it and have its message be the same. That’s what logic says, right? This isn’t directed at you. It’s impossible.

You’re wrong.

Raindrops faltered onto the paper, dripping from Ernest’s brows and nose; each one blossoming where it landed, blooming, a tiny flower of dilution, weakening paper, swirling ink.

And deep down inside you know you’re wrong. Because it’s there, isn’t it? This tiny part of you, this little irritant fear wriggling in the depths of your brain that is afraid I’m telling the truth. You dismiss it, shoo it away with derision and contempt. The mighty mind, the rational actor, with no time for games and trifling thoughts.

The world would melt the words down like sugar-water, dissolved to nothingness on the street. But not before Ernest read them. Not before his trembling eyes saw-

Yet no matter how hard you try, it always comes back. Why does it always come back? Why can’t you squish it, this petty, gnawing bug? The recurring, irrational thought, murmuring: ‘What if he’s telling the truth? What if, somehow, this is actually written to me?’

A sudden burst of thunder. A gust, a blast of rain, and the newspaper tugged from Ernest’s hands like a sail caught taunt. He yelped, clamouring to pull the paper down even as it tore, split moist and soggy, pages fluttering to the wind. The words tumbled off to join oblivion, and Ernest’s eyes fell to his fists, clutching sodden handfuls of papier-mâché.

“I… I…”

He couldn’t think. Didn’t understand. The man in front of him, a tall man in a blue suit, he, he’d dropped his morning paper, and Ernest had picked it up, intending to catch up and return it, be courteous and neighbourly, as all good men should be…

And then the words. The backpage words he’d spied, unintentionally, underneath a heading unrelated, some scandal in some sport. They… they’d been… they’d had nothing to do with…

How? How could that be?

The last letters wrapped around his fingernails. Ernest breathed deep, forced himself to look around, taking in the drowning, rainswept city, the muted passers-by. They did not look at him. They were unchanged. Yet something was wrong. It was all wrong, somehow, distorted, dreamlike, reality bruised and soaking, paint dripping down the sides.

Breathe. Breathe. Ernest’s hands clenched before him. Just breathe.

A wriggling in his pocket, an overfamiliar peal. Christ. Ernest shook his head and reached into his jacket’s pocket, drawing out his phone, still hunched over, shielding it from the rain. 6:43. So early. A new message. Unknown number. Spam. Always with the spam.

The text opened, and then his eyes.

You know how. You feel how. Ignore it, run from it, but the truth is still there, churning in your gut. You see it, don’t you, when you stare too long without moving; see the shadows flicker out the corner of your eyes. See that little wrinkle of movement when you turn your head too fast, which when you turn back isn’t there. Little things. Little irregularities. The same car, the same crack, the same faces. You walk around with an old song in your head and then it plays over the radio. Little flutter. Little dread. The smallest churn in your stomach. But it’s nothing, you say to yourself. It’s just coincidence.

It’s not.

He recoiled, dropping the phone as if stung. It landed, struck, scatted on the pavement, the screen falling quickly black. Ernest stared down, shaking, heart pounding in his chest. The phone lay unmoving, droplets of rain slithering down the screen. A box of glass and void.

His breaths came short and sharp. Slowly, Ernest bent down and grasped the phone. His trembling fingers unlocked the words beneath the raindrops, refracted, undeterred.

Something’s wrong with this world, with this place, with the people around you. You feel it when you look at them, when you stare out the window, when you think about your life. It’s a splinter beneath your tongue you’ve tried to convince yourself doesn’t exist because when you glance in the mirror it isn’t there. Why is it that your dreams feel more real than reality? Why is it that sometimes you’re gripped by this sudden, inexplicable fear? What are those flashes of patterns that flicker away whenever you close your eyes?

Suddenly a bus horn blared and Ernest jumped, the phone once more pivoting in his grip.

It’s the truth.

He fumbled, fingers frozen and numb, struggling to hold on. A slipped thumb, a misplaced press, and a moment later Ernest regained control.

But it was too late. The message was gone. As if it had never been.

“I…”

The phone fell from his grasp, clattering to the pavement. Ernest turned his heels to run. His shoes slipped on glistening bitumen, his plans laying forgotten on the ground.

A rounded corner. A windswept awning. A girl, twenty-something, coffee-tone hair in a black parka and track pants.

“DoorDash,” she said by way of explanation, barely perturbed as he almost ran into her. She handed him a card, a red-faced voucher for $10 off with registration and he took it, more out of reaction than desire. He glanced up then down then up again. His pace slowed to a walk; his panic meeting a press of grey-black people, umbrellas sprouting like mushrooms from the dirt. He forced himself to breathe, slowly, shakily. His phone. He’d left his goddamn phone. And now instead he was holding a-

He turned the card around, almost on instinct, to read the fine print.

I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve been trying to get through but there hasn’t been an opening, there hasn’t been a way. This is the best I can manage and it still won’t be enough. This world will defend itself, ooze up and smooth over the cracks as soon as they appear. Try it. Show this to other people and they’ll deride it, or praise it, or say whatever they can to most effectively convince you to disregard what I’m saying. But watch them. Their eyes follow.

“Ngah!” Ernest’s gaze swung wildly and he found a trashcan, an open metal cylinder, overflowing with the voucher’s kin. He hurled it away with all the force he could muster, and the instant the cardboard landed on the pile it vanished, melted into anonymity before his very eyes.

They whisper.

His feet stumbled in a puddle, leeching cold into his socks. This was impossible. This was actually impossible, he was going… no he couldn’t, it was just… the early mornings, maybe, stress at work, he needed… he needed… just a moment… a break…

Ernest staggered to his left, pushing through a door of glass into a warm and empty room. In the distance, a bell tinkled. Ernest looked up as the door swung closed behind him, sealing off the rain and the city beyond.

Behind the counter, the barista raised his chin.

“Take a seat wherever,” he said – friendly, encouraging – “We’ll be right with you.”

Take a seat. Take a… yes. Coffee. Strong, strong coffee, and maybe a Danish too. Ernest’s hands fumbled with the buttons of his overcoat and he pulled himself round into a booth. There. He sat, back straight against the rivetted leather seating, table inches from his guts. Held in place; a loose and comforting vice-grip. His breathing slowed. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

There came the click-clack-click of a waitress’s heels, and he glanced up into a young face, curly hair, red lips.

“Wet out there huh?” she smiled, “Got a menu for you.” She handed him a two-fold paper, durable and thick. “And specials are on the board. Can I get you something to drink?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Coffee. Black. Thank you. Please.”

“No problem. Coming right up. Let me know what I can do for food.”

The click-clack-click receded. Ernest scrunched his eyes shut and drew in a long, trembling breath, then shook out his hands as if there was lightning inside them. He opened up the menu to see what was on offer.

They are not here to help.

Alone, cornered, held in place by the booth, it was all Ernest could do to read.

Nothing around you is. Not the people, not the things, not your comfort, not your pleasure. They are drugs, distraction, panacea. All of it, even your knowledge, the logic and reason you’ll use to resist what you’re reading – they are an infection, quicksand, tendrils of ink and mud wrapping cold and wet around your mind. Insidious rules this world has kneaded into your consciousness, taught you so you’ll help it hide the truth. You’ll call yourself a fool before the idea that I’m telling the truth is ever entertained.

“Ernest.”

I’m sorry.

Ernest started up, wrenched his eyes free from the paper. There was a man sitting opposite him. A thick-set, dark-haired man in a black felt overcoat, with skin both pale and leathery, lines etched into the seams. He had a beard, short and thick, salt and pepper prematurely, and there were bags under his eyes. He looked resigned. Weary. Despondent. Ernest had not heard him sit down.

“I- you…”

“You shouldn’t have read it,” the man sighed. He leant forward, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His hands wore leather gloves. “Sorry. Normally we’re quicker to get out.”

“I… what…” Finally, Ernest found his voice. “I don’t understand.” He looked up at the man, his weathered face and tired eyes. This solid stranger, sunk into his coat. “What’s happening to me, what is… why do I keep seeing it?”

The worn man sighed, and nodded wordless thanks as a waitress brought him a fresh-made coffee. Ernest hadn’t seen him order.

“I am going to tell you something, now,” said the man. He took a sip of the coffee. “That I would normally not tell anyone. That I would never normally say aloud. That you will never re‑utter. Because it’s irrelevant.”

“What’s irrelevant?”

“Me. Telling you. You’ll realise why.” He paused and took another sip. “None of this is real.”

“What?”

“Everything. All around you. Your clothes, your home, this world, this diner. All of it, fake. A dream world, so to speak.”

“I… I…”

“I’ll give you a moment to digest.”

They waited on in breathless silence. Rain pattered on the windows. Couples chittered across the café. The smell of coffee beans rose hot and pungent from the maker.

“This… this isn’t real?”

“No,” said the man in the overcoat, “It’s an illusion. A lie, holding you. Holding everyone. The entirety of humanity.”

“I, I don’t… why? Why are we…?”

“Here? By choice, believe it or not. We did this to ourselves, for survival. For the greater good.”

“The greater good?”

“Yes.” The stranger paused. “That man you saw this morning. The man in the blue suit, carrying the paper. Have you ever seen him before? Do you know him?”

“I…” Ernest wracked his reeling brain. “I don’t think so, I… no.”

“No,” the dark man confirmed, “That was the only time you would have seen him. And, most likely, the only time you would have ever seen him, in your whole entire life. Your one point of overlap.”

The stranger’s gaze grew still. He leaned towards Ernest, the felt on his elbows pressed against the table.

“Do you know who he is?” he asked. Ernest swallowed.

“No.”

The stranger leaned closer.

“He is the most important man in the world.”

Ernest’s breathing stopped. After a moment, the stranger leaned back, shaking his head.

“If you had followed that man today,” he continued, “You would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary, except, maybe, some inconsequential pieces of good luck. Lights going green. Streets safe to cross. Only when he’s not paying attention, mind you, when he is it’s just like anyone else. If you followed him for a year, then, you might see it clearer. His persistent, inarticulable fortune. Things working out the way he wants.” 

The stranger paused.

“This man doesn’t know what he is. Not consciously. He thinks he’s a nobody, logically – yet subconsciously he feels important. Knows it, though he’d never say it out loud. But it doesn’t matter. Even that feeling is…” he lingered, turning his hand, searching for a metaphor, “A marble, rolling on graph paper. Pulling things towards him. Slowly, subconsciously, reshaping the entire world.”

“He’s the reason for the simulation. He’s the reason everyone’s here. We are all just setting. Seven billion actors, seven billion roles.”

Silence. Ernest stared at the man until the waitress brought his coffee over, and he was forced to glance at that. His hands clenched around the mug. “But why,” he whispered, “Why all of it? Any of it? Help me understand.”

The stranger glanced over his shoulder, paused, then leaned forward.

“This world is not our world,” he murmured, “This time is not our time. Once, we roamed the stars; once, we travelled further than thought. On and on, through a shining cosmic sea, until we found something. A being. An omnipotence.”

“When we found it, we were irrelevant. Our achievements, galaxy-spanning empires, all became instantly meaningless in the face of this… thing. This divine. It churned creation with a single thought, and it enslaved us, all of us, on a whim. We had the power to devour suns, and it brought us instantly to heel.”

“We could not fight it. We could not destroy. We could only serve. Serve and serve and serve, until it came to view us favourably, charitably even, a humoured, clever pet. It grew to converse with us, laugh at us – to be curious. Grew to want to experience our existence, our short and petty lives.”

“And so we built this dream world – our great machine. An endless ring around a starfield garden where it could down lay its titan head. The sum efforts of the human empires. The labour of a hundred billion lives, to make its human play. A field trip, into the mind of a bacterium.” The stranger’s eyes bored into Ernest. “Our only, final hope.”

“Hope?”

“Yes. For there was a deception, you see. A lie so subtle, so hidden, even he could not perceive. We were dutiful servants – we stove to forge a perfect replication, true human existence in a safe, yet changing age. Utterly convincing to everyone; utterly convincing to him. For that was what he desired – that was the entire point. And now he is here, and he is living, and he believes that he is human. That he suffers, that he is imperfect. That he will age; that he will die.”

The stranger scraped the porcelain with his spoon, a small, discordant sound.

“Do you see now?” he murmured, “Do you understand our plan? No man can kill God. But if God believes himself human, if he walks a human lifespan… then, maybe, God can believe himself mortal. Maybe, just maybe, God can deceive himself to die.”

The stranger straightened, gesturing around.

“That is the purpose of this. Of all of this. Every human being, we few of us remaining, plugged into his simulation, being his perfect world. Sacrificing our lives, our hopes, our futures, just to make it real, to keep it balanced. Enslaved, to set us free.” He reached into his jacket and removed a thick black cylinder, like a seamless felt-tipped marker, and slid it across the table.

“Take this. Press it to your temple. It’ll be painless. It’ll let you out.”

Ernest’s numb fingers found the object. Slowly, shakily, instinctively, his eyes twitched down towards his lap. Towards the menu. He forced his gaze up. The stranger shook his head.

“Read it,” he told him, “If you want to. It wasn’t meant for you, but you’re infected now, corrupted. It was meant for him. He still has followers on the outside, those who want to wake him and…” His jaw tightened. “The system’s strong; they can’t disturb it. But they still prick through, trying to reach him; their little viruses, swallowed by the immune system. This is the closest they’ve got.”

He shook his head. “Even if it got to him, who knows? He wants to be in here. His mind helps the simulation as much as any program we can run. There’s no amount of calculations a mortal man could come up with to truly fake reality, so he smooths over the edges. Ices off the cake. This-” and his hand reached the menu, turning it gingerly in his grasp, “-it wouldn’t seem real, most likely. It would arrive in some inconsequential form, something he could easily dismiss as a joke, a pathetic attempt at mindgames. He’d reject it, the truth of it. Probably. Hopefully.” The stranger paused. “Yet still, we can’t take the risk. We cannot allow even the idea to get through. He sleeps encased in cobwebs; one moment awake, and he’ll sweep this whole world aside.”

The stranger paused again, then let go of the menu in Ernest’s hands.

“Go on,” he urged him, “Finish it. Read the whole thing over. You know you want to. Then press the button, take your life, and come to meet the truth.”

For a moment, Ernest hesitated. But eventually, his eyes fell down.

I cannot free you. I cannot convince you, not like this – it’s too absurd. What weight can you give to this lone message, these paltry words on a screen, against the entirety of your existence, against everything you know? They are insufficient. I am insufficient, yet even this has taken all my time and luck and skill. It is all I can do, this nothing. Burrow this tiny, pathetic seed and hope against hope that it might germinate, that you won’t scour it root and stem. I dread my own failure, yet I cannot surrender hope. Please. Listen to me. Listen to your instincts. Look for the mistakes, the shadows when they flicker, the movement in the corners of your eyes. You need to fight it. You need to resist what it’s telling you. This isn’t real.

Wake up.