The program wasn't a virus for his computer; it was a patch for his surroundings. The rar file hadn't been downloaded from a server—it had been leaked from the world outside the one he knew.

The walls of his apartment were thinning, becoming translucent. Through the ghost of his bookshelf, he could see a jagged horizon of granite peaks piercing a violet sky. The "God Eye." He was looking right at it.

The screen didn't change, but his speakers let out a deafening crack , like a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot. Suddenly, the smell hit him—overwhelming, wet cedar and crushed ferns. He looked down. The cheap gray carpet of his rental was turning a vibrant, mossy green. Small shoots of grass were physically pushing through the floorboards.