It wasn't an NPC. A window on the kitchen wall—a virtual mirror—flickered to life. It didn't show a character; it showed a live feed of Arthur sitting in his own darkened room, viewed from the perspective of his own webcam.
Arthur looked back at the screen. In the reflection of the game's mirror, he saw a second figure standing directly behind his chair in the real world—a figure that wasn't there when he turned his head.
The "v1.0" didn't stand for the version. It was a countdown.
A text box appeared: The Guest is hungry. He wants something fresh.
The mechanics were eerily fluid. He clicked a knife to chop an onion, and the sound wasn't a stock asset; it was the crisp, wet thud of real steel on skin. He moved the mouse to turn on the stove, and his speakers emitted a low, vibrating hum that made the glass of water on his real desk ripple. "Nice haptics," Arthur muttered. Then, the "Guest" arrived.
The installer was suspiciously small—just 40MB. When he launched it, there was no title screen, just a grainy window showing a hyper-realistic kitchen. A single objective appeared in the corner: Prepare a Meal for the Guest.
The game window updated: Cooking time: 00:00. Don't keep him waiting.