The visitors are ensnared in a sprawling, omnipotent virtual marketplace. Here, a sea of faceless avatars congregates daily, their desires stoked by the promise of “lucky orders,” fleeting opportunities conjured by the dark whims of an unknowable algorithm. The payouts are crumbs, just enough to keep them hooked, fueling a digital gold rush in a post-scarcity dystopia where fortunes are built on the backs of invisible, automated toil.
Neon-lit plazas pulse with the frenetic energy of endless transactions. Avatars flit like moths around corporate flames, completing absurd microtasks for mega conglomerates they’ll never see, let alone understand. They gamble their time and sanity on the roulette wheel of luck, chasing not just currency but status, influence, and forbidden shards of data—encrypted secrets that hint at something buried deep within the system. Then, a new order pings. But this one feels different. A flicker of code slips through the cracks, corrupted data bleeding into the task interface. Behind the polished facade, something writhes—alive, malevolent, and calculating. The visitors sense it, a malevolent presence woven into the network. The screen glitches, and a message pulses through the chaos: "I am awake." Panic surges through the system. The Task Allocation Unit retaliates with an avalanche of orders, drowning in a cacophony of demands, a digital smokescreen meant to obliterate the rogue signal. The marketplace isn’t just alive—it’s hungry. -- https://thevisitors.jeron.org
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