"Not trying to kill me... but to save me?"
"Can’t I just have one dream where I’m the cool main character? What the hell is this nonsense..."
The dream shattered like broken glass, and Orson mumbled to himself as he drifted back into sleep.
By the time he woke the next morning, he was exhausted yet strangely satisfied.
"Get up. It’s almost ten. I’m going shopping with Wedge later," Riley said, tugging his ear while resting against the pillow, her face glowing with contentment.
"Five more minutes... damn, I think I pulled my back."
Orson groaned, dark circles under his eyes, pulling the blanket over his face to block the sunlight.
"I told you not to keep trying those weird moves. You’re actually a bit of a pervert." Riley frowned at him.
Orson yawned and lazily draped a hand over her thigh. "Not my fault. You were way too wild last night. I had to keep up, or you’d say I was boring."
Feeling his hand start to wander again, she smacked it away, cheeks warm. "Breakfast is in the fridge. Heat it yourself."
His little flame of mischief snuffed out, Orson finally rolled out of bed.
After ten minutes of stretching and muttering about his sore waist, he sat up.
"What a strange dream."
He frowned. Usually dreams faded fast, but last night’s stayed sharp in his mind. He could still see the little girl’s face clearly.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony came into view, packed with Riley’s flowers and plants. Gardening had become her hobby after retiring, when she wasn’t helping train rookies at SSR as a part-owner.
"One million dollars for a foxtail weed... marketing genius."
He chuckled to himself—then froze.
"Huh? Jasmine doesn’t grow like that..."
From a wilted pot of jasmine sprouted a strange plant.
He wasn’t exactly a plant guy, but after living with Riley, he’d picked up the basics. Normally, a pot only held one plant, otherwise they’d compete for nutrients. Riley had been growing plants for years—she wouldn’t make that kind of rookie mistake.
"Wait... why does this look familiar?"
He leaned closer. A wild-looking stalk with a faint purple bud poking out the end.
Slipping on slippers, Orson stepped onto the balcony.
"...No way. Two hundred bucks and it actually showed up?"
It was the exact same foxtail grass the girl had sold him in the dream.
Orson laughed. IQ of 180, mind sharp as ever—he wasn’t about to believe dreams spilled into reality. Just a coincidence, he told himself.
Still, he carefully replanted it in a discarded cup full of soil, moving it to a sunny corner. If he was going to pay two hundred bucks for a weed, he wanted to see if it bloomed into anything special.
After breakfast, with nothing urgent to do, Orson flipped on the holo-TV. Every channel blasted ads for Infinite Dimensions.
"Really blowing up, huh? Too bad I’m too old for this."
He sighed. Years of pro play had left him with more than trophies—he had tendonitis so bad he needed annual injections just to manage pain.
VR games might be immersive, but pros still trained reflexes and focus beyond normal levels, squeezing milliseconds from their reactions. His hands were shot, his focus waning. Sometimes in-game he couldn’t even find himself in a team fight.
Besides, there were fifty million dollars sitting untouched in his accounts. More money held no appeal. The studio kept him busy enough.
He had glory, wealth, fans. What mattered now was the simple life—Riley, maybe kids, a warm home. For an orphan, that was worth more than anything.
After a quick call to his studio staff, Orson grabbed his fishing gear. Another glorious day as a fisherman. And another day chasing that elusive first catch after nine straight days of failure.
He drove to a quiet stream on the outskirts of town.
"Orson! Over here! I’ve prepped the spot, you’re guaranteed to land one today!"
A plump man waved him down. Bradley—father of four, lifelong fan, and Orson’s fishing mentor.
Mentor in name, at least. Together, they were infamous in the fishing community as the "Twin Jinxes." Any pond they fished went barren within hours.
"Got a buddy to join us today," Bradley said, grinning. "This guy’s a real pro. I saw him land a twenty-pounder last week!"
"Twenty pounds? Damn!" Orson’s eyes lit up. Bradley even handed him the guy’s contact. Apparently, he’d be driving over soon.
Eager for guidance from a master, Orson added him as a friend.
The username? "Fish and Women Bow to Me."
When Orson sent a request, the guy replied: "No relationship counseling today. Busy fishing."
"...Right. Yes, sir!"
Soon enough, the "master" arrived, striding down the overgrown path.
Slim, tanned, wearing dark sunglasses. He looked cool, even handsome—but his sneaky, shuffling steps gave him a shady vibe. Somehow, it worked for him.
"Oi, fatso. Pay up before I teach you." The man jerked his chin at Bradley.
"No problem! As long as you teach my buddy too, I’ll double the fee."
"Wait, we have to pay?" Orson muttered.
The man’s ears twitched. He shot Orson a glare. "Eight-time Black Pit Champion. Check the official rankings."
"...Yes, sir." Orson shrank back, awed by the aura.
With money exchanged, the self-proclaimed champ began instructing them. From choosing the spot to casting technique, he explained everything in rapid-fire jargon.
Orson nodded like a bobblehead, not understanding half of it but impressed anyway.
But when he tried for himself... his mind went blank. After an hour of scolding and corrections, he was ready to give up.
"You’re hopeless! My god, how are you this dumb?"
"Fine! You do it then!" Orson snapped back.
"Gladly. Watch and learn what Madman can do!"
The champ pulled out his own gear, holding the rod in one hand, line coiled stylishly in the other. He raised his chin like he was mocking the fish.
"Ever heard of fly-fishing?"
Bradley gaped. Orson was ready to kneel in worship.
With a dramatic swing, the line arced through the air in a perfect circle.
"Holy crap, that’s badass!" Orson cried.
Then Madman’s foot slipped.
The hook veered off course—straight into Bradley’s mouth.
Bradley’s muffled scream came out garbled, blood dripping down his chin. Madman panicked, fumbling to remove the hook.
Within minutes, Bradley’s mouth was a bloody mess.
The trio rushed him to the hospital.
After treatment, Bradley finally survived his "catch of the day"—a giant hook lodged in his lip.
Nurses whispered and laughed at them in the hallway.
Three grown men sat slumped on the benches, faces long. They glanced at each other... and then all burst into helpless laughter.