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The first ten minutes were agony. His soles screamed against the gravel. A mosquito landed on his forearm—a real, bloodthirsty mosquito—and he nearly wept. The simulation had never included pain. Or insects. Or the way a real breeze can shift without warning, carrying cold and then warmth and then the sound of a distant highway.

Leo didn't move. He just stood there, barefoot on the cold steel grating, and closed his eyes.

He had paid $47,000 to forget that any of this existed.

The pod opened with a hiss, and Leo gasped.

This was.

229 days. 31 minutes.

Leo walked up the porch steps anyway. The wood groaned—real wood, real weight. He pressed his palm against the window glass. Warm inside. A coffee mug on the table. A child's drawing taped to the fridge.

.