The chime faded, but something else took its place—a whisper in the corner of my mind. A hum beneath the stillness. Words, unread, etched into the darkness behind my eyes.
New Job Acquired: Journalist (B-Rank)
Conflict Zone Reporting (Lv. 5) – Increases awareness, adaptability, and survival when covering stories in dangerous areas.
Investigative Instinct (Lv. 4) – Enhances ability to uncover hidden truths, patterns, and leads through sharp intuition and research.
Rapid Note-Taking (Lv. 5) – Allows for accurate and efficient recording of events, quotes, and observations in real time.
Public Perception Management (Lv. 5) – Enhances skill in presenting stories to shape reader opinion and emotional response.
It lingered in front of me like an afterimage. The words burned bright, then dissolved like fog in morning light.
My stomach turned. A sickly numbness crept up my left arm.
I tried again. My fingers barely responded, slow and uncertain, like they were submerged in ice. A cold pressure pulsed down my limb. Not pain, exactly. Worse. It was the memory of pain. My mind recoiling from a trauma it could still taste, even as my body swore I was whole.
The grunt escaped me without meaning to. I shifted, trying to flex the fingers. They twitched. But the arm remained heavy, foreign.
"What's wrong? Did you have a dream?"
Alexis sat upright like a sprung trap. Her glasses hung crooked on her nose, but her eyes were razor-sharp.
"Phantom Perception again. What's wrong this time?"
I grunted. "I can't feel my left arm."
She was already off the bed, rustling through a drawer. The others blinked groggily while Alexis returned with a small mirror.
She positioned the mirror to block my left arm from view entirely, only reflecting my right.
"Follow your reflection," she said. "Move your good arm. Imagine both are moving."
Right arm up. Mirror reflection moved.
In my mind, so did the left.
I felt it. Not the numbness, not the weight, but the real motion. A full stretch. My fingers responded, flexing properly. The heaviness receded like a tide. The ache still lingered, but it was no longer paralyzing.
Camille exhaled. "That's... really weird. What was that?"
Sienna looked worried. "Is this from the tournament? Did you not fully recover?"
Alexis hesitated. Her eyes flicked to me.
I gave her a small nod.
I sat up slowly, the sheet falling from my chest.
"No. It's not from the tournament. It's... the system. Or more specifically, me."
"According to Alexis," I continued, "the system is possibly killing me."
Sienna's breath caught. Camille blinked, disbelieving.
"My cells are moving too fast," I explained. "The more jobs I gain, the more intense the reactions become. Skills, changes, even physical alterations—they're all increasing. The effects are getting worse."
"Like when your nose 'bled' when you got your Boxer job," Alexis added quietly. "I'm assuming you got a new job and something happened to your left arm then."
Camille sat forward. "Is there a cure? A treatment? Anything?"
Alexis shook her head.
"He's the only one with multiple jobs in all of history. There's no precedent. Nothing to build from."
Silence fell like a curtain.
I leaned back against the headboard.
"Don't worry," I said, forcing a smile. "I'm not dying. Yet."
They didn't smile back.
"Let's get breakfast," I muttered.
The air in the kitchen was calm, filled with the scent of brewed tea and warm toast. Sienna had made eggs, Camille poured orange juice, Alexis flicked through her tablet with her glasses finally straightened.
I sat at the table, hands resting on the wood. Both of them.
Functional. But still tingling.
They chatted lightly—about dreams, the news and plans that they wanted to do. It felt normal. A precious illusion I refused to disturb.
Still, my thoughts churned beneath the surface, quiet and relentless, like a current under still water.
Someone had to know more.
Mark, maybe. His system was different—he had to ability to switch through jobs after all. He'd survived things no one else could. Bent the rules, rewritten them. If anyone could relate to what I was going through, it was him.
But I couldn't bring myself to reach out.
Not after our last conversation. Not after he'd looked at me like I was a missing piece in some grand design. Like we weren't just two people—but two kings meant to sit on thrones carved from everything we'd once cared about.
He didn't want answers.
Then there was NovaCore Industries.
Before it vanished, it had been the cutting edge. The first to reverse-engineer fragments of the system, the first to apply pressure and see where it broke. Their trials were classified. Their research—buried, or stolen, or burned. The official story was a scandal, some ethics violation and quiet dissolution.
But no one really believed that.
I'd already asked Anthony to dig. He'd promised results—files, names, maybe even a surviving researcher. But so far, silence. A hole where answers should've been.
The light in the room was soft, golden, warm against my skin. The faint rustle of sheets, the hum of a city waking up outside the window. The ghosts in my body were quiet—for now.
The truth could wait.
For today, being alive was enough.
Sienna left first. Her orange worker's jacket swayed behind her as she kissed my cheek and whispered, "Be safe."
Alexis followed, muttering something about neural response testing.
She leaned against the counter, sipping tea, watching me with those sharp, hazel eyes.
"So," she said, smiling, "what's the plan, Rey?"
I stood, stretching slowly, testing the left arm one last time.
"I'll join you today," I said.
"You're not going to flake on me halfway through a fitting?"
"Not unless I spontaneously combust."
"Tempting fate, are we?"
She tossed me a spare blazer, one of the more flamboyant ones she'd designed. Gold embroidery, ridiculous collar. I slipped it on anyway.
"Come on then," she said, already walking toward the door. "You can carry my bags."
"What happened to being the muse?"
"You're evolving," she called back with a grin. "Into an assistant."
And for a few steps, I forgot the system.
Forgot the phantom pain.
Forgot the way death had almost kissed me.
Because sometimes, being alive was enough.
Even when it shouldn't be.