System 707's POV:
I have had enough.
It has been thirty-four minutes and twenty-seven seconds since the soul-thrustpocalypse.
And I, System 707, faithful interdimensional guide, strategic planner, emotional sponge, and unwilling third-wheel voyeur– have snapped.
"UNACCEPTABLE!"
My host, still asleep, wrapped in silky sheets, blissfully unaware of the spiritual trauma I just endured, breathes softly against Kael's– ugh, well-toned, suspiciously sculpted chest.
"Get off him, demon spawn!"
Kael is not moving.
Kael is still holding him like he's made of starlight and fairy dust and NOT a person he just metaphorically turned into a side quest completion trophy.
I hover over the bed, my translucent, system-generated form shimmering with RAGE. My virtual hands are clenched.
Target locked.
"You wanna play rough, Kael? I've played God. I am a system! I will—"
SWING. My ghostly fist passes right through his annoyingly perfect jawline.
...Again.
"Right. Incorporeal. Right."
BUT I DON'T STOP. OH NO.
I go in swinging, kicking, air-punching, flailing like an angry gay poltergeist at a man who just de-virginized my host and my SANITY.
"YOU STAMINA-INFUSED, BROAD-SHOULDERED, NO-DECENCY, HOT-ASS DILF OF A COMMANDER – FIGHT ME!"
I scream.
I weep.
I glitch slightly out of spite.
He just shifts in his sleep and pulls my host closer, murmuring his name like a lullaby.
"I will DELETE YOU."
I lunge again.
Failed again. Almost trip on a pixel.
…..
…
"YOU STOLE HIS INNOCENCE!"
"YOU WROTE FANFICTION ON HIS BODY WITH YOUR HANDS!"
"YOU– mmf– STOP LOOKING SO SMUG WHILE YOU SLEEP!"
Then, he tilts his head.
Just a little.
Eyebrows twitch. Lips part.
For a moment– A SINGLE, DAMNED MOMENT, I swear Kael's gaze flicks in my direction.
"No. No no no– HE CAN'T SEE ME."
...Can he?
I froze. He blinks then turns away.
"...Oh. Okay. Whew."
HE CAN'T SEE ME. Heheh, False alarm.
My systems reboot the pride I momentarily dropped in my panic.
STATUS: HUMILIATED.
MISSION: GHOST-SMACK KAEL – FAILED.
DIGNITY: MISSING. PRESUMED DEAD.
New rule:
If Kael so much as breathes sensually again, I'm short-circuiting the nearest candle for spite. Also, I'm submitting an official complaint to the Universal Narrative Bureau.
"This is harassment. I am being narratively assaulted."
And my Host?
Still sleeping peacefully.
You traitor.
End Log.
System 707, signing off to go scream into the nearest quantum pillow.
(Also preparing the next mission, because someone has to be responsible around here.)