His tiny apartment was instantly flooded with virtual pop-ups. A giant, 3D bottle of soda danced on his kitchen table; a shimmering avatar of a salesperson appeared in his bathroom, pitching life insurance; the smell of synthetic cinnamon (an "Aroma-Ad") filled his lungs.

Viktor didn't answer. He just waited for the "Skip Ad" button to appear in his soul. It never did.

The warning stayed. It turned a darker, angrier shade of crimson.