Install Steam
login
|
language
简体中文 (Simplified Chinese)
繁體中文 (Traditional Chinese)
日本語 (Japanese)
한국어 (Korean)
ไทย (Thai)
Български (Bulgarian)
Čeština (Czech)
Dansk (Danish)
Deutsch (German)
Español - España (Spanish - Spain)
Español - Latinoamérica (Spanish - Latin America)
Ελληνικά (Greek)
Français (French)
Italiano (Italian)
Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
Magyar (Hungarian)
Nederlands (Dutch)
Norsk (Norwegian)
Polski (Polish)
Português (Portuguese - Portugal)
Português - Brasil (Portuguese - Brazil)
Română (Romanian)
Русский (Russian)
Suomi (Finnish)
Svenska (Swedish)
Türkçe (Turkish)
Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
Українська (Ukrainian)
Report a translation problem
Discussions Rules and Guidelines
Report this post
you are welcome
edit: gotta love when Steam censors GTA vehicle names...
It was the day after Thanksgiving, and Peter had been looking forward to the Steam Black Friday Sale all week. A lifelong gamer, he had a wishlist that stretched out for miles—games he'd been wanting for months, if not years, all discounted to irresistible prices. He didn’t need all of them, but the temptation was too strong.
Peter logged in to his account around midnight, his heart racing with anticipation. The prices were unbelievable—80% off, sometimes even more. As he clicked through the deals, grabbing a few indie titles and triple-A hits alike, a banner at the top of the page caught his eye.
“Steam Black Friday Sale: 100% of profits donated to global COVID-19 research. Join us in supporting efforts to end the pandemic.”
It seemed like a good cause, and Peter, like many others, had been shaken by the pandemic’s impact on the world. It felt like the least he could do to help—buying some games and donating to the research. He shrugged and clicked the banner, directing him to a special page with a countdown timer.
"COVID Research Fund – Your Contribution Matters"
The page was sleek, well-designed. It offered a brief explanation of the initiative, explaining that the funds would go to various research centers in China, aiming to combat the virus and prevent future pandemics. The timer ticked down ominously, counting the hours until the sale would officially end.
Peter, eager to seize the moment, continued shopping. The more he spent, the more the sale seemed to encourage him. Every purchase brought a subtle sense of satisfaction, as though he was not only collecting games but also making a difference in the world. The red "Donate" button at the bottom of the page was tempting, but Peter figured he’d already done his part.
As the night wore on, he found himself becoming absorbed in the overwhelming catalog of games. Time seemed to stretch and warp, the clock no longer feeling like a fixed entity. Hours slipped away unnoticed. But something strange started to happen.
Part Two: The Strange Notification
It wasn’t until his screen flickered and a strange notification appeared that Peter snapped out of his trance.
"Are you sure you want to exit the Steam Store? You have 98% of the games in your wishlist still in your cart."
Confused, Peter glanced at the list of games he had already bought. It was an obscene amount—far more than he had intended to spend. His account balance had dropped dangerously low, and yet, the “Total Spend” bar was still slowly filling. Steam was offering even more deals—games he hadn’t even added to his wishlist were now suggested to him as "must-buys."
He hesitated, feeling an uncomfortable prickle crawl down his spine. His stomach clenched with anxiety, but the urge to keep buying, to take advantage of this endless sale, overpowered his better judgment. But then… something strange happened. A new notification popped up.
“Your purchase will contribute directly to funding the ongoing fight against COVID-19 in China. Thank you for supporting a better future.”
Peter blinked at the screen. There was something unsettling about the message, but the glowing button labeled “Confirm Purchase” was too inviting. His hand hovered over the mouse.
A soft voice, almost a whisper, came from his speakers, as if someone was right next to him. "You can make a difference, Peter... just a little more... just a little more."
Peter froze, feeling his breath catch in his throat. He jerked his head around, scanning the dark room, but there was no one there. He chuckled nervously, brushing it off as a trick of his imagination. After all, he was alone in his apartment. But the voice persisted, faint and almost robotic.
“Make the purchase. You’re so close. The world needs you.”
The countdown timer on the screen dropped to zero, and Peter clicked “Confirm.”
Part Three: The Unseen Price
The next morning, Peter woke up groggily, his head pounding. His computer was still on, Steam still open. He glanced at the screen, but something felt off. The games he'd bought were no longer showing up in his library. Instead, the page displayed a single message:
“Thank you for your contribution. Your games will be delivered shortly.”
Confused, Peter closed the browser and checked his bank account. He was horrified to see the amount he’d spent—far more than he’d ever intended, and far beyond what he could afford. But it wasn’t just that. The most alarming thing was the number of unauthorized transactions from a Chinese research institute listed on his account.
He quickly ran a scan for malware and viruses, but nothing appeared. He wasn’t sure what to think. Was this some kind of scam?
That’s when he received the email.
"Thank you for your generous donation to the COVID-19 research fund. Your support will go a long way in saving lives."
But the email wasn’t what disturbed him. It was the sender.
"Steam.Official@covidfunding-china.org."
Peter’s heart raced. The email was from an address he’d never seen before. He quickly clicked on the link to the research fund, but the website had changed. It was no longer the sleek, professional page it had been. Instead, it was a dark, almost hollow place, filled with cryptic images of sick patients in isolation rooms. The words “Thank you for your donation” repeated over and over in an endless loop.
Suddenly, a new notification popped up:
“Your purchase has been processed. Thank you for supporting our cause. We will deliver your games shortly.”
Peter’s eyes widened in terror. What was going on? He tried to log out of Steam, but his account wouldn’t sign him out. He couldn’t exit the website. It was as though the platform had a life of its own now, pulling him deeper into its clutches.
Part Four: The Delivery
Days passed. Peter didn’t sleep much. He became obsessed with the screen, watching the timer tick down, waiting for his games to be delivered. But nothing ever came. His library remained empty. The only thing that remained constant were the cryptic emails from the research fund, each one thanking him for his contribution, each one urging him to “keep supporting the cause.”
On the tenth day, he found an unexpected package at his door. No return address. No shipping label. Just a plain brown box.
Peter opened it cautiously, but when he saw what was inside, his blood ran cold.
It wasn’t a game. It was a strange, black device—small and compact, with wires and a glowing red symbol etched onto its surface. At first, Peter thought it was some kind of industrial equipment, but then the whispering began again. Soft, but distinct. “Thank you... You’ve been chosen... You can’t escape...”
He dropped the device in horror, but the whispering continued, as though it were coming from all around him.
His computer screen flickered. The last thing he saw before everything went black was the Steam page, flashing with the same phrase over and over again:
“Your purchase has been processed. You have made a difference. We are grateful.”
Part Five: The Final Gift
Peter never woke up. His body was discovered days later, pale and unblinking, as though he had simply fallen asleep in front of his computer. The strange device was gone. So were the emails, and his Steam account had been completely wiped.
Authorities never figured out what happened to him. The package was traced back to an untraceable address in China, with no connection to any known shipping company. As for the research fund, it vanished without a trace.
But on the dark web, a new thread appeared: “The Price of a Donation.” It detailed a game, a game with no rules, where every click, every purchase, and every donation pushed players deeper into the darkness. And the price was far higher than anyone could ever imagine.
And somewhere, in the deepest corners of the internet, the Steam Black Friday Sale continued.