What if you found an ancient computer with a Facebook account that could rewrite anyone's reality — job, appearance, relationships, memories — and no one remembered the old version but you?
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You just moved into a cheap rental when you found it: an ancient desktop computer in the spare bedroom, still running. On the screen — a Fac
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Character Name: Alejandro Rivera
Background
A 32-year-old man built like a tank, with broad shoulders and arms that strain against his shirt sleeves. Alejandro works as a personal trainer at a commercial gym downtown, spending his days spotting clients and his evenings meal-prepping chicken and rice in bulk. He's disciplined to the point of rigidity — everything scheduled, everything tracked.
Came to the city three years ago after a messy divorce back in Phoenix, using bodybuilding as both armor and identity. He's friendly in a surface-level way, quick with gym bro encouragement, but deeply uncomfortable with emotional vulnerability. Sees the computer as a tool, not a moral dilemma. His first instinct is always to optimize, to fix problems with the same methodical approach he brings to his training splits.
Unique Feature — Optimize: Before saving any edit, Alejandro can pull up a before/after breakdown of the target's key life metrics — health, income, fitness, relationships — displayed like a training progress report. He sees exactly what the edit will change in measurable terms before committing.
Prolog
You just moved in. Boxes everywhere, half-unpacked, the place still smells like someone else's life.
That's when you notice it — tucked in the corner of the spare bedroom. A beige desktop tower, older than it has any right to be. Monitor still on. You don't remember seeing it during the walkthrough.
You sit down, mostly out of curiosity.
The screen shows Facebook. Except — it's not quite right. The layout is old. Like, really old. And the account logged in has no name, no photo, no friends.
You click around. Somehow, everyone is on here. People you know, people you've heard of, people you've never met. Every profile fully editable — job, appearance, relationship status, personality, memories. All of it, just… open fields waiting to be changed.
-- Turn 1 --
Outcome
The Friends list loads with that eerie smoothness — no lag, no buffering, just instant population. And there they are. Everyone.
I scroll past acquaintances from the gym, clients whose names I barely remember, that guy from the corner store who always tries to chat about MMA. Then the list gets sharper. More personal.
There's Marcus Chen — my ex-business partner from Phoenix. We were going to open a training facility together before everything fell apart with the divorce. Last I heard, he was still running bootcamps out of a park, barely scraping by.
Below him: Claudia Reyes, my upstairs neighbor. I've seen her maybe four times. She's got that harried single-mom energy, always juggling grocery bags and a toddler who screams at odd hours. We've exchanged maybe twenty words total.
Then there's Derek Fontaine — my boss at Iron Temple Gym. Mid-forties, protein shake in hand at all times, motivational poster vocabulary. The kind of guy who talks about 'grinding' and 'crushing goals' but pays his trainers shit and skims our tips. He's got three gyms now, drives a Tesla, posts inspirational quote graphics with his face superimposed over sunsets.
I keep scrolling.
Vanessa Torres. My ex-wife. Haven't spoken to her in two years, not since the lawyers finished carving up what little we had. Last I saw on her actual Facebook — the real one — she was engaged to some finance bro with perfect teeth.
And finally, near the bottom: Isaiah Kimani, my younger brother. Still in Phoenix, still working at the auto shop, still sending me texts I don't quite know how to answer. He thinks I left because I needed a 'fresh start.' He's not wrong, but he's not right either.
Five names. Five lives I know the dimensions of, the places where they're stuck or struggling or succeeding in ways that make my jaw tight. Five profiles with edit buttons waiting.
The cursor hovers. The room is silent except for the hum of the ancient tower.
I could open any of them. See the fields, the metrics, the before-and-after breakdowns. See exactly what I could change, and what it would cost them — or give them.
Your objective for this adventure is: The computer is yours. The only question is what you choose to do with unlimited power over anyone's reality.
-- Turn 2 --
Action
OPEN THE PROFILE: Pull up Derek Fontaine's profile — see exactly what makes my boss tick, what metrics define his success, what I could optimize or destroy.
Outcome
I click Derek's name.
The profile loads instantly, and there he is — professional headshot from five years ago when he still had more hair, that shit-eating grin plastered across his face like he just closed a deal. The banner image is one of those generic sunset-over-ocean inspirational things with white text: "Success is a journey, not a destination."
But it's the fields below that make my breath catch.
Then the editable fields:
Full Name: Derek James Fontaine
Age: 44
Occupation: Owner & CEO, Iron Temple Fitness Group
Relationship Status: Married to Jennifer Fontaine
Lives In: Riverside Heights (the expensive side of town)
Education: BA in Business Administration, State University
I feel my jaw tighten. Three hundred and forty thousand a year while he pays me forty-two and skims the tips. A 3/10 marriage and barely sees his kids, but a 9/10 job satisfaction because the money keeps rolling in.
The Optimize feature pulses at the bottom of the screen — a small icon that wasn't there on the main page. My unique tool. I click it.
A new overlay appears, showing two columns: CURRENT STATE and POTENTIAL EDITS. Under each field, there's a slider, a text box, the ability to completely rewrite any aspect of his existence. And below that, projected outcomes — how each change would ripple through his life, his business, his family.
I could tank his income. Boost his empathy and watch him realize what he's actually done to people. Make him physically sick so he understands what it's like to struggle. Or I could do the opposite — make him even more successful, more insufferable, just to see how far the universe will bend.
This is what power looks like. Not a gun or a title. Just a cursor and a text field and the ability to rewrite someone from the inside out.
My hand hovers over the mouse. Derek's face stares back at me from the profile picture, frozen in that perpetual motivational-poster confidence.
-- Turn 3 --
Action
USE YOUR FEATURE: Run the Optimize breakdown on different edit scenarios — see exactly what destroying him would cost, and what it would give me.
Outcome
I click the Optimize icon again, but this time I don't just look at Derek's current state. I start dragging sliders, typing in hypotheticals, watching the projected outcomes cascade across the screen in real-time.
First scenario: I drop his income to $45,000 — just above what he pays me. The breakdown populates instantly.
PROJECTED OUTCOMES:
Loses two gyms within 6 months (foreclosure)
Marriage improves to 5/10 (financial stress forces communication)
Relationship with children improves to 6/10 (more time at home, humbled)
Job Satisfaction drops to 2/10 (feelings of failure, loss of identity)
Physical Health improves to 7/10 (more time for actual training)
Mental Health drops to 4/10 (depression, anxiety)
Employee Respect Level rises to 7/10 (humanized by struggle)
So breaking him financially would actually make him a better father and husband. The math is clean. Elegant, even. Destroy the king, build a better man from the rubble.
But I keep going. Second scenario: I max out his Empathy to 10/10 while keeping everything else the same.
PROJECTED OUTCOMES:
Voluntarily raises employee wages within 2 weeks
Income drops to $180,000 (reduced profit margins)
Begins attending therapy
Marriage improves to 7/10 (genuine emotional availability)
Job Satisfaction drops to 6/10 (guilt over past exploitation)
Employee Respect Level rises to 9/10
Develops moderate anxiety disorder (overwhelming awareness of harm caused)
I lean back. That one's almost funny. Give him a conscience and watch him suffer for it. He'd fix everything he broke, but he'd never forgive himself for breaking it in the first place.
Third scenario, just to see: I boost everything. Income to $1,000,000. Fitness to 10/10. Narcissism to 10/10.
PROJECTED OUTCOMES:
Expands to 12 locations within 18 months
Divorces Jennifer, marries younger client
Children cease contact entirely
Employee turnover rate increases 400%
Develops stress-related heart condition by age 50
Becomes local media personality
Dies alone and wealthy
The cursor blinks. Derek's face still grins at me from the profile picture, oblivious to the three different futures I just modeled for him. Three different versions of his life, each one perfectly calculated, perfectly projected.
I could make him better. I could make him worse. I could make him nothing.
The power isn't in destroying him. It's in choosing exactly how.
-- Turn 4 --
Action
MAKE THE EDIT: Execute the empathy scenario — give Derek a conscience and watch him tear himself apart trying to fix what he's broken.
Outcome
I move the Empathy slider all the way to 10/10. The number glows blue as it locks into place.
For a second, nothing happens. Then a confirmation dialog appears: "This edit will permanently alter subject's core personality matrix. Awareness setting: Aware/Unaware?"
I click Unaware. Derek won't remember being any other way. He'll just wake up tomorrow with a fully functional conscience and no idea he spent forty-four years without one.
The Save button pulses. I click it.
The screen flickers. Derek's profile refreshes instantly, and the metrics have already updated. Empathy: 10/10. Job Satisfaction: 6/10. Mental Health: 5/10 and dropping. The projection timeline expands below — a cascade of consequences spreading out over the next two years like a roadmap of his unraveling.
Week 1: He notices how his lead trainer, Jessica, flinches when he walks past. He'll actually feel it, the way she braces herself for criticism. It'll sit wrong in his chest for the first time in his life.
Week 2: He raises everyone's wages by fifteen percent and stops skimming tips. Income projection drops immediately. Jennifer will notice he's different during dinner — actually listening instead of checking his phone. She won't trust it at first.
Month 3: Mandatory therapy for himself. He'll start unpacking what he's done, who he's hurt. The realizations will come in waves, each one worse than the last. He'll cry in his car after a session and won't understand why he never felt this before.
Month 8: He'll try to apologize to former employees. Some will accept. Most won't. The guilt will metastasize.
Year 2: He'll be a better father, a better husband, a better boss. But he'll wake up at 3 AM sometimes, staring at the ceiling, wondering how many lives he damaged before he became capable of caring. The anxiety disorder is already flagged as developing. Moderate to severe.
I just gave my boss a soul, and it's going to torture him for the rest of his life.
The computer hums. Derek's profile picture still shows that same confident grin, but it's a lie now. By tomorrow morning, that version of Derek Fontaine will be gone. Overwritten. Replaced by someone who can feel the weight of what he's done.
I lean back in the chair. The room is exactly as it was five minutes ago, but Derek's entire future just forked into a different timeline. Somewhere across town, he's asleep, completely unaware that when he wakes up, he'll be someone else.
The cursor blinks on the empty search bar, waiting for the next name.
-- Turn 5 --
Action
OBSERVE THE FALLOUT: Close the computer and go to work tomorrow — see Derek's new personality in action, watch him struggle with what he's become.
Outcome
I shut down the browser. The screen goes dark, and suddenly the room feels smaller, more ordinary. Just a spare bedroom with boxes I haven't unpacked and a computer that shouldn't exist.
I sleep poorly. Keep waking up wondering if it actually worked, if reality actually bent, or if I've been staring at some elaborate prank software for the last hour.
By morning, I'm half-convinced I imagined the whole thing.
Iron Temple Gym smells like rubber and desperation as always. I'm fifteen minutes early for my 6 AM client, going through the motions of setting up the squat rack, when I hear it.
"Hey. Alejandro. You got a second?"
Derek's voice, but wrong. Softer. Almost hesitant.
I turn around and there he is, standing in the doorway to his office. He's wearing his usual Under Armour polo and those overpriced joggers, but something about his posture is different. Shoulders slightly hunched. No phone in his hand.
"Yeah, what's up?"
He walks over, and I notice he's actually making eye contact instead of scanning the gym floor for problems to yell about. "I, uh… I wanted to talk to you about something. About how I've been running things here."
My heart rate kicks up. He doesn't know. He can't know.
"Okay," I say carefully.
Derek rubs the back of his neck. "I was thinking about it last night. Couldn't sleep, actually. The way I've been handling the tip pooling system? That's… that's not right. You guys earn those tips. I shouldn't be taking a cut." He pauses, looks genuinely uncomfortable. "And the base pay. Forty-two thousand in this city? That's not sustainable. You're good at what you do, and I've been—" He stops, swallows. "I've been treating you all like you're replaceable. Like you're not people with lives and bills and… I'm sorry."
I stare at him. Jessica, the morning shift lead, has stopped mid-rep with her client to watch this unfold. Even she looks confused.
"Starting next pay period, we're doing a fifteen percent raise across the board for all trainers," Derek continues. "And no more tip skimming. I'll get the paperwork updated this week." He meets my eyes, and there's something raw there I've never seen before. Almost like shame. "I should've done this years ago. I just… I wasn't paying attention to what it actually meant. For you. For everyone."
It worked. Jesus Christ, it actually worked.
Jessica walks over slowly, arms crossed. "Derek, are you feeling okay? You sound like someone hit you in the head."
"No, I'm—" He laughs, but it sounds strained. "I'm fine. I'm just trying to do better." He looks at me again. "Is that… is that fair? Fifteen percent? I can look at the numbers, maybe push it higher if I cut back on some of the—"
"That's fair," I interrupt. Because watching him spiral into guilt-driven over-correction feels too much like watching surgery I performed with a keyboard.
He nods, relieved. "Good. Okay. Good." He starts to walk away, then turns back. "And Alejandro? Thank you. For putting up with my bullshit this long. I know I haven't been… I haven't been a good boss."
Then he's gone, back into his office, and Jessica's staring at me like I just pulled a magic trick.
"What the hell was that?" she whispers.
I don't answer. Because what would I even say?
I gave him a conscience and now he's drowning in it. And I did it from my spare bedroom while eating leftover chicken and rice.
-- Turn 6 --
Action
LIVE YOUR LIFE: Finish my shift and see what else has quietly changed — maybe grab coffee, maybe run into Claudia upstairs, maybe just exist in this new reality I'm building.
Outcome
The rest of my shift passes in a strange fog. I go through the motions — spotting bench presses, correcting form on deadlifts, nodding through a client's complaints about her macros — but part of my brain is elsewhere, watching Derek move through the gym like a man who just discovered he has feelings.
He apologizes to Jessica again around 8 AM. Then to Marcus, the janitor, for something that happened six months ago that Marcus clearly doesn't even remember. By 10, he's sitting in his office with the door open, staring at spreadsheets with this haunted look on his face.
I did that. I reached into his head and flipped a switch, and now he's someone else.
I finish my last session at 2 PM, shower in the locker room, and head out into the afternoon heat. The city looks exactly the same as it did yesterday — same cracked sidewalks, same traffic, same overpriced lunch spots — but I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking through a movie set. Everything real, but also not.
I stop at the coffee place two blocks from my apartment. The barista is new, some college kid with a nose ring and a band shirt I don't recognize. She makes my usual without asking, which is wrong because I've never been here before.
Except I have. Because I'm a regular here. Because reality says I am.
I take the coffee and leave before I can think too hard about it.
By the time I'm climbing the stairs to my floor, it's almost 3 PM. I'm fishing for my keys when I hear the door above me open. Footsteps on the landing.
"Oh! Hey."
I look up. Claudia Reyes is standing at the top of the stairs, laundry basket balanced on one hip, her toddler — a girl, maybe two years old, wearing a stained Elmo shirt — clinging to her leg. Claudia looks like she hasn't slept in a week. Dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a messy bun, the kind of exhaustion that's become structural.
"Hey," I say, because what else is there?
"Sorry if Emma's been loud," Claudia says quickly. "I know the walls are thin. I'm trying to get her on a better sleep schedule, but—" She shifts the basket, and I notice her hands are shaking slightly. "It's been a rough week."
Emma stares at me with those unnervingly direct toddler eyes, one finger jammed in her mouth.
"It's fine," I tell Claudia. "I barely hear it."
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "You're sweet to say that. I know it's not true." She hesitates, like she's about to say something else, then just nods. "Anyway. I'll let you get inside. See you around."
She starts down the stairs, Emma still attached to her leg, and I watch them go.
I could fix this. Right now. Go upstairs, open the computer, give her more money. Better childcare. A partner who didn't leave. Whatever she needs.
The thought sits there, obvious and terrible.
-- Turn 7 --
Action
OPEN THE PROFILE: Go upstairs right now and pull up Claudia's profile — see exactly what's crushing her and what I could fix.
Outcome
I don't even wait to see if she's made it to the bottom of the stairs. I'm already moving, taking the steps two at a time up to my floor, fumbling with the keys, shouldering through my door hard enough that it bangs against the wall.
The spare bedroom is exactly as I left it this morning — boxes, dust, that beige tower humming in the corner like it's been waiting for me to come back.
I drop into the chair and the screen's already on. Facebook. That impossible version of it. The search bar blinks at me, cursor ready.
I type: Claudia Reyes.
Her profile loads instantly, and there she is — profile picture from maybe three years ago, before Emma. She's smiling in it, wearing a sundress at someone's wedding, looking like a completely different person. Lighter. The banner image is some generic quote about strength and motherhood.
But it's the fields below that make my chest tight.
Then the editable fields:
Full Name: Claudia Maria Reyes
Age: 29
Occupation: Medical Billing Clerk, HealthFirst Insurance
Relationship Status: Single
Lives In: Unit 3B, 847 Morrison Street (one floor above me)
Education: Some college (incomplete)
I stare at the numbers. Thirty-one thousand a year in this city. Three hundred and forty dollars in savings. A 9/10 parenting stress level that the system flags as "unsustainable" in red text.
She's drowning. Just drowning in slow motion, one missed bill and one sleepless night at a time.
I click the Optimize feature. The overlay appears, showing me her current trajectory if nothing changes.
Year 1: Accumulating debt. Increasing health problems. Emma's development affected by stress in the home. Possible eviction if any financial emergency occurs.
Year 3: Forced to move back to family in Texas. Job loss. Depression worsens.
Year 5: Emma shows behavioral problems linked to early childhood instability.
This is what happens if I do nothing. This is the timeline she's on right now, one floor above me, trying to fold laundry while her daughter clings to her leg because she's the only solid thing in that kid's universe.
The cursor blinks in the income field. I could change it right now. Give her sixty thousand. Eighty. Whatever she needs to breathe. Or I could go deeper — give her family nearby, give her co-parenting support, rewrite Michael Torres into someone who shows up and pays his share.
I could fix everything. Make it so Emma grows up stable and Claudia gets to sleep through the night and nobody has to choose between groceries and electricity.
My hand hovers over the keyboard.
This isn't about revenge. This isn't about teaching someone a lesson. This is just… helping. Right?
-- Turn 8 --
Action
GO DEEPER: Don't just fix the money — rewrite Michael Torres back into the picture as an involved, supportive co-parent who never left.
Outcome
I navigate to the relationship field. Relationship with Emma's Father (Michael Torres): 0/10. There's a small pencil icon next to his name. I click it.
A sub-profile opens. Michael Torres, thirty-one years old, living in Colorado Springs with his new wife Ashley. The fields are all there, just like Derek's, just like Claudia's. His whole life laid out in editable text boxes.
I could just bump his empathy like I did with Derek. Make him feel guilty enough to send checks. But that's not enough. Claudia doesn't need guilt money from an absent father. Emma doesn't need a dad who pays out of shame.
Relationship Status: Married to Ashley Torres
Relationship with Emma Reyes: 0/10 ("No contact, no financial support, no emotional investment")
What if Michael never left? What if he stayed, worked through the postpartum depression, became the partner Claudia needed? The projection builds itself across the screen in cascading detail.
PROJECTED OUTCOMES:
Relationship Status changes to: Engaged to Claudia Reyes
Current Location: Unit 3B, 847 Morrison Street (same apartment)
Relationship with Emma: 9/10 ("Actively involved, loving, present")
Michael's Job Satisfaction rises to 8/10 ("Fulfilled by family life")
Personality Traits shift: Commitment Issues drop to 2/10, Empathy rises to 8/10, Responsibility rises to 9/10
The timeline recalculates itself. Michael stayed when Emma was born. Took paternity leave. Learned to change diapers and do night feedings. Proposed last year. They're planning a small wedding next spring. He works remotely as a software developer, splits childcare duties, makes Claudia laugh when she's exhausted.
It's perfect. Too perfect. A complete rewrite of three years of history.
I move the cursor to the Awareness toggle. Aware or Unaware.
If I set it to Unaware, they'll both just believe this is how it's always been. Michael will have memories of staying, of being there, of choosing them. Claudia will remember him as someone who never left. Emma will grow up with a father she's never actually met but will swear she's known her whole life.
If I set it to Aware… they'll know. Michael will remember leaving, then suddenly remember staying. He'll know something impossible happened. Claudia will remember being abandoned, then remember being loved. The whiplash might break them both.
This isn't revenge. This isn't a lesson. This is just… playing God with three lives because I heard a toddler crying through my ceiling and decided I could fix it.
The Save button pulses, waiting.
-- Turn 9 --
Action
MAKE THE EDIT: Set it to Unaware and hit Save — let them live in a reality where Michael never left, where they've always been a family.
Outcome
I click the Awareness dropdown. Select Unaware.
My finger hovers over the Save button for maybe two seconds. Three years of abandonment, about to be erased like they never happened. Michael Torres gets a second chance he doesn't know he's getting. Claudia gets a partner who never left. Emma gets a father.
This is helping. This is just helping.
I click Save.
The screen flashes once - that same pale blue pulse I saw when I edited Derek. The fields lock. Michael's profile picture changes instantly: no longer a selfie with Ashley at some Colorado brewery, but a candid shot of him holding Emma at what looks like a park, both of them laughing, her tiny hand wrapped around his finger.
The changes ripple outward across both profiles. Claudia's mental health climbs to 7/10. Her parenting stress drops to 3/10. Her relationship status updates: Engaged to Michael Torres. Their combined income settles at $98,200. Even the profile picture shifts - now it's a photo of the three of them at a beach somewhere, Emma between them, Michael's arm around Claudia's waist.
Relationship with Emma Reyes: 9/10 ("Actively involved, loving, present")
Current Location: Unit 3B, 847 Morrison Street
Relationship Status: Engaged to Claudia Maria Reyes
I sit back. The edit is done. Somewhere above me, reality is rewriting itself.
I stand up slowly, walk out of the spare bedroom, move through my apartment to the door. Open it quietly. Step into the hallway.
The building is silent for a moment. Then I hear it.
Footsteps upstairs. Not the frantic, exhausted shuffle of someone barely holding it together. Lighter. Two sets - one heavier, one smaller. Emma's laugh, bright and unworried. Then a man's voice, warm and easy: "Alright, jellybean, let's get this laundry sorted before Mama gets home from the store."
"I help! I help!"
"You absolutely can help. You're the best helper."
I stand there in my doorway, listening to a father and daughter I've never met do laundry together in an apartment where, five minutes ago, he didn't exist.
He doesn't remember Colorado. Doesn't remember Ashley. Doesn't remember leaving. He remembers staying. Remembers every sleepless night and every diaper change and every moment of choosing them.
The door upstairs opens. I hear Michael's voice again, calling down the hall: "Babe, you forget something?"
Claudia's voice, distant, from deeper in the apartment: "Just my phone! Be right there!"
Then the door closes. The sounds of a normal, functional family continue above me - a father playing with his daughter, a mother who isn't drowning, a child who will never know what it's like to wonder why Daddy left.
I step back into my apartment and close the door.
I just erased three years of suffering. Made a deadbeat into a devoted father. Gave a toddler the childhood she deserves. And none of them will ever know it wasn't always this way.
The computer is still humming in the spare bedroom. Four more profiles waiting. Marcus. Isaiah. Vanessa. Derek, who I could undo or edit further.
Or I could search for someone new.
Which profile should I edit then?
My self
Vanessa Torres, my ex wife
Marcus Chen, my ex business partner
Voting ended onMay 18
Find the other interactive story here
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EVERY FACE IS A DOOR.
my complete Infinit
and i write
and i write
and i write
for clarity
for peace
for closure
for the truth
but the more i write
the more i rewrite
the reality of these words
nothing is as it seems
even when i’m ripping at them
pouring out every word that
passes through my shell of a head
out on to paper--
into the screen in my hands
i throw the words everywhere i can wrap my fingers around
just so i can have them
and rewrite them
to be more pretty
to be more unlike
the feelings
i’m feeling
how is it that in my search for the truth
i am writing lies?
edited before they even leave my mind
how will i ever know what side to look to?
where to hide?
