The last thing you felt was the keyboard under your fingers. Then, nothing. And then, everything.

You hit the ground with a soft thud, not on carpet, but on something coarse and green. Grass. But the blades were too perfect, too uniformly square. The air smelled of ozone and damp earth. The light had a strange, digital quality to it, as if the sun itself was rendered.

You were no longer in your room. You were in a clearing, at the edge of a forest of impossibly straight, bark-pixeled trees. And you were not alone.