The map clearly marked the place as “safe,” which immediately made her suspicious. “Safe zone unlocked!” the game announced cheerfully. Rhea rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure.” She’d been playing long enough to know better. Safe zones were never truly safe—just less immediately lethal. Still, her character was low on health, and the enemies outside were relentless. She guided her avatar across the glowing boundary. The environment shifted instantly. Soft lighting. Calm music. No enemies in sight. “Finally,” she muttered. Her health bar began to refill. But something felt off. The NPCs standing nearby didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t react. “Okay… that’s creepy.” She tried to interact with one. No response. She opened the map again. The safe zone had changed. Expanded. The boundary now stretched far beyond where she stood. “That’s new.” She walked toward the edge. Or where the edge should have been. But it kept moving. Expanding faster than she could reach it. Swallowing the rest of the world. Mountains. forests. enemy camps—all consumed by the glowing safe zone. “No, no, no,” she said, gripping the controller tighter. Enemies disappeared as they were overtaken. Not defeated. Erased. Soon, there was nothing left but the safe zone. Empty. Silent. Her character stood alone in an endless, featureless expanse. Health: full. Threats: none. Game: unplayable. Rhea stared at the screen, unease creeping in. The game hadn’t made her safe. It had removed everything else. In the end, the fire alarm worked perfectly; it just warned the wrong people.