Immersed (Virtual Vice #1)

Chapter 1

For Ethan

Levi Mercer’s fingers trembled against the ring light’s adjustment knob, the cool metal slick beneath his damp palms as he angled the LED panel until soft white light bathed his face.

The cramped studio apartment pressed in around him—three steps from his unmade bed to the streaming corner he carved between the stacked moving boxes that still hadn’t found permanent homes after two years.

His dual monitors displayed the donation goal thermometer graphic in stark clarity: zero dollars raised for the Mental Health Awareness Foundation, the empty progress bar a reminder of how much tonight mattered.

This is for Ethan, he thought, swallowing against the tightness in his throat.

“Testing, testing.” The second word cracked, thin and reedy in the empty apartment. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders.

Sound confident. They can’t see how your hands are shaking.

The words echoed off the bare walls, hollow and brittle. Levi’s gaze drifted to the framed photo he positioned just beyond the camera’s field of view—Ethan’s senior portrait, his brother’s confident smile frozen behind the glass. One year and three months since the funeral.

He would have been streaming this himself if he were still here. Would have had a thousand viewers by now, probably speedrunning the thing just to mess with the AI.

“You should try streaming,” his grief counselor had suggested during one of their early sessions. “Channel that energy somewhere productive. Give yourself a routine, a purpose.”

The routine stuck, even if the purpose sometimes felt as hollow as his voice in the empty room. His usual strategy games and indie RPG reviews barely cracked fifty viewers on a good night, but they were safe. Predictable. Nothing like the psychological minefield he was about to enter.

Levi adjusted his auburn hair in the monitor’s reflection, noting how the ring light caught the natural copper highlights that had always made Ethan joke about their “genetic lottery.” His oversized black hoodie swallowed his lean frame, and the camera showed only his face and shoulders—safe, controlled, manageable.

“This one’s for you, E,” he whispered to the photo, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of his keyboard. “Even though you’d probably call me an idiot for being scared of a game you would have beaten in your sleep.”

His phone buzzed against the desk with a calendar reminder: “CHARITY STREAM - 7PM.” The notification made his heart rate spike, that flutter of panic beneath his sternum.

Only 178 subscribers after a year of streaming.

He wasn’t wrong. But the Mental Health Awareness Foundation featured his channel in their newsletter after he mentioned Ethan’s story during a particularly emotional Cities: Skylines build. Tonight could be different.

It could be a disaster, too. What if no one shows up? What if I freeze up?

Levi’s attention shifted to the unopened package dominating his unmade bed.

The sleek black box bore the silver logo of Virtual Vice Technologies, its tagline etched in precise lettering below: “Reality is just the beginning.

“ The package arrived three days ago with a note congratulating him on being selected for their beta testing program—apparently their algorithm flagged his channel after analyzing streaming patterns for “authenticity”.

Because nothing says ‘pick me’ like documented anxiety attacks during his one attempted Amnesia playthrough.

“I can’t believe they picked me,” he’d told his friend Peter over coffee at their usual corner table. “Some PR person found my channel and thought I’d be perfect to preview their new VR system. Said they needed streamers who showed ‘authentic reactions’ with horror content.”

“Perfect?” Peter laughed, choking on his latte. “You hate horror games. Didn’t you run out of your house when your brother played PT?”

“It’s for charity,” Levi replied, his fingers shredding the paper napkin in his lap. “And for Ethan. He loved horror games. Always said I was missing out by being such a coward.”

Now, alone in his apartment with the weight of the evening ahead, the courage that fueled his decision hung by a thread. He lifted the box from his bed with care, noting its lightness, and carried it to his desk where the streaming setup waited.

The unboxing revealed technology unlike any VR system he had ever even read about.

The headset itself was a masterpiece of minimalist design—matte black polymer that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, with contours that followed the natural curve of a human skull.

What made it truly unusual were the flat, ribbon-like extensions that dangled from each side like thin tentacles.

This looks more like medical equipment than a gaming peripheral. The build quality is insane though—this probably costs more than my entire setup.

Levi lifted the headset, noting the precision engineering. The weight distribution felt perfect, the padding custom-molded.

“Okay, this is actually impressive from a technical standpoint,” he muttered, examining the connection ports. “This isn’t some modded Oculus.”

The inside of the box was white with a bold warning printed in red ink: “Psychological effects may vary. Use at own risk. Discontinue use if experiencing prolonged dissociation, memory gaps, or intrusive thoughts lasting more than 24 hours post-session.”

“G-great,” Levi muttered, his stutter emerging as stress tightened his vocal cords. “T-totally not ominous at all. Next they’ll want me to sign a waiver in blood.”

Maybe I should have read the fine print before agreeing to this. Then again, Ethan never read warnings either. He just jumped headfirst into everything.

A memory surfaced unbidden—Ethan hunched over his gaming chair at 2 AM, headphones on, lost in some nightmare scenario.

“You gotta think like the game thinks,“ he explained when Levi asked how he could stand playing horror games. “It’s all patterns, dude. AI behavior, environmental cues, narrative structure. Once you map the system, nothing can really surprise you.”

Levi pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until phosphenes danced behind his lids.

Focus. Tonight isn’t about being sad over him. It’s for him.

He shook the memory away and returned to examining the equipment, then the brief character guide listing six incredibly generic sounding NPCs that fit horror tropes: Tyler the Jock, Jasper the Stoner, Owen the Nerd, Elliot the Rich Kid, Maddie the Party Girl, and Zoe the Sensible One.

The instruction manual was thick for a gaming device, filled with technical diagrams and dense paragraphs about “neural interface technology” and “psychosynaptic feedback loops.” The language felt more suited to a medical journal than a product guide, describing how the system allegedly monitored brainwave patterns to enhance immersion through targeted stimuli.

This seems excessive for a game.

As he connected cables and installed the accompanying software, a soft chime from his streaming dashboard announced his first viewer. The notification made his pulse quicken—someone arrived twenty minutes early.

Either they’re really excited about watching me have a breakdown, or they’re as bored as I am on a Tuesday night.

BrokenArrow92: Looking forward to the stream, Levi! Brave of you to face your fears for such a good cause.

FinalGirl_Sarah: Here for you and for Ethan’s memory

The comments warmed something cold in his chest. Sarah had been one of his earliest subscribers, someone who started watching after his emotional breakdown during a Stardew Valley stream where he built a memorial garden for his brother.

MercyPlays: Thanks for coming! Not feeling very brave tbh. But it’s important.

BrokenArrow92: You got this! We’ll be here the whole time

At least someone believes in me tonight.

Levi adjusted his webcam, framing himself against the backdrop of his gaming corner where posters of fantasy RPGs and competitive strategy games created a colorful collage—worlds of knights and spaceships that stood in stark contrast to whatever horror awaited him tonight.

He retrieved the promotional materials from the box and held the glossy black folder up to the camera, its weight surprising in his hands.

“So, Virtual Vice sent over this press kit with the game.” He flipped the folder open, revealing marketing copy printed on heavy cardstock.

“Says here IMMERSE is—” His eyes widened as he read the tagline, dropping to an incredulous whisper, ”—the world’s first psychologically adaptive horror experience. ”

Psychologically adaptive. What does that even mean?

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as tension constricted his throat. The marketing copy continued in sleek corporate language that made his skin crawl.

“The AI engine reads your psychological responses with brain mapping technology?” Levi squinted at the dense text, gaining strength as he focused on reading aloud. “It says it ‘maps neural pathways to customize fear stimuli based on individual player psychology and trauma markers.’”

Trauma markers. Jesus. They’re basically building a fear machine custom-tailored to mess with your head.

“That’s not creepy at all,” he added with a nervous laugh that didn’t quite hide his growing unease. “So basically, it’s designed to find what scares you most and then throw it at you. Great.”

The chat began scrolling with new messages as his viewer count climbed to fifteen:

KittyKrunch: omg that sounds INTENSE

DeadPixel99: Psychological horror > jump scares any day

RavenQueen: This tech sounds too advanced to be real...

FinalGirl_Sarah: Are you sure this is safe, Levi?

TheCaptainSisko: Your brother would’ve been first in line for this tech

“Captain’s right,” Levi said, softening. “Ethan would have been begging for early access. He was always saying horror games were too predictable, that they needed to adapt to the player more.”