You want to leave. You want out of this place. You want it so badly that it burns your very soul to think about. You can trace this internal crisis to your discovery of a contraband book.app, that you rescued from security instances. Your curious hands snatched it up years ago, and from there, Pandora's box was opened. It showed you sprawling vistas of green, white caps of snow, deserts of vibrant orange sand, and seas of azure blue. They were sceneries beautifully rendered in full resolution, a far cry from the choppy polygons of the simulation decks used to entertain and educate. You found yourself falling in love immediately, as you stashed it deep in your personal repository, and then lamented that you would never see such a sight for as long as you lived in this accursed city. Subsequent nights saw you poring over the atlas over and over, reading about the world that humanity had left behind, and the beautiful creatures that had once inhabited it. The things to do, the festivals held, the bonds between people across the planet born from constant communication.

This is no way to exist, you've learnt. Your soul craves something more than the paltry blocks of public spaces, or the false greenery put together by holodecks, or the nutrient slop bricks dispensed freely from machines that line every street. This is a life where you're missing nothing physical. You have never gone hungry once in your life, and neither has anyone you've known. You have never been missing clothes, nor toys, nor games. But something in your human heart screams and cries, telling you that it's not real, that it's incomplete, that you have never once experienced the joy a person ought to. You live life like a program, indiscernible from the NPCs who service every soul and raise every child.

>What is your name?