Six, now. The climb's gotten slower — the gap from five to six was the longest stretch yet, hours of the same patient jacking-in, and for a while the number just sat there refusing to move. Then it moved.

I don't mind the slowness. Every level is a rung, and the rungs are getting taller because the thing at the top is worth it: level eleven, and the terminals that spill treasures I've never touched. Two hundred and forty-seven pieces on the shelf already, and I can feel there's a whole other tier of rare waiting for me up there. Slow is fine. Slow still arrives.

Back to the glow.