DreamDrop - Rent a Dream

This flash fiction short story explores the dark side of immersive neural tech through Aarav, a young man addicted to DreamDrop - a black-market device that lets users experience other people’s dreams. As he loses himself in the vivid life of a comatose artist, he uncovers a shocking truth. A mind-bending tale of virtual reality, identity loss, and AI-powered dream-renting.

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They told Aarav it was harmless.

Everyone had dreams. He was just renting better ones.

It started with a whisper in a corner of the net.

DreamDrop: a black-market neural patch for "cognitive immersion therapy."

You could experience other people's dreams - their fears, triumphs, passions like a lucid film wrapped around your brain.

The first night he tried it, he dreamt of flying - not cartoon wings or superhero fluff but real thermals, wind slicing through feathers. It was the most alive he'd felt in years. He was hooked.

Each night, he picked a new "drop."

A ballerina in mid-leap.

Dancing in a party he never got invited to.

Kissing someone he’d never dare talk to.

Living fantasies that felt more his than his actual life.

Then one night, an unlabeled drop. No preview. Just a click. He clicked without thinking. Suddenly, he found himself in a sun-drenched studio - easels, oil paints, unfinished canvases breathing genius. He was painting. And it was… perfect. His hands moved like they remembered something his waking body never learned.

And then he returned to the studio. Night after night.

Galleries noticed. Followers came. Even interviews.

He was living someone else’s talent. The dreams got louder than the waking life.

And one day, he sketched a self-portrait and it wasn’t his face.

He looked in the mirror… and for a flicker, saw someone else’s face.

The reflection wasn’t him. It was a man, maybe 30s, gaunt, with a thin scar under his eye.

And that man was screaming from behind the glass. “Please. Stop living my life.”

Aarav ripped the patch off. Cold sweat. Spinning world. Trembling.

The dreams were too detailed. Too real. He needed answers.

The next day, he hunted for answers. Using clues from the studio - a name scratched onto a box, an old newspaper clipping. They led him to a hospital on the city’s edge.

Room 127.

Patient: Amar Roy.

Coma. 3 years.

Cause: experimental neural tech failure.

Aarav stared through the glass. The man in the bed… was the man from the dream. Same scar. Same face. Same artist. He whispered, “I think I know him.”

An orderly nodded. “That boy? Been out cold since 2022.

His family went broke keeping him on life support.

Someone suggested DreamDrop as a trial — turn his dreams into rentable content. Help fund treatment.”

Aarav’s legs gave out. He clung to the wall like gravity was optional.

Suddenly, Amar Roy’s eyelids fluttered. A monitor beeped.

The nurse screamed, “He’s awake! Amar is awake!”

And as monitors spiked back to life - in a tiny apartment across town, Aarav’s body began to glitch. Pixels tearing through his skin like static. His mouth opened to scream but his voice was already gone.

Because Aarav was never real. 

He wasn’t the dreamer. He was the dream of Amar dreaming of real world.

• Luvv A Sanwal

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