Sync Rate: 11%
I stare at the number, doing the mental math. If self-awareness points increase sync rate, and I just got one from... what, acknowledging my emotions? Then there's a direct correlation between processing reality and syncing with this world.
The system is literally incentivizing me to accept this reality but without sharing the stakes. What happens I never get to 100?
I go back to my list and move that question to "critical information".
I lean back in the chair, rubbing my face.
Two percent for one self-awareness point. That means... what, forty-five points to hit 100%? And what happens then? Do I wake up one day and not remember my apartment? My job? My entire past?
Do I just... become Cassia completely?
The thought should terrify me more than it does.
I stare at the glowing interface, then at my handwritten notes, then back at the interface.
Two versions of reality, both trying to explain the other. One analog, one digital. Both incomplete.
"Well then," I say to the empty room, my voice barely audible. "Let's see which one breaks first."
The system chimes softly—almost sympathetically.
And then the menu fades, as if on standby, leaving me with nothing but ink-stained fingers and the growing certainty that I'm in way over my head.
I pull a new piece of parchment toward me and start another heading.
Immediate Priorities
1. Find out more about the Valtoria Kingdom. Are we talking constitutional, absolute, or 'the king eats first and you starve' before opening my mouth in public.
2. Identify my current location. Where are the Leclairs in the social hierarchy?
3. Figure out what "Affinity: Undefined" means.
4. Avoid "international incidents." (Already sounds like a stretch goal.)
5.Don't die again.
The pile of parchment in front of me is starting to look ridiculous. Like a conspiracy board without the red string, but it helps. The structure makes the chaos feel manageable.
I sit back, quill dangling between my fingers. A stress response. The screen still hovers faintly in the corner of my vision, waiting like an obedient ghost.
"One thing at a time." I whisper
I glance back up at the icons and the screen auto adjusts it's brightness. Nice touch.
Status. Inventory. Skills. Quests. Romance. Settings.
"Let's see what you're hiding under Skills," I say finally, tapping the glowing word.
The blue damask pattern ripples outward again, reshaping itself into a clean grid of symbols—half of them dimmed out, the rest flickering like an old monitor.
❖ SKILLS ❖
AUTO-CLASSIFICATION: Undefined Affinity Detected
ACTIVE SKILLS: None registered
PASSIVE SKILLS:None registered
SYSTEM NOTICE
System Integration Incomplete.
Further data upload pending…
"That's not ominous at all."
I scroll—or whatever the magical equivalent of scrolling is—until a faint section at the bottom catches my eye. The letters fade in slowly, one by one, like they're being typed by an invisible hand.
SYSTEM WARNING
User traits exceed base parameters.
Classification conflict detected.
Attempting to reconcile duplicate identity threads…
"Wait, what?"
The screen glitches, text stuttering.
SYSTEM WARNING
Attempting… Attempting… Attempt—██████
Then it snaps back to normal.
SYSTEM NOTICE
Skill Tree access temporarily restricted until synchronization completes.
Estimated completion time unknown.
I sit back slowly. "So, to recap—my soul's on backorder."
Another line of text slides across the screen, polite as ever.
SYSTEM NOTICE
Terminology error: 'Soul' not applicable.
Current vessel contains hybrid data sets.
"Okay, you know what, that's worse."
I close the Skills menu before it can start throwing any more existential horror at me and jot down a few more notes on the parchment:
Skills: None.
System: Glitching.
Me: Apparently a "hybrid data set." Whatever that means.
Conclusion: Either I'm special, broken, or both.
I tap the quill against the page, thinking.
Special is dangerous in stories like these. Special means target.
If I had to guess, and I do, because there's no one else to ask, I'd say the System didn't just choose me; it imported something it shouldn't have. Something extra.
I glance back up at the icons floating in front of me. The Romance tab pulses faintly, like it's daring me.
"Right," I say flatly. "Because nothing says 'self-diagnostic crisis' like dating options."
Still, curiosity wins. I reach out and tap it.
The interface changes instantly — brighter blues, soft glowing edges, and elegant, looping text that looks suspiciously like the cursive handwriting you'd find in a love letter. A faint shimmer of rose-gold light rolls across the panel.
"You've got to be kidding me…" I say horrified. "It has a mood lighting."
At the top, it reads:
❖ ROMANCE MATRIX ❖
CONNECTION PROGRESS:0%
COMPATIBILITY METRICS:Locked until contact established.
Below that, six mostly empty profile slots hover in neat alignment — ornate frames, each etched with scrolling designs. Only one is faintly illuminated, as if already selected by default.
PROFILE 001
Gabriel Leclair
STATUS: Unlocked
RELATIONSHIP:Brother
COMPATIBILITY:Calculating…
WARNING:Familial tag in conflict with romance parameters.
"WHAT" I say, too loudly.
The System waits a beat before responding.
SYSTEM NOTICE
Conflict acknowledged.
Relationship type adjusted to 'Significant Familial Connection'.
Romance route deactivated.
"Good," I say, still horrified. "I don't know what kind of simulation you think this is, but we are not doing that."
This body still has strong family ties and emotions—and even if I'm not technically related to him, I watched him worry over me like a real brother. Hard pass on every level. Ew.
The other frames remain locked, each one showing faint static and a title card that fades in and out like a heartbeat.
Well that's underwhelming.
PROFILE 002Unknown
STATUS:Locked
RELATIONSHIP:Encounter required
PROFILE 003Unknown
STATUS:Locked
RELATIONSHIP:Encounter required
PROFILE 004Unknown
STATUS:Locked
RELATIONSHIP:Encounter required
PROFILE 005Unknown
STATUS:Locked
RELATIONSHIP:Encounter required
PROFILE 006Unknown
STATUS:Locked
RELATIONSHIP:Encounter required
Underneath the last frame is a faded one — almost invisible — with distorted text that won't stay still.
PROFILE 000 – ██████
Status ErrorRoute Access Denied
Unauthorized Parameter
"Okay," I say slowly. "That's odd."
The faint hum in the air grows louder, like static in my bones.
SYSTEM NOTICE
User curiosity level detected.
Access attempt logged.
"Curiosity level? That's not even—"
The screen flickers, and the error profile vanishes. Just gone.
I sit there staring at the now-innocent grid of glowing frames.
So to recap:
Romance routes: originally seven available.
One locked by error.
One related to my maybe-brother.
Zero chances this ends well.
I rub my temples for the thousandth, muttering, "Please don't let the system ship me with another family member, I'm begging you."
The screen chirps cheerfully.
SYSTEM NOTICEPrayer acknowledged.
Outcome: TBD
"Oh my god." I mentally close the menu in annoyance.
The screen fades out, but a faint afterimage lingers in my vision — that glitched-out profile, half-erased and faded.
I turn back to the parchment on the desk and add one more line under Context Needed:
– Why does the system think romance is mandatory, and what the hell was Profile 000?
Then I underline it. Twice.
I glance at the parchment covered in my handwriting—careful, analytical, desperately trying to make sense of chaos. That's me. Cassie. The woman who survived corporate hell through spreadsheets and spite.
But the calligraphy that came out better than expected? The way Gabriel's name felt familiar? The muscle memory that knew how to navigate this room in the dark?
That's not me.
That's her. Whoever she was before I showed up and hijacked her life.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty room, to the ghost of a girl I'll never meet. "I don't know what happened to you, but... I'm sorry."
I cap the ink bottle, set the quill aside, and push away from the desk.
I've organized as much as I can for now.
The bed looks impossibly comfortable compared to my couch back home. Back in my old life. The one that's already starting to feel like someone else's memory.
I crawl under the covers and close my eyes.
Tomorrow, I'll survive my tutorial quest.
Tomorrow, I'll figure out how to be Cassia without forgetting I'm Cassie.
Tomorrow, I'll start playing this absurd game.
Tonight, I just need to sleep...
My head hits the pillow and I fall asleep without dreaming.