The Rain tapped against the cracked window like it had something urgent to say.
Rhea Morgan lay on a secondhand mattress, surrounded by the smell of mildew, cheap noodles, and shame. The overhead light flickered like it was considering giving up too.
Her hoodie was three days past the laundry deadline. Her phone was on 9% and refusing to charge unless held at a 42° angle. And her bank app, which she kept refreshing out of masochism, confirmed what she already knew:
Balance: -$30.14
(Apparently, even her overdraft fees were petty.)
The real kicker? It was her birthday. Twenty-two years old. And this was what rock bottom looked like—without the drama, without the flames. Just rain and rot and regret.
She stared at the ceiling, doing the math she'd done every hour for the past week. If she skipped breakfast, lunch, and dinner until Friday, maybe she could cover rent with the mystery coins in her coat pocket.
Maybe.
If the landlord didn't show up first and throw her out like expired tofu.
Her stomach growled. She ignored it.
Her phone buzzed once.
She didn't look.
Buzzed again.
Still ignored it.
Third buzz.
"Ugh," she muttered, grabbing the screen and expecting the worst: a spam text from a scammer pretending to be a sugar mama, or her bank offering her the exciting opportunity to "invest in her future" with an 18% APR loan.
Instead… her screen glitched.
Like, hard.
The whole thing flickered, pulsed, then froze. Then it went white—blinding white that lit up her entire shoebox apartment.
"What the actual fu—"
Before she could finish cursing, the white faded to black, and bold white text appeared, sharp and eerily smooth:
[System Initializing…]
[Subject Found: RHEA MORGAN]
[Starting Balance: $0.00]
[Objective: $100,000,000,000,000.00]
[Status: 0/18 Bonds Activated]
Rhea blinked.
Then rubbed her eyes.
Still there.
"…is this a joke?"
[System Online.]
[Welcome, Rhea.]
[Your journey to ultimate wealth has begun.]
[Method: Emotional and Physical Bonding with High-Value Targets.]
[All activities consensual. All rewards taxable.]
"Taxable? Seriously?"
The screen buzzed again, then:
[Incoming Call: SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR]
Okay. Now she knew she was hallucinating. Probably a stress-induced tech fever dream. She answered anyway, because what was sanity if not a luxury she could no longer afford?
"Hello?"
A voice responded. Feminine. Velvet-smooth. Definitely smug.
"Happy birthday, Rhea. Congrats on hitting rock bottom. Few people do it with such flair."
"…Thanks?"
"We've been watching your downfall. It was impressive. Honestly, you might be our fastest collapse on record."
"Who the hell is 'we'?"
"The System. The sexy, emotionally intelligent, all-knowing opportunity generator you didn't ask for—but desperately need."
"So… a gay capitalist AI?"
"Exactly. Welcome to your new existence."
Rhea sat up, hoodie sliding down one shoulder. "You're not real. This is a breakdown. I ate half a Pop-Tart yesterday and passed out in a pile of socks. My brain's just doing acid on its own."
"Or maybe you're the perfect candidate. Emotionally numb. Cynical. Prone to self-sabotage. You're exactly what this city needs—a desperate queer with nothing left to lose."
"Wow. Flattered."
"Here's how it works. You must form authentic, emotionally charged—and yes, occasionally spicy—bonds with eighteen high-value individuals. Women only. All older. All obscenely successful."
"Oh good, so I get to be broke and emotionally compromised."
"Correct. But in return: unimaginable wealth."
A beat.
Then Rhea scoffed. "A hundred trillion? That's not even real money. That's cartoon villain money."
"And yet here you are: poor enough to imagine it."
She opened her mouth to argue—then shut it. Fair point.
The phone buzzed again.
[FIRST PARTNER: UNLOCKS IN 30 CHAPTERS.]
[In the meantime: acquire stability, pursue growth, reflect on your life choices.]
[System Tip #1: Real feelings yield real results. Lying triggers emotional penalties.]
"Emotional penalties?" she said aloud. "What is this, queer Persona?"
"More like Sapphic Stardew: Capitalism Edition."
She tossed the phone on the bed and stood up for the first time in hours. The room tilted slightly. She was dizzy. Hungry. Sad.
So tired.
She walked to the window and looked out at the city. Neon lights bled into puddles on the sidewalk below. Somewhere, music thumped. Laughter echoed between buildings. Life went on.
Without her.
Her reflection in the glass looked older than twenty-two. Hollow-eyed. Soft-lipped. Angry.
She whispered, "Why me?"
The phone lit up again.
"Because no one else would dare to love like this."
She stared.
Then laughed—soft, bitter.
And just like that, the screen faded to black.
Back on the mattress, she grabbed a crumpled notebook from beneath her pillow and clicked her dying pen three times.
On the first line, she wrote:
"Get a job."
Below it:
"Google what 'bonding' actually means."
"Eat something that isn't dust."
"Don't die."
And finally:
"100 Trillion."
She underlined it.
Twice.
Then drew a tiny heart beside it. Just to be annoying.
Outside, the storm moved on.
Inside, something stirred to life.
A system.
A city.
A girl.
A goal.