The first thing to dissolve was the present tense. He felt his consciousness split like a cell dividing. One half of him stayed in the lounge, tasting juniper and regret. The other half fell backward into a warm, shallow ocean of collective memory.

He was suddenly watching a TikTok from 2026. A teenager in a dragon hoodie was crying over a cancelled sci-fi series. The tears were real, the stakes absurd, and yet Elias felt a pang of grief so sharp it stole his breath. He took another sip.

But the room disagreed. The other drinkers were no longer just drinking. They were performing . A woman in a power suit was recreating a famous monologue from a legal drama, her voice cracking with borrowed gravitas. A man was arguing with an empty chair, re-enacting a late-night talk show feud from 2028. A couple was making out not with passion, but with the exact choreography of a Netflix sex scene—paused, awkward, hyper-stylized.

Vesper, the NPC, tilted her head. For a microsecond, her eyes flickered with something that wasn't code—curiosity? Pity? Then she smiled the pre-programmed smile and slid a bottle toward him.