The weak morning light filtering into the bathroom was what woke him.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Neville awoke without an ache in his tail bones. He shifted, feeling the sparkling, healthy scales.
A night spent submerged had worked wonders; he felt whole again. With a powerful flick of his tail, he pulled himself out of the tub, landing silently on the bathmat.
The process of transitioning back to his human form was just as awkward as ever, a strange pulling and shifting of bone and muscle that left him feeling like an unset jelly.
He looked into the nearby mirror, and his long silver hair was gone, together with his tail.
I really like that hair.
Neville shrugged as he took a step. His newly formed legs trembled, far more uncooperative than before. The penalty for overexerting his body was a debt that was slow to repay.
He quickly dressed in his spare, crisply ironed clothes and gathered his meager belongings into a worn satchel.
The orphanage was exactly as he left it: a significantly older building compared to the ones he saw on the way. It was filled with the echoes of chaos, the faint sound of old robots running around, and an abundance of love.
The moment he stepped through the front gate, a hush fell over the area, followed by an explosion of sound as a dozen small bodies scrambled toward him.
"Neville! You're back!" a little girl with pigtails cried, latching onto his leg.
"Is it true that you work at Maxwell Corporation now?" a lanky teenager asked, trying to look cool but failing to hide the awe in his voice.
A chorus of questions erupted as they crowded around him, tugging at his sleeves and looking up with wide, curious eyes.
"Can you show us your employee ID? Does it really have a hologram?!"
"Are the new security robots as cool as they look on the news?"
"Did you get to ride in one of the anti-grav lifts?!"
"What does the inside of the big tower look like?"
Then came the most important question, delivered by a small boy with enormous brown eyes. "Did you bring any of the new flavored nutrient solutions?"
Amidst the joyful chaos, Neville felt a smile spread across his face, genuine and unguarded.
A wave of warmth spread through Neville's chest, chasing away the last of the previous night's anxieties. He laughed, a genuine, easy sound, and ruffled the hair of the nearest kid.
"Whoa there, slow down! One question at a time," he chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
His gaze swept over their eager faces before he broke into a wide grin. "But to answer the most important one—yes. As of yesterday, I am an official employee of the one and only Maxwell Corporation!"
A collective, audible gasp rippled through the children.
A little girl's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes as round as saucers.
To them, Neville might as well have just announced he had been crowned king of the world.
"Maxwell is… amazing," he told his captive audience, letting them guide him inside and sit cross-legged on the carpet.
Instantly, they piled around him like puppies, resting their chins on his knees and looking up at him expectantly.
"They don't care where you come from. If you're an orphan, if you're a noble, it doesn't matter. The only thing they care about is how hard you work and how well you do your job."
"Really?" asked a small boy with a scraped knee, his voice barely a whisper. "Even… even someone from here can work there?"
"I'm the proof, aren't I?" Neville's voice was soft as he ruffled the boy's hair. "And you know what? Mr. Maxwell himself told me they're always looking for talented people. It doesn't matter if you live here or in a palace."
It was a slight exaggeration, of course. He didn't know if Grayson had said those exact words. But he had hired him, didn't he? He had looked past the cheap clothes and the lack of a family name, and gave him a chance.
For these kids, Neville decided, that was the only part of the truth that mattered.
While the younger children buzzed with dreams of holograms and anti-gravity, the older ones—the teenagers who would be graduating and moving out into the world soon—watched from the edges of the group.
They listened with a quiet, desperate focus. These were the ones who lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling and worrying about their futures. They were the ones who knew the grim future for orphans in the workforce by heart.
"You really think someone like us could do it?"
The question came from Maria. Seventeen, realistic, and with a fiercely protective attitude toward the younger kids.
She tried to sound casual, as if challenging him. But Neville heard the tiny, fragile tremor of hope beneath her layer of sadness.
He met her gaze directly.
"I know you could," he said, his voice firm and clear, meant for her and all the others who felt the same doubt. "Maria, you're already doing the accounting and budgeting for this entire place better than most first-year professionals. Maxwell Corporation would be lucky to have you."
A faint blush rose on her cheeks. "But I don't have any formal training... no proper degree."
"Neither did I," Neville countered gently. "They also have training programs. Probationary periods where they teach you everything you need to know. You just have to be eager to learn and willing to work."
A different kind of chatter spread through the room then—not the loud, excited shouts of the little ones, but a wave of hushed, incredulous whispers among the teens.
The mask of indifference began to fall away, replaced by yearning expressions for the future. Dreams that had seemed like foolish fantasies just moments before suddenly felt tangible, within reach.
If Neville could do it—clumsy, awkward Neville, who they all remembered once trying to "recreate the ocean" and flooded the kitchen with an entire month's supply of salt—then maybe, just maybe, they could, too.
As the excited chatter of the children faded into the background, with many running off to their study corners with a newfound fire in their eyes, Director Miller approached. She had a rare, gentle smile that smoothed the lines around her eyes.
"You've given them hope, Neville," she said in a soft voice with a stern face in the now-quiet room. "In this place, that's worth more than any donation."
"It's real hope, Director," Neville insisted, his tone earnest. "Maxwell Corporation is really like that. They hire based on merit. I've seen it."
"I know," she said, and her smile widened.
"That's what makes it so valuable." She placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Staying for dinner?"
A part of him, the boy who was briefly sheltered within these walls, desperately wanted to say yes.
This was his new home.
These people were his family.
The thought of sharing a simple meal here felt like the most comforting thing in the world. But another part of him knew it was impossible to stay.
A cold checklist of survival needs scrolled through his mind: buy a month's supply of sea salt, find a portable tub in case the dorm didn't have one, budget for the bath bombs that offered the most hydration.
He couldn't risk another close call like before. He couldn't stay the night in this place.
"I can't," he said, the words tasting like regret. "I—I still have some packing to do. And work starts early tomorrow."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He just omitted the part where 'packing' involved measuring out salt into watertight containers.
Director Miller didn't push it, though a knowing look in her eyes suggested she understood he was carrying burdens he wasn't yet ready to share.
"Well, you know your way here if you need help."
"I know," Neville said, the words full of a gratitude he couldn't fully express. "Thank you."
Packing didn't take long. Orphans don't have many things. A few changes of clothes, the previous owner's old quantum tablet, and a small holo-photo of the entire orphanage, smiling for the camera last month.
His whole life fit into one worn suitcase.
Well, his second human life.
The other half of his luggage was three heavy bags of industrial-grade sea salt.
[Host, your luggage is seventy percent sodium chloride. This is not a sustainable long-term strategy,] Shelly chimed in, her digital voice laced with concern as she watched him grunt, trying to wedge the last bag in. [You should really focus on increasing Mr. Maxwell's favorability so you don't need to hoard salt stash everywhere you go. (￣^￣)]
"Wow. Why didn't I think of that?" Neville's voice dripped with sarcasm as he finally wrestled the latch shut.
[You're thinking about it the wrong way, Host! ( `ε´ )] Shelly explained, zipping excitedly in the air.
"And what, exactly, is the right way?" Neville asked, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.
[You should be collecting romance novels, not bags of salt! (っ˘ڡ˘ς)] Shelly declared, her shell emitting a strange, enthusiastic pink glow.
Neville froze, then slowly turned to stare at her. "I'm trying to make a good impression so I can keep my job, Shelly. Not get into my boss's bed."
[But isn't that a much more efficient option?] she asked, genuinely confused. [I have analyzed 1,342 popular romance narratives! The protagonist gets drunk, has a miraculous one-night stand with the male lead, and then—Boom! Pregnancy subplot or emotional entanglement. You don't even have to chase him; he will chase you! (๑≧♡≦)]
With a sigh of pure exasperation, Neville grabbed the floating pink shell, his fingers wrapping around its smooth surface.
[Eep! Host! I-I get it! I'm sorry! Please spare me! (⨱ᗝ⨱)] She pleaded, vibrating in his grip.
"The problem, Shelly," he said, his voice low and grim, "is that I'm not the main character, remember? What does my system profile say? Host's body: Cannon Fodder."
A humorless smile touched his lips. "If I tried that, one night of 'sacrificed purity', it wouldn't equate to a whirlwind romance. It would equate to a lifetime in a dungeon, prison cell, or jail time—Or worse, instant death for attempting to trap Grayson."
Then, he let her go.
Shelly tumbled through the air before righting herself and pouting.
"Not to mention," Neville continued, "Grayson looks like someone who has plenty of experience in that department. I have zero. Nada. He would know exactly what I was up to before I even ordered a drink. Alarms would blare, security would descend, and I'd be a fish on a platter."
[How can you be so sure of that? (๑•́₃•̀๑)] Shelly grumbled.
Neville gave her a look that plainly said, Are you serious?
"Look at the man's face, Shelly." He said as he also recalled Grayon's face. "He's way too handsome for his own good. That's practically a certification of experience."
Shelly's AI brain processed this, recalling Grayson's sharp jawline and intense eyes. She wobbled in the air and nodded in agreement.
Neville squatted to heave the ridiculously heavy suitcase off the floor. "If you don't have any more terrible, life-threatening advice, let's go."