Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Your life wasn't particularly special. Caught up in the chaos of your early twenties—classes and odd jobs—you were just an average human being, like anyone else. You had hair that fell in loose waves over your shoulders, and big eyes that always seemed on the verge of smiling, even when you weren't.

You lived in a small apartment in the city center with faded video game posters, mostly Resident Evil, covering the walls. A bookshelf threatened to collapse under the weight of poorly organized manga and collector's editions that you refused to open "just in case they go up in value."  

You were independent. You cooked your own meals, paid your bills on time, had friends with whom you laughed until you were breathless on Friday nights, and had a family that loved you, even if they didn't quite understand the concept of "working from home while gaming." You also had a grumpy cat named Barry—yes, like Burton—who now slept curled up on your pillow as if it were a throne.

Your life was peaceful. Happy. You didn't need anything else, although you sometimes felt something strange when you met someone new. A handsome guy at the coffee shop, a funny colleague at a work meeting—anyone could easily fall in love.

But not you.

There were no butterflies, no inner fire, and nothing epic when you talked to them. Just emotional dust suspended in empty air.

Your heart already belonged to someone else, someone unreal.

Someone made of pixels and unattainable standards: Chris Redfield.

He was the brave captain of S.T.A.R.S., with muscles that were supposedly off the charts in RE5 and RE6, and a tired but steadfast hero in RE7 and RE8. His voice alone made your headphones vibrate every time he said, "I'm not going to stop until I'm dead." You loved him not just for his giant arms or his tight T-shirt eternally stained with mutant blood, but because he represented the impossible: someone who was strong on the inside, someone unbreakable, even when everyone around him was falling apart.

Chris was ideal, too perfect to exist among real humans, who are as emotionally fragile as cheap copies made in a failed industrial series.

Until that night...

When everything changed.

After a long week, you were curled up on your sofa with your feet tucked under a worn, plush blanket, playing Resident Evil 9. Rain tapped softly against the window, and Barry purred in your lap. You had reached an intense scene: Leon Kennedy—yes, him, the eternal lone agent with the face of a thousand wars—was standing over the corpse of a giant spider in a ruined underground tunnel. He held an axe in his hand, and his deep voice filtered through the surround sound:

"I missed that Raccoon City hospitality."

It made you laugh, as it almost always did. Leon had a unique way of making absurd situations seem believable and horror seem mundane. His witty remarks were balm for your emotional wounds, and the smiles they drew made you forget the real world for a while.

You sat up on the sofa and moved Barry to one side. He groaned and opened one yellow eye. He gave you a reproachful look before settling into the most comfortable position possible.

The storm outside intensified, pounding heavily against the window. The game's lighting and immersive sounds only heightened your sense of isolation and closeness to Leon Kennedy in the fictional world of Resident Evil Requiem.

As you played, you couldn't help but compare Leon to Chris Redfield.

Your mind betrayed you, reminding you of Chris's huge, imposing, almost superhuman physical appearance. Leon, on the other hand, was more modest in size but just as efficient. His face bore the scars of his past experiences, and his gaze always seemed to contain a depth you didn't quite understand. Perhaps that was why your heart beat faster every time he appeared on the screen.

The storm raged outside, but inside your apartment, only the sound of the wind through the speakers and the growing electric tension accompanied you as you played.  

The air in the subway was thick, as if stale for decades. The light from Leon's flashlight danced across the damp walls, revealing faded graffiti and deep scratches in the metal. The silence was broken only by the constant dripping of water. Then, at the end of the narrow corridor, two rusty revolving doors appeared.

You let out a little laugh. There was no way you could get through there. But then, when you moved Leon close enough, the circle of action appeared. Oh, okay. So...

Much to your surprise, Leon approached with a steady gait and placed both hands on the horizontal bars. The muscles in his arms tensed beneath the tight black fabric of his tactical shirt, and his shoulders contracted as he began pushing in one direction. A hoarse grunt escaped his throat.

Those low, deep, vibrating sounds were there again. They echoed in your spine as if every physical effort were amplified. He had been making them throughout all of his gameplay.

Your finger slipped off the button when he lifted that shelf in the hospital, and the unholy sound reverberated not only off the walls of your room but also through your bones and skin. It startled you much more than any jump scare ever had. You were grateful that the walls were thick because you blushed at the thought of what your neighbors would think if they heard such ASMR. And if you turned the volume up to the max after that scene, it was out of pure respect for the developers' work.

(And the closets? Oh boy! Leon needed nothing more than an axe and his biceps to open them. You spent all the necessary time to find and open them all.)

Without realizing it, you leaned forward, your eyes fixed on the way his muscles tensed under the dark blue fabric, wet from the subway. A drop slid from his temple to his strong, defined neck. "God, the graphics are incredibly realistic!"

The bar barely moved an inch. He pushed and pushed, each attempt accompanied by small, forced gasps that were unnecessarily provocative.

You gasped too, mentally (and perhaps physically) because that sound, that mixture of controlled frustration and restrained strength... It was pure slow fire, burning inside you.

A low moan escaped his throat as he leaned his entire weight forward.  

"Unh!"

His boots slipped a little on the wet floor before regaining their footing. He pushed off with his legs—and you could have sworn you heard his pants crackle slightly—as the tendons in his neck stood out under skin tanned by years of relentless sun.

Another effort. Another, even deeper grunt. Your left hand automatically let go of the air conditioner remote you hadn't noticed you were holding for some time.

Your skin burned like never before as the images unfolded on the screen. You couldn't believe you were feeling this way about something as absurd as a game. It hadn't even happened with Chris! Yet there you were, completely caught up in watching a fictional man battle rusty doors as if he were fighting you in some convoluted, symbolic way.

You couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Yet, every little grunt that came out of the speakers made you shudder.

You didn't realize you had been staring at the scene for almost five minutes until Barry nudged you.

You sat up a little in your seat and shook your head to snap out of your trance. Barry watched you with a slight frown, as if reprimanding you for your strange behavior.

You tried to return to reality, but it wasn't easy. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Leon Kennedy fighting against the metal doors.

You suddenly stood up, feeling the need to move and shake off the uncomfortable tension building in your body. Barry followed you with his eyes as you walked to the kitchen. Your mind was still partly caught up in the low sounds of the game.

As you poured yourself a glass of water, you realized your heart was pounding in your chest. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't stop the images from popping into your mind.

It's a bug. There's no doubt about it; you could still hear it.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to calm down. It was just a game and a bug in the game. Nothing more. But you couldn't get those low, deep moans out of your head. They were so human, so... masculine.

Relax, girl. You'll have to reload the game to get Leon out of that heated loop.

You sighed and slowly returned to the sofa. You were right. It was just a game and a bug. There was no reason for you to keep feeling this way.

You grabbed the remote and pressed pause to load the game. While you waited, you tried to distract yourself, but you couldn't stop thinking about that scene. That deep voice, those grunts...

"That had to be on purpose. It can't be a coincidence," you murmured, biting your lower lip as you watched the screen with renewed interest.  

The volume was still high. It was too high for what you should allow yourself to listen to alone at home with the lights dimmed and the sound of rain in the background. But you didn't turn down the audio. In fact, you moved the speakers closer as if you were searching for something hidden among the ambient sounds or his gasps.

"This doesn't happen in other scenes," you said aloud, as if you needed to convince yourself. When Chris lifts something or hits rocks, he doesn't make those... little noises. He doesn't have that hoarse tone or guttural strain when pushing something heavy.

But Leon does.

The worst—or best—part was that it seemed so natural, as if they had recorded the real Leon Kennedy grunting under strain while sweating in front of a camera, struggling against an impossible mechanism just to give you this forbidden sensory experience.

His voice actor definitely deserves a raise.

You bowed your head forward until it rested on your bent knees. You held the controller tightly in your trembling hands.

"You're wrong," you said, nervous giggles escaping your lips. "You're completely wrong about this."

You bit your lip and pressed "continue" decisively. The screen refocused on Leon in a dark, claustrophobic hallway once again.

Instead of moving forward quickly, you decided to go slowly on purpose, controlling Leon's movements as if you were really standing beside him. It was almost fun—and definitely strange—to watch all those animations up close with such clinical attention. 

You enjoyed every second of it, especially in those scenes that required effort.

The climbing scenes were particularly entertaining: Leon climbing walls with one hand—one damn hand!—sliding down pulleys and holding onto bars. His whole body was in motion, and every muscle was defined under his shirt. Every expression of determination was on his face.

And those sounds... low gasps of effort, grunts in tense moments, and muffled moans as he leaned into awkward positions. Each one made you shiver, held your breath, and made you wish you could press pause more often.

You couldn't forget his terrible jokes, delivered in a deep, husky voice. He made witty remarks and told ironic jokes in the midst of situations fraught with death and danger. They seemed so out of place and yet fit his personality perfectly.

The contrast made you laugh but also left you wanting more, in more ways than one.

Taking advantage of the decision to slow down your movements in the game, you got up from the couch and went to the kitchen to prepare snacks and drinks. You were ready to enjoy the whole show without rushing. There was no rush anymore. No one was waiting for you, and no one was knocking on your door. Barry had resigned himself to the fact that you were possessed by a mysterious spirit.

There you were, comfortably reclining with your legs bent and your selection of snacks and a can of your favorite drink in hand. You pressed "continue" on the game.

The parking lot was flooded and as dark as the inside of a coffin. Only Leon's flashlight cut through the darkness with its flickering beam, illuminating still puddles that reflected his figure like dirty mirrors. Water everywhere, thick silence... until you heard that sound.

Low growls, but not sexy ones.

A pale, skeletal zombie holding some kind of spear crawled between two rusty trucks. But it wasn't a real threat to Leon, unless you wanted it to be.

And you... You did.

You bit your lower lip. You were definitely out of your mind. However, it was too late for regrets, so you leaned into the game with renewed determination.

Your fingers tightened on the controller as you watched the zombie crawl slowly and heavily toward Leon. You could have dodged the attack—of course you could—but you took the spear blow head-on. That's how poor Leon's character was sent flying backward.

You laughed softly as you watched Leon fall with a loud splash into the dark puddle, then get up the next second. His shirt was now soaked, clinging to his torso and the muscles beneath it.

Driven by excitement, you equipped the Requiem and approached with a new target. Just as the zombie was about to attack, you dodged perfectly, and Leon circled the zombie, knocked it to its knees, and blew its head off with a deadly shot.

Holy shit. Your mouth opened, and you let out another giggle. What the hell?

Leon continued walking across the parking lot. Now, he was soaked, with strands of wet hair hanging down. His shirt, which had seemed to be fighting for its life earlier, now clung to him like a second skin. When he returned to the street, you could see the shape of his muscles beneath the wet fabric. You could see the veins in his arms, the contour of his shoulders, and the tension in his broad back.

It was almost too much to process.

"He doesn't know it, but I'm his worst enemy right now."

A mischievous chuckle escaped your lips as you adjusted the camera angle on your console, as if you could control the weather, the light, and the wind blowing through his hair.

"Poor Leon," you murmured, balancing the controller between your fingers. "He has no idea that the most dangerous thing here isn't a zombie or a virus."

You sighed with feigned innocence, settled back onto the sofa, crossed your legs, and lightly bit the straw of your soda. You were fully aware of what you were doing, turning a tense, dark mission into a private show for one obsessed viewer. Yet, you didn't feel a shred of guilt.

On the contrary, you felt powerful.

Then, the power went out abruptly. It was a sudden interruption in the middle of a fan service session.

There was a flicker in the ceiling lights and a high-pitched buzz, and then nothing. The screen went blank. The sound stopped. Even Barry stopped purring.

All that remained was darkness and the distant patter of rain against the window.

"Unbelievable..."

You didn't scream. You didn't run around like it was the end of the world. Instead, you took a deep breath and felt your body shift from an almost dreamlike state, where Leon Kennedy dominated your thoughts, to a cold, clear, and alert one.

You had read too many emergency manuals out of boredom to be unprepared.

"In case of a power outage, don't panic. Locate your kit immediately."

There it was, under the armchair you used as a footrest: a small box with reinforced edges bearing a black label with yellow letters. "Emergency — Do not open without reason." (As if anyone else could do so without permission.)

You took out the powerful LED flashlight you bought after watching a documentary about natural disasters—yes, you were that kind of person—and instantly illuminated the low ceiling. You checked the outlets and confirmed that everything was dead.

Perfect. No electricity... but no panic.

"I'll be right back, babe. I'm going to see what's going on."

Barry looked at you with a bored expression and curled up on the pillow again.

You grabbed your cell phone and a jacket to protect yourself from the cold night air, then quietly went out into the hallway. There, you found your neighbors looking nervous and confused. A little girl was crying desperately and clinging to her mother's legs as if there were monsters lurking in the shadows.

"Good evening. Does anyone know what happened?" you asked politely.

Your voice was clear and calm in the dark hallway lit only by cell phone flashlights and the dim emergency light flickering at the end of the corridor. A couple of neighbors turned to face you, recognizing you as the quiet girl from apartment 304.

"We don't know," replied an older man from his half-open door. "Everything went out at the same time. It's not just our building. I think the whole complex is out."

You nodded slowly, processing the information. There was no sign of an explosion or burning smell. There were no sirens or chaotic movement in the streets behind the dark windows. It looked like a massive power outage, perhaps due to the storm that had been raging for hours.

"Have you called the caretaker?" you asked calmly.

"I already did," said a neighbor, her little girl crying beside her. "But he's not answering."

You approached slowly, lowering your flashlight so as not to blind her. You smiled sweetly under the dim beam of warm light.

"Hey," you said to the girl in a soft, tender voice, crouching down until you were at her height. "I'm afraid of the dark, too, but you know what? My grandmother taught me that when the lights go out, they're just recharging. Like superheroes."

She looked at you through tears as big as cold drops; her eyes shone at your absurdly childish—but effective—words.

She blinked twice. Then she asked,

"And how long does it take?"

You smiled broadly, genuinely this time.

"Just like my video game console. Five minutes if you're patient, ten if you're playing against tough bosses."

There was a brief silence until she let out a stifled giggle against her mother's legs.

Some neighbors laughed, too. One even said,

"Gamer girl saved us from the electrical apocalypse..."

You smiled again as you slowly stood up, your jacket and flashlight still shielding you from the unknown.

"I'll go find the caretaker, then. With the elevator out of service, it's quite a walk to the reception desk."

"You're not going alone, young lady," the older man said firmly. "I'll go with you. My daughter has a portable generator in her car. Let's see if we can at least get some light in the lobby."

"Alright, sir."

Together, you and the man began the difficult task of descending the building's eleven floors by stairs in total darkness. It was almost fun groping your way in the pitch black, sometimes bumping into walls or each other.

Luckily, in some sections, the dim light from apartment doors revealed the tiles, the railing, and even yourselves with your flashlights and cell phone lights.

By the time you finally reached the lobby, you were sweating and almost out of breath. Fortunately, it was completely dark, so you couldn't see the dark sweat stains under your armpits.

"Where's the caretaker?" you asked breathlessly, gently waving your flashlight.

The man looked around in vain, using his cell phone as his main source of light. 

"I don't know. Maybe—oh, there he is!"

The caretaker emerged from behind the counter with a more powerful flashlight and a tired expression.

"I'm here," he said hoarsely, adjusting his cap. “I went to check the electrical panel. There’s no physical damage, but it looks like there was a general failure throughout the area.”

The man nodded as the caretaker began explaining the technical details of the blackout. However, your attention began to wander.

You still felt something watching you from the shadowy hallway. A cold, tingling sensation ran down your spine.

You moved the flashlight in that direction, feeling offended. The light bounced off the dark walls and white tile floor before shining directly into the dark corridor.

There was nothing there. Only silence and darkness remained, along with a premonitory feeling that ran through you with the certainty of a caress.

You were about to turn around and rejoin the men's conversation when you heard it again.

Another soft whisper, like a barely audible echo amid the voices filling the hallway. It was coming from that dark, unlit corner.

Seriously?

With something like irritation, you turned the flashlight back there again, but now your curiosity was piqued by something you couldn't ignore.

A dark door stood out amidst the blackness, and the sound seemed to come from behind it.

You glanced at the two men to ensure that neither of them had noticed your presence before starting to move. You took one soft step back, then another, slowly moving away from them as your flashlight illuminated only the floor beneath your feet.  

No one shouted, "Hey! Where are you going?" No one noticed anything.  

This gave you the courage—or perhaps it was stupidity—to continue walking alone down the forbidden hallway, a dark door in front of you. You knew perfectly well that in movies, this was exactly when someone disappeared forever or died in seven minutes.

God, you've played too much Resident Evil, haven't you?

You stopped right in front of the door, your flashlight pointing at the worn sign that read: "Restricted Access—Authorized Personnel Only." 

You laughed at yourself.  

"Really?" you muttered under your breath, as if someone might hear you. “After playing all the Resident Evil games, are you really going to go in alone after seeing what happens when a human enters a dark area with warnings?”  

But you didn't back down. On the contrary, you reached out with your free hand toward the doorknob.

"Tch, that's not real," you told yourself. "Nothing bad is going to happen."

You carefully pushed the door open, unable to believe that you were actually going to do it. Even the creak of the old hinges seemed to echo like a howl of alarm.

But you dared to step inside. 

The sound of the outside world faded instantly as you closed the door. All that remained were darkness, your rapid breathing, and a faint, damp stench hanging in the air like an invisible veil. And a cold chill at the base of your neck.

The door clicked shut behind you. You jumped.

"Oh no, no, no—Don't fuck with me..."

You tried to turn the handle, but it didn't budge an inch.

Great. Wonderful. You were locked in. You deserve an award for committing the most clichéd mistake in a horror movie!

You had nothing but a dim flashlight to defend you against the darkness. But, for some reason, instead of panicking about being trapped, you felt a strange curiosity, as if part of you had been expecting this.

You leaned against the door and took a deep breath. "This isn't funny," you muttered to yourself as if expecting someone to answer from the other side.

No one did, and you found that ridiculous. You hadn't gone far, and there was no light. It was impossible that they wouldn't hear your screams.

"Come on! I know you can hear me! Are you punishing me for being nosy?"

But there was no answer.

The silence was absolute. There were no voices or footsteps—nothing you would normally hear in a building full of people. You knocked again, three loud raps with your fist.

Silence again.

That's when you started to notice something strange.

You heard a slight buzzing in your skull, like distant static, followed by mild dizziness when you tried to stand up straight after leaning against the cold, damp wall for too long.  

"Woah..."

A wave of nausea rose in your throat. You leaned against the wall with your eyes half-closed as your head began to ache, as if you were experiencing a sudden hangover.  

You tried to take a deep breath, but your throat was dry, and you tasted metal in your mouth. Fatigue began to take over.  

"Okay, breathe. Take it easy," you muttered under your breath. "There has to be a way out of here. Yes, you can do it, girl."

You're not going to kick and punch the door like a beast because that would waste your energy. If you were Chris Redfield, it might work, but since you're just an average person, you'd better use your head. After all, you were born with a healthy, perfectly functional brain for a reason.

You immediately took out your phone and dialed the caretaker's number. If this was a prank for being nosy, it had better stop now.

You didn't notice the subtle glitches on the screen.

The phone connected with the caretaker on the second try, but the line was full of static, and the voice was nearly impossible to understand.

"H—llo?"

"Hey? Now you can hear me? I'm locked in! I repeat, I'm. Locked. In!"

The concierge's voice cut out suddenly, followed by a burst of high-pitched static that nearly made you scream.  

"HEY! What was that? Don't hang up on me now!" You yelled into the receiver, as if he could hear you through the white noise.  

You looked at the screen again and swore you saw another glitch—a black line writhing between the pixels—before it flickered and disappeared.

"I'm hallucinating," you muttered, tapping the phone lightly against your thigh as if that would fix everything. "I need air, or coffee, or both."

The distant buzzing in your ears continued and felt strange. Something wasn't right. The dizziness returned, and you started to feel cold, even though the hallway was claustrophobic.  

"Think, damn it," you muttered, rubbing your temples with one hand. "You're not that screwed. You're just trapped in a dark hallway with no way out. And without your headphones."

You leaned against the wall once more. You closed your eyes and took several long, gentle breaths to try to calm the overwhelming nausea.  

"Find a solution. There are no monsters here, so it's a piece of cake."

You ventured into the dark hallway, fighting the increasingly intense dizziness and the insistent buzzing that seemed to come from the walls of the building itself.  

The flashlight cast a dim circle of light into the darkness, swallowing anything beyond its reach. Every step was an effort, and your legs felt heavy, as if you were wearing invisible weights on your ankles.

You keep walking, searching for any way out—any switch or hidden door—to escape. All around you are thick walls and seemingly endless corridors.  

Your dizziness finally takes over, and you collapse against the nearest wall. Its coolness feels good on your feverish forehead, but the darkness makes you feel worse. 

The edges of your field of vision blur, and your body grows heavier. The glitches you noticed earlier on your screen now fill your vision like static on an old television.  

"W-What…What kind of drug was in that soda?"

You try to move, to sit up, but your body no longer obeys you. Your thoughts become muddled, and the pounding in your ears grows louder. "No... not now..." you murmur into the ever-thickening darkness.

Your eyes struggle to focus, but everything feels blurry, like a dream. You try to stay conscious, but your body finally gives out, and you collapse onto the cold hallway floor.

The flashlight falls from your hand and rolls a few feet into the darkness as you collapse onto the floor. You can't move; everything seems distant and distorted—

⚠️ ᴇʀʀᴏʀ ⚠️

The world breaks down around you.

The flashlight on the floor flashes like an emergency signal, illuminating only the wall in front of you. The light distorts and the contours of the hallway begin to shake, as if they were made of poorly rendered pixels. 

A message appears, floating in front of your eyes like white text on black, with no source:  

𝙻𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐: □□□□□ 0%

[ ALERT！]

⚠️ ᴇʀʀᴏʀ ⁴⁰⁴: 𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳

Your body won't obey you.

[  ！] ᴇʀʀᴏʀ ⁴⁰⁴: 𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙳𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁  

[  ！] 𝙰𝙻𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳

[   ！] System reload intiated.

Your mind's screen is filled with errors. Words jump around and letters become corrupted.

𝙼𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜...

█▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ 10%

System reboot not recommended.

Processing emergency protocols...

𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍.

𝙴𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗...

██▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ 23%

⚠️ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ

sᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀᴛɪʙʟᴇ

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴛᴀʀᴛ?

[ ʏᴇs ] [ ɴᴏ ]

𝙎𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙢 restart not recommended.

User memory and data corrupted.

𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜...

██████▒▒▒▒ 63%

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴛᴀʀᴛ?

[ ʏᴇs ] [ ɴᴏ ]

𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜...

█████████▒ 89%

⚠️ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ

A forced restart will be performed.

𝙎𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙢 restart not recommended.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴛᴀʀᴛ?

[ ʏᴇs ] [ ɴᴏ ]

𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕   𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛

Operating system failed.

Corrupted data.

𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜...  

█████████▒ 90%

⚠️ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎

A forced restart will be performed.

⚠️ ᴇʀʀᴏʀ ¹⁰²⁴: 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙴𝙳 

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴛᴀʀᴛ?

[ ʏᴇs ] [ ɴ—

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴛᴀʀᴛ?

[ ʏᴇs ]

𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍.

𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 3…

2…

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