Simulation

Oliver Davis swallowed his own future like a bad pill. The job, the wife, the house—none of it showed up. Instead he punched the clock at a dead-end desk job, came home to a cold box of an apartment, and jacked off to pixel flesh because reality refused to fuck him back. He sank deeper every night, slipping on the headset so Lucky Fate could slam Vanessa Sky until the walls shook. Still, the itch got bored. Tommy Pistol noticed. Slipped him a little USB stick with their boss's virtual body pre-loaded. Dee Williams would kneel, spread, choke, whatever the hell he typed. Oliver hesitated one breath, then opened her legs in code and used every hole like he could never touch the real thing. The thrill hit harder each time, until he started coding another woman—Gal Ritchie—layer by layer, nipple by nipple. Something in the code blinked. The code started blinking back. Now the bodies he trusted—boss, coworker, even the friend who gave him the stick—sometimes smiled with someone else's mouth. And he could no longer tell which of them he'd scripted, or who was scripting him.