The silence of my apartment was not peaceful. It was an audit. The stale air, the humming fan, the persistent throb in my skull—it was all data. Input for the system now living behind my eyes.
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
Of course. The hospital would have contacted the emergency contact—the only name on file for a man with no wife, no friends, and no significant other. A procedural alert for a procedural life.
I answered. "Hey."
"Terrence! Are you okay? They said you fell! Did they check for a concussion?" Her voice was a familiar frequency of worry.
"I'm fine. It was a minor incident. They discharged me." My tone was flat, factual. I was giving a status report, not seeking comfort.
"You don't sound fine. You sound… distant. Are you dizzy?"
"I am assessing my situation. I am not dizzy."
The clinical wording slipped out. DES was already editing my vocabulary.
A pause. Then, her voice softened, laced with a hesitant hope I'd come to dread. "How's… Sasha? Your girlfriend? Is she helping?"
Sasha. The lie I'd crafted to stop the worried calls. A fictional girlfriend, given the name of my corporate tormentor because my subconscious enjoyed a cruel joke.
"She's…aware of the situation," I said, the truth bending easily into a useful shape. "It's under control."
"Alright…just be careful, Terrence. Call me if you need anything."
"I will." The lie was automatic. I ended the call.
Emotional variable: neutralized.
I moved to the bathroom. The bandage on my temple was like a badge of failure. I peeled it back carefully, my fingers probing the tender skin to assess the damage.
The HUD ignited instantly.
> Injury Detected: Moderate Cranial Contusion.
Status Effect: –10 Health, –0.2 Desirability.
System Action Recommended: Immediate Correction.
A wave of warmth, not unpleasant, washed over the injury site. The pain vanished. In the mirror, the bruise melted away, leaving unmarked skin.
The bandage was now just a piece of useless adhesive. I let it fall into the trash.
> Injury Resolved.
Health: 100%.
Note: Physical imperfections directly diminish perceived value. Optimization of the physical vessel is prerequisite to influence.
[Desirability Score: 0.5/100]
It wasn't healing. It was editing. DES was removing flaws from the draft of Terrence Holt. The system's note echoed in my mind: Optimization of the physical vessel is prerequisite to influence.
The implication was cold and exhilarating. I was no longer just a person. I was a prototype. And I was upgradeable.
---
The next morning, TitanForge's lobby felt like a simulation I'd already failed a hundred times. The same marble, the same drones, the same hierarchy written in glances and stride length.
I was a ghost moving through a memorial to my own inadequacy.
Then, the script played.
Sasha Haze materialized by the elevator, flanked not just by her usual chorus, but also by a new person: a man from Marketing whose physique suggested his primary job duty was looking intimidating. Her personal guard dog.
His eyes found me first—a flat, assessing stare. Then Sasha's gaze locked on. A predator's lock.
"I heard you took a dive on the stairs," she said, her voice a scalpel. "Did you finally find your level? The basement?"
A soft snicker escaped the man beside her—a sharp, mocking sound. The two girls from yesterday, now flanking her other side, echoed it with synchronized, whispering giggles.
The old Terrence would have flushed, stammered, dissolved.
The new one watched the HUD paint analysis across my vision.
> Target: Sasha Haze.
Age: 26
Current Position: Senior Marketing Strategist – TitanForge International
Influence Level: Low
Analysis: Authority is departmental, not absolute. Intimidation is emotional, not structural.
Available Countermeasures:
• Acknowledge with minimal verbal data. Assert non-compliance.
• Ignore. Proceed to objective (Elevator). Maintain operational silence.
The choice was not emotional. It was tactical. Engaging was high-risk, low-reward. Option 2 was clean. Efficient.
I turned from her and pressed the elevator call button.
Silence.
Her shock was a tangible thing in the air. "You're not even going to answer me?"
I said nothing. The elevator arrived with a soft chime. I stepped toward the open doors.
"I don't share elevators with stairwell accidents," she hissed, blocking the threshold with her presence.
The guard dog shifted, amplifying the threat. The old fear tried to climb my throat. I let it sit there, examined it, and then pressed the 'Door Open' button, holding her gaze. A silent, mechanical challenge.
For three seconds, we stood in a standoff of pure social will. Her eyes widened, not with anger, but with confusion. The script was broken.
With a sound of disgust, she stepped back. "Whatever. Enjoy the climb."
The doors slid shut, sealing me in silent, fluorescent ascent.
My heart wasn't racing. It should have been. A part of me knew that—the old Terrence would have been a mess of jitters and shame. But my pulse was steady, powerful. A deep, chemical calm had settled in my veins, a synthetic reward for a correct decision. DES wasn't just editing my body. It was editing my fear, too. Any weakness, any flaw that made me undesirable… had to go.
As if noting my acceptance, the HUD updated with sterile satisfaction.
> Objective Complete: Survive First Social Challenge.
Reward: Daily Income Protocol Unlocked.
Daily Credit: $50.00 (Credited to designated financial archive.)
User Level: 1.
Fifty dollars. A pittance to the Sasha Hazes of the world. To me, it was the first brick of a new foundation. Acquired not through labor, but through compliance with a more ruthless system.
In the polished metal of the elevator door, my reflection was unchanged. But behind the eyes, something had switched.
The spark wasn't hope. It was the cold, blue flame of a circuit completing.
Power.
Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind. The kind that starts with choosing not to play a rigged game, and realizing you can now begin writing the rules.
---
To be continued...