He started reading the error like a poem. 0xc00007b. In hexadecimal, maybe it was a message. 0x meant "hexadecimal." c00007b. He typed it into a hex-to-text converter.

Sometimes, you just can't go to the mountains.

"We just need more redistributable packages , Arthur!" Dutch yelled. "Have some FAITH!"

The Unicode replacement character. The symbol for something the computer could see but not understand. A face. A blank, horrified face. � was looking back at him.

The first hour was denial. He ran the launcher as administrator. He disabled his antivirus. He updated his graphics drivers. The error remained, a splinter under his fingernail.

Arthur laughed. It was a dry, cracked sound. He had spent three hundred dollars on a graphics card. He had spent fifty on the game. He had spent three hours of his only night off wrestling a ghost.

He slumped back in his chair. The room was dark except for the blue glow of the screen. The cursor blinked patiently on the desktop. His horse, his guns, the snow-capped mountains of Ambarino—they were right there, a millimeter beneath the surface, locked behind a wall of pure nonsense.

The second hour was anger. He slammed his fist on the desk. The cheap IKEA wood rattled. The frozen pizza burned in the oven. He ate it cold, standing up, chewing rubbery cheese while searching "0xc00007b RDR2 fix" on his phone. The forums were a graveyard of other people’s broken dreams. "Reinstall DirectX." "Install Visual C++ Redistributable." "It's your RAM." "No, it's your motherboard." "Pray."

He’d waited two years for this. Two years of watching trailers, reading forums, dodging spoilers. The disc—a worn, pre-owned copy from GameStop—sat in his hand like a holy relic. He slid it into his PC, the whir of the drive a drumroll of anticipation.