A voice drifted from the corridor, as fragile as spun glass and twice as hesitant.
"Sister? Are you there?" There was a pause, a heavy breath of uncertainty. "Don't worry—I won't show my face. Just... come down. Your meal is waiting."
Emii blinked at the door. Don't show his face? What kind of Victorian-era melodrama was this? She could almost see the subtitles: [Dramatic Pining Intensifies].
"Wait! Brother," she called out, her voice cracking the heavy silence of the room. "You don't have to hide in the shadows like a phantom. Let's eat together. I'm starving."
A rustle of silk followed, then a flustered, high-pitched reply. "Ah—sure. Of course, Sister." He sounded like a man trying to maintain his dignity while tripping over a rug. "Mrs. Lynn! Prepare the table. All of my sister's favorites. She... she wishes to dine with me today."
Emii suppressed a smirk. Classic. In the novel, the brother was a doormat for his sister's whims; in person, he sounded like a kicked puppy who had just been offered a treat.
She smoothed her skirts, her fingers catching on the intricate embroidery. Food first, she decided. Save the tragic backstories and the impending deathbeds for dessert. I have priorities.
[ Host, a gentle reminder: Do not deviate from the original character's behavioral matrix. Suspicion is a death sentence in this world. And do not forget your mission. ]
The System's voice was as polite as a librarian and as cold as a scalpel. Emii snapped her fingers with the practiced boredom of a CEO.
"I've got it. Don't go full rebel, don't rewrite the personality, don't get stabbed by plot armor. But listen—I will not negotiate a good meal for a quest. Two hundred million dollars is a lot of money, but a hungry Emii is a dangerous Emii."
The System hummed—a sound of digital compliance. [ With a flick of your fingers, your mission will be done. ]
The promise glittered in her mind. Cash solved ninety percent of problems, after all, including existential crises and villainous plot twists.
A punctual knock followed. "Miss Emii?" Mrs. Lynn's tone was syrupy with a deference that felt a little too thick to be genuine. "The young master requests the honor of your presence."
Emii rose, a long, elegant sigh escaping her. "Alright. Bring on the feast. But if anyone starts crying dramatically over a brother who clearly spends all day on a horse, I'm confiscating the tissues."