The moment our eyes connected that second time, something physical jolted through me—a dual sensation that registered both in my avatar and back in my dormant meat-self. Her smile carried secrets. Did she actually recognise me? Or was this just an Ultrahigh welcome wagon? Every instinct screamed at me to bolt. The medieval festival swirled around us—jugglers tossing flaming batons, lute players strumming ancient melodies, costumed NPCs hawking digital mead—yet her gaze remained locked on mine, unwavering. Something about her rendered the simulation more vivid, awakening sensations I'd forgotten existed, which terrified me even more.
I needed an escape route. Back to baseline reality—the only authentic one, I reminded myself. Yes, the platform was designed for some connections—I'd coded those algorithms myself—but this felt different. Genuine attraction? Or sophisticated programming? The questions alone accelerated my heart rate. Still, I couldn't look away.
A virtual caffeine hit might clear my head. Ultrahigh flat whites carried that extra bite, somehow sharper than their real-world counterparts. I'd duck into a café, grab something portable, recalibrate. When a troupe of stilt-walkers created momentary chaos, I seized my chance and disappeared into the crowd.
Simulated Manhattan offered coffee shops at nearly every intersection. My regular spot waited two blocks north: premium beans and panoramic windows perfect for people-watching. I navigated the digital masses—sidestepping both AI-controlled characters and user-piloted avatars, their movements nearly indistinguishable in the urban rush.
Inside, I placed my order, claimed a window seat, and watched the parade of digital humanity flow past, each figure carrying their own narrative weight. The barista delivered my coffee with a programmed smile. I nodded thanks, my thoughts elsewhere. Then fingers brushed my shoulder. I turned. She'd followed me.
