The summer heat was a beast, a relentless furnace that turned the university campus into a shimmering haze.
I trudged across the quad, my shirt clinging to my back like a second skin, soaked through with sweat. Every step felt like wading through molasses, the air thick and heavy, pressing against my lungs.
I muttered to myself, "Noah, why'd you pick a school in the middle of a damn desert?"
The sun didn't care about my complaints, blazing down without mercy. I squinted up at it, half-expecting it to wink back, mocking me.
I ducked into the library, hoping for some relief, but the air conditioning was barely keeping up. My sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as I made my way to a corner table, my backpack heavy with textbooks I could barely afford.
"Huuu just bare it...," I whispered under my breath, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.
The other students around me looked just as miserable, heads buried in laptops or books, the collective misery almost palpable. I envied the ones who could afford iced coffee from the campus café, their cups sweating as much as I was.
Sitting down, I pulled out my notebook, the pages already curling from the humidity. I had a paper due in two days, and the thought of it made my stomach twist.
"You've got this," I told myself, though I wasn't sure I believed it.
The heat was frying my brain, making every sentence I tried to write feel like a slog. I glanced out the window, watching heat waves ripple off the pavement. It was the kind of summer that made you question every life choice that led you here.
I thought about home—if you could call it that. The orphanage I'd grown up in wasn't exactly a place of warm memories, but at least it had fans that worked. Now, here I was, a senior at 22, still scraping by, still fighting to prove I belonged.
"One more year, Noah," I muttered, tapping my pen against the table. "One more year, and you're free."
But freedom felt like a distant dream when the heat was cooking me alive and my bank account was a constant reminder of how close I was to falling apart.
The worst part? I couldn't even afford to complain properly. My part-time jobs barely covered tuition, and the dining hall food was a luxury I rationed. I caught my reflection in the library window—sweaty, tired, with bags under my eyes that could carry groceries.
"You look like hell, man," I said to myself, forcing a grim smile. But I couldn't stop. Not now. Not when I was so close to graduating.
As a graduating student, I was working harder than ever, juggling more jobs than I could count on one hand. Mornings started at the campus coffee shop, where I slung lattes for professors and students who tipped like they were allergic to generosity.
"Keep the change, Noah," one guy said, handing me a quarter-Credit. I pocketed it with a nod, muttering, "Big spender," as he walked away.
By noon, I'd be at the library, shelving books for minimum wage, dodging questions about my major from nosy undergrads.
Afternoons were for tutoring, which paid better but drained me dry. Trying to explain calculus to freshmen who'd rather be anywhere else was like teaching a cat to fetch.
"Come on, Noah, you were them once," I'd tell myself, but it didn't make it easier.
The kids were smart enough, but half of them didn't care, and the other half thought I was some kind of academic wizard. If only they knew I was barely holding it together.
Nights were the worst—delivering food on a rickety bike that creaked with every pedal. The city streets were still hot even after sunset, and I'd weave through traffic, dodging cars and praying the tips would be worth it.
One night, a guy handed me a crumpled five-Credit chip and said,
"You're a lifesaver." I laughed to myself, "Yeah, saving lives one pizza at a time."
The Credits went straight to rent or groceries, never enough to build a cushion.
Being an orphan meant no safety net, no family to call when things got rough. Tuition was a mountain I climbed alone, and every late bill was a reminder of how precarious my life was.
I'd lie awake in my dorm, calculating how many hours I needed to work to cover next month's expenses.
"Just one more semester," I'd whisper into the dark, hoping it wasn't a lie.
But the numbers never added up, and the weight of it all pressed harder than the summer heat.The only thing keeping me going was the finish line.
Graduation was my ticket out, my chance to build something better. But the grind was relentless, and I was running on fumes. I'd catch myself staring at my bank account on my phone, the balance mocking me.
"You're tougher than this, Noah," I'd say, clenching my jaw. Tough or not, I was one bad week away from losing everything.
That night, I was sprawled across my bed in the dorm, my laptop balanced on my chest as I finished an assignment for my econ class. My neck ached from hunching over for hours, so I tilted my head back to stretch, letting out a groan.
That's when I saw it—a glowing rectangle floating above me, like a hologram from some sci-fi flick. I blinked hard, rubbing my eyes with my fists.
"Okay, Noah, you're losing it," I muttered, sitting up.
But the thing didn't vanish. It hovered, crisp and clear, with text scrolling across it like a video game interface.
I pinched my arm, hard enough to wince, and even slapped my face lightly. "Wake up, idiot," I said, my voice shaky.
But the screen stayed put, unblinking, like it was waiting for me to catch up. My heart raced as I scrambled to the edge of my bed, staring at it. Was I hallucinating? Sleep deprivation, maybe? I hadn't slept more than four hours a night all week.
"This isn't real," I told myself, waving my hand through the air. My fingers passed right through it, but the screen didn't flicker.
I stood up, pacing the tiny dorm room, my eyes locked on the floating window. It was absurd, impossible, but there it was, glowing softly in the dim light.
"What the hell is this?"
I said aloud, my voice louder than I meant. I glanced at the door, half-expecting one of my dorm mates to barge in and ask why I was talking to myself. But the room was quiet, and the screen just hung there, patient, like it knew I'd come around.
The text on the screen shifted, and I froze as words formed:
⟪Welcome to the Show-Off System.⟫
I read it twice, my mouth dry.
"Show-Off System?" I said, half-laughing, half-panicking. "What kind of scam is this?"
The screen responded, as if it could hear me:
⟪By completing missions to display wealth, you will earn rewards in Credits and assets. All will be accessible via your personal account.⟫
I stared, my brain struggling to process it. A system that paid me to flex, in Credits? It sounded like a prank, but the glowing interface felt too real.
I leaned closer, squinting at the details. The system outlined its rules: complete tasks, show off wealth—whatever that meant—and get paid in Credits, property, or even stocks. The rewards listed were staggering—thousands of CRD, real estate, investments.
"This has to be a trick," I muttered, but my curiosity was winning.
I'd grown up with nothing, so the idea of easy Credits was a siren call, even if it screamed scam. The screen pulsed, almost encouragingly:
⟪Accept the system to begin.⟫
I felt a pull, like it was daring me to take a chance.
The system displayed a new prompt:
⟪To activate, bind with the Show-Off System. Accept? Y/N.⟫
I laughed nervously.
"Bind? What am I, a wizard signing a contract with a demon?" I said, pacing again.
The screen didn't waver, waiting for my answer. I thought about my life—bills piling up, my bike on its last legs, the constant grind. What did I have to lose?
"This is insane, Noah," I told myself, my finger hovering over the invisible Y, trembling.
I sat back on my bed, staring at the screen.
"Okay, let's say you're real," I said, my voice low. "How do I bind to you? What's the catch?"
The system responded instantly:
⟪Binding requires verbal agreement. No catch. Complete missions, earn Credits and assets. Rewards will be deposited directly to your account, accessible for all your needs.⟫
I snorted. "No catch? Yeah, right."
But my bank account flashed in my mind—47.32 CRD. Rent was due in a week, 500 CRD I didn't have. I was drowning, and this was a lifeline, even if it was a crazy one.
"Alright, fine," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm in. I bind to you, Show-Off System, or whatever you are."
The screen flashed green, and a chime rang in my ears:
⟪Binding complete. Welcome, Noah Theylenor. Your first mission will arrive tomorrow. Expect your first reward upon completion.⟫
I exhaled, my heart pounding. "What did I just do?"
I muttered, half-expecting to wake up. But the screen vanished, leaving me in the dark, my mind racing.
I was an orphan, a college student scraping by on dreams and desperation. Agreeing to some mysterious system felt reckless, but what choice did I have?
I'd been poor my whole life, and the promise of Credits—real Credits, enough to pay my bills and more—was too much to ignore.
"You're either a genius or an idiot, Noah,"
I said, lying back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The system was silent now, but I could still feel its presence, like a weight in the air.
Just as I was starting to process it all, the door creaked open. Jake, one of my three dorm mates, stumbled in, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
"...!"
"Yo, Noah, you still up?" he called, tossing his keys onto his desk.
I sat up, forcing a smile, my heart still racing from the system's visit. Whatever I'd just signed up for, my life was about to get a lot weirder.