Early morning on the Herta Space Station usually meant a clinical, artificial dawn, but in the master's private quarters, the atmosphere was decidedly more... feline.
The room was an explosion of pastel pinks and soft fabrics, smelling faintly of expensive perfumes and old parchment. Madam Herta—Emanator of Erudition, 83rd member of the Genius Society, and the undisputed sovereign of this orbiting laboratory—lay sprawled across a double bed. She was currently a tangle of white silk nightgown and black cat plushies.
Curled into her side was Hiroshi.
To the rest of the galaxy, Herta was a god-like intellect whose casual inventions shifted the fate of civilizations. To the Interastral Peace Corporation, she was a terrifyingly expensive "ancestor" they had to fund just to stay in her good graces. But to Hiroshi, she was currently a very heavy, very sleepy human space heater.
As the synthetic sunlight hit her face, Herta's eyelashes fluttered. She let out a soft, bored moan and stretched like a kitten before her eyes drifted open.
"Good morning, Madam Herta," Hiroshi said, his voice a practiced blend of reverence and warmth. "You look as radiant as the day you solved the logic of the imaginary tree. Perhaps more so."
He was a young man with soft, messy black hair and the kind of innocent face that tended to make people lower their guard. He was also wearing a black collar—a silent reminder that on this station, he was technically the private property of a woman who viewed most biological life as a rounding error.
When Hiroshi had first drifted onto the station, Herta had spent exactly three hours researching him. Her conclusion? His physical constitution was pathetic, and his IQ was, by her standards, "statistically invisible." He should have been ejected into the vacuum, but Hiroshi had a survival instinct honed by desperation. Through a combination of flawless culinary skills, blatant flattery, and a willingness to be useful, he'd secured an indenture agreement. He was the only person allowed to handle the maintenance of her puppets personally.
In a universe where Lord Ravagers could snuff out stars and Aeons rewrote reality, a "normal" human like Hiroshi was essentially a mayfly. Staying in Herta's shadow wasn't just a job; it was his only chance at seeing tomorrow.
Herta looked at him, her gaze calculating. Over the last few days, this "little thing" had been surprisingly efficient. He was more intuitive than her puppets and significantly softer to lean against. But there was a nagging detail that bothered her perfectionist streak.
"Little thing," she said, her voice cool and airy as he helped her dress. "Do you like it here?"
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," Hiroshi replied instantly. It wasn't entirely a lie. While Herta was arrogant, she wasn't cruel. She provided food, safety, and clothes. Compared to the staff who envied his proximity to the Madam, she was practically a saint.
"Good," Herta said, a small, dangerous smile playing on her lips. "Then get ready. This afternoon, I'm starting the gender reassignment experiments on you."
Hiroshi froze. The silk scarf he was holding slipped from his fingers. "I... beg your pardon?"
"I've decided," she continued casually. "Having a boy around is slightly inconvenient for my aesthetic, and you have such a delicate face anyway. It's a waste. With my tech, I can make the transition seamless. You'll be much cuter."
"Madam Herta, please!" Hiroshi's voice went up an octave. He caught the hem of her skirt, his eyes wide. "I can work harder! I'll clean the Curio gallery by hand! Just... please don't turn me into a girl."
Herta leaned down, hooking a finger under his collar and pulling him close until he could smell the ozone and roses on her skin. Her eyes were like frozen marbles—beautiful, but devoid of warmth.
"It's not about your 'hard work,' Hiroshi. It's about my curiosity. You have an IQ of zero and the constitution of a wet paper towel. Your only value is that you're pleasant to look at and make a decent pillow. What right do you have to refuse?"
She tilted her head, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "Unless, of course, you'd rather see how long you last on the outside?"
A cold shiver raced down Hiroshi's spine. He knew the answer. Without her protection, he was dead before the next warp jump. He swallowed hard, his pride crumbling under the weight of sheer survival.
"I'll... I'll do whatever you want, Madam," he whispered, defeated.
"That's a good boy," Herta said, patting his cheek before letting him go. "Don't pout. You'll be the masterpiece of the station. Take the day off. Enjoy your final hours as a man."
Hiroshi wandered into a deserted maintenance corridor, feeling like a condemned prisoner. He needed to talk to someone, even if that someone was just a voice on a screen. He pulled out his phone and opened a chat with a user named 'Old Soldier BBQ'.
They'd met on a galactic forum months ago. Despite the strange username, the person on the other end was the only "friend" Hiroshi had. They'd even sent him 20,000 Credits once when he was starving, claiming it was just "a few less Oak Cake Rolls."
Hiroshi: Are you there? I'm having a bit of a crisis. ༼ ༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ༽
Old Soldier BBQ: What's wrong? Did something happen on the station?
Hiroshi: I'm... being forced into a medical procedure. I'm going to become a girl. (╥﹏╥)
Old Soldier BBQ: ...What?
Hiroshi quickly typed out the situation. There was a long silence from the other end. On a distant world, a silver-haired girl named Firefly stared at her screen in stunned confusion. She wanted to help, but her own life was a series of battles and a terminal illness. Bringing Hiroshi to her side would be a death sentence for him.
Old Soldier BBQ: I'm so sorry. I... I don't think I can help you with this one.
Hiroshi: It's okay. I just needed to vent. You're the only friend I've got, Uncle.
Old Soldier BBQ: 'Uncle'? I told you, I'm not that old. And why did you trust me back then?
Hiroshi: Because you were kind when no one else was. I'll probably be a girl the next time we talk. Maybe I'll just have to be your 'bed-warmer' to pay you back for those credits.
Old Soldier BBQ: Hahaha, only if you can handle eating Oak Cake Rolls for every meal.
A voice called out from outside Firefly's room: "Firefly, Elio's script is starting. Move out."
Old Soldier BBQ: Emergency. Got to go. Stay safe, Hiroshi.
Hiroshi sighed, putting his phone away. Talking to "Uncle" always made him feel better. He wished he could return the favor—maybe find a cure for whatever illness the mysterious soldier was fighting.
If I were a protagonist in one of those old Earth novels, he thought bitterly, I'd have a 'System' right about now.
[DING! Concept-Level Gacha System successfully bound.]
Hiroshi jumped, nearly hitting his head on a low-hanging pipe. A translucent blue screen flickered into existence before his eyes.
"No way," he whispered. "I actually have one?"
He scrambled to read the interface. It was simple: generate 'Emotion Points' from the people around him, and use them to pull from a gacha pool of Concept-Level Skills. These weren't just power-ups; they were "Conceptual" abilities—powers that ignored the laws of physics and the whims of Aeons.
[Newbie Gift Pack: 1 Free Gacha Pull.]
Hiroshi's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The reversal. He didn't have to be a doll, a servant, or a research subject. He could be someone who actually mattered in this vast, terrifying cosmos.
"Come on," he muttered, his finger hovering over the 'Draw' button. "Give me something that changes the game."
He pressed it. The screen began to spin, colors blurring into a blinding golden light.