The Five Million Dollar Scream.
"Oh, no," Aryan muttered, his gaze transfixed on the empty space before him. "How did I ever entangle myself in this mess?"
A blue translucent screen hovered before his eyes, suspended in mid-air like a ghostly apparition. Along with the text, a voice that sounded like a synthetic harmony of male and female spoke inside his skull.
[Objective: Expose the Anchor Lie.
Reward: Five million dollars.
Failure Penalty: Death by Demon Consumption.]
"Death by what?" Aryan whispered, his throat suddenly parched.
The screen lingered, refusing to disappear.
Thirteen Minutes Earlier.
The Grand Hyatt ballroom glittered with wealth beyond Aryan's comprehension.
Below the crystal chandeliers, the city's elite circulated like predators in designer suits, their laughter tinkling as brightly as their jewelry.
Aryan tightened his grip on the silver serving tray, his knuckles white.
"Keep the tray level, boy," the floor manager hissed into his earpiece. "And smile."
Aryan nodded, forcing the corners of his mouth up as he navigated the sea of expensive perfume.
A wave of loathing washed over him—not just for the demeaning job, but for the entitled guests who viewed him as furniture.
Three dollars. That was his current bank balance.
At home, his mother's medical bills lay on the kitchen table like death warrants. The landlord had slipped the final eviction notice under the door this morning.
Tonight, Aryan wasn't just working for tips; he was fighting for survival. He needed to be a shadow—present enough to refill glasses, invisible enough to avoid the scorn of the powerful.
DING.
A sudden, excruciating pain crashed through Aryan's skull like a sledgehammer. He winced, nearly dropping the tray.
This wasn't a migraine. It was a digital chime resonating directly within his cerebral cortex.
[System Integration... Complete.]
[Welcome, User Aryan.
Scan Initiated.]
Aryan stumbled, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the flutes.
"What's happening to me?" he whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Before he could process the intrusion, luminous blue text began floating above the guests' heads. He looked at a famous actress by the buffet table.
[Subject: Meera J.
Hidden Truth: Currently cheating on husband with the Producer standing to her left.]
The revelation hovered there, undeniable and stark.
Aryan felt a chill. The invisible barrier between truth and deception had shattered. Was this a hallucination? Stress-induced psychosis? He was twenty-one. Nobody awakened a System at twenty-one.
He was destined to remain invisible.
His panic was cut short when the double doors swung open. The room fell into a reverent silence.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer boomed. "Please welcome the Savior of the Slums. The Philanthropist of the Year... Mister. Anay!
Thunderous applause erupted. Through the crowd strode a distinguished man in a charcoal suit. His face radiated warmth, and his smile—that disarming, trustworthy smile—could charm a cobra.
But as Aryan looked at him, the blue text turned a violent, dripping crimson.
[WARNING! DEMON DETECTED.
Target: Anay.
Species: Gluttony Demon Rank three.
Mask Integrity: 100%.
Anchor's Lie: "I built five orphanages to save children.]
Real Truth: He built them to harvest the children.]
Aryan's blood turned to ice. The tray in his hands trembled like a leaf in a storm.
Twenty feet away, leaning against a marble pillar, Amara adjusted the strap of her crimson evening gown. The fabric was tight, but it perfectly concealed the obsidian daggers strapped to her thighs.
She sipped her water, her eyes scanning the room. Center. Flank. Exits.
"Any readings, Control?" she murmured, barely moving her lips.
"Negative, Captain Amara," a voice crackled in her hidden earpiece. "Scanners are clean. But thermal variance suggests a Rank three is in the building. Be careful. You strike a civilian, and you're done."
Amara gritted her teeth behind her practiced smile. Demons had evolved. They wore "Human Skins" that fooled even the best tech. Unless she caught one feeding, her hands were tied.
Her gaze landed on Anay. He fit the profile. Rapid rise to wealth.
Unexplained disappearances in his district. But she needed proof. If she cut him and he bled red, she would be in prison by midnight.
She continued her sweep until her eyes stopped on a waiter near the entrance.
Unlike the other staff, who kept their heads down, this boy was staring directly at Anay with undisguised horror.
Aryan felt his lungs constrict.
[Mission Issued: Expose the Anchor Lie.]
[Reward: Five million dollars.]
Five million. The number blazed in his mind. It was surgery. It was rent. It was a life.
But he is a rank three Demon, Aryan thought, terror gripping his chest. I'm just a waiter. If I speak, security will crush me.
"And so," Anay began, his voice booming over the microphone, "when I look into the eyes of those hungry children, I don't see strangers. I see family."
The crowd released a collective "Awww."
[Crowd Belief: 98%]
"Hint: The tax records are in his inner jacket pocket. The date of the 'Orphanage Opening' aligns with the 'Old City Fire'."
Is he insane? Aryan wondered. Why carry the evidence on him?
["He believes himself untouchable," a voice echoed in his head. It wasn't the robotic System voice. It was sarcastic. "Demons thrive on arrogance. They keep their trophies close."]
Aryan jumped. "Who is that?"
["Call me Sam," the voice replied dryly. "Now focus. Choose, kid. Remain a coward and let your mother die, or embrace the madness."]
"Is the money real?" Aryan asked desperately.
"The money is the most real thing here," Sam promised.
Anay raised his glass, the light catching the crystal. "To the children!" he proclaimed.
Aryan looked at the exit. Then he looked at Anay's smiling face. The image of his mother's medical bills flashed in his mind.
He took a breath.
"TO THE DEAD ONES?" Aryan bellowed.
The sound shattered the polite atmosphere like a gunshot. The applause died instantly. Three hundred faces turned to look at the trembling waiter clutching a champagne tray.
Amara straightened up from the pillar, her hand drifting toward the slit in her dress. What is this fool doing?
"Excuse me?" Anay chuckled, looking at Aryan with manufactured pity. "I believe the staff has had too much to drink."
"You never built those orphanages!" Aryan screamed, stepping forward. The blue text guided his words.
"You constructed larders! Check his jacket pocket! The tax dates align with the Old City Fire! He started the fire to create the orphans!"
The silence was suffocating.
[Crowd Belief: 85%... Dropping.]
Anay's smile remained fixed, but Aryan saw it—a momentary glitch. For a microsecond, Anay's eyes turned into bottomless pools of obsidian.
"Security," Anay said. His voice dropped an octave, sounding like grinding stones. "Remove this trash."
Two massive guards advanced toward Aryan.
Amara tapped her earpiece. She had seen the glitch. "Control, maintain positions. Target confirmed as Anay."
Aryan stumbled back as a guard reached for him. "Show them the papers! It's all there!"
Inside his head, Sam's laughter resonated like thunder.
[Strike One: Initiated.]