Victor's eyelids fluttered open to the low buzz of his phone alarm. 5:00 a.m. again. This time, he didn't groan. He didn't hesitate. He swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the floor. The chill greeted him like a slap, but he didn't retreat under the covers.
"Good morning, Victor," the System chimed. "Day 2: Theme — Consistency."
He rubbed his eyes. "You really don't sleep, do you?"
"I exist to optimize. Not to rest."
Victor stretched his arms and cracked his neck. "So, what's the plan for today?"
"20 pushups. 30 squats. 1-minute plank. Hydration. Affirmations. Then study."
He sighed but nodded. "Let's get to it."
The pushups came easier today. So did the squats. The plank, though, made him shake like a leaf in the wind.
"Core engagement: 74% improvement from yesterday," the System noted.
Victor collapsed onto the floor and stared at the ceiling, panting. "You track everything?"
"Metrics enable growth."
"Fair enough."
After a quick shower, he stood shirtless in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth. He wasn't muscular, but there was potential in his frame. He could see it now — broader shoulders, tighter abs, stronger arms. And behind his eyes, something deeper was changing. A shift. Like gears grinding into motion after years of sitting idle.
"Affirmation: I am becoming the man I was born to be," the System instructed.
Victor rolled his eyes. "Are we doing that now?"
"Say it."
He spat into the sink. "I am becoming the man I was born to be."
"Again. With conviction."
He met his own gaze in the mirror and repeated, slower this time: "I am becoming the man I was born to be."
Something clicked. It felt corny… but also powerful.
"Affirmation complete."
---
By 7:15 a.m., he was out the door again, this time with a notebook tucked under his arm. The morning was cold, but not unbearable. His hoodie and the adrenaline kept him warm. As he walked past the frost-covered campus lawns, the System piped up again.
"Observation: 3.6% increase in energy from Day 1. Morning routine is having cumulative effect."
"Noted," Victor said, sipping his lukewarm coffee. "But what happens when motivation dies?"
"Discipline sustains where motivation fails. Hence: Consistency."
He smirked. "You're like a Nigerian parent and a therapist in one."
"Accuracy appreciated."
---
The lecture hall felt less intimidating this time. Victor arrived early and chose a seat in the second row — close enough to pay attention, but not so close that the professor could call on him.
As students trickled in, he spotted her again.
The girl with the curls and the gold hoops.
She was seated three rows up, typing furiously on her laptop. Her brow furrowed in concentration. Victor tried not to stare but failed miserably.
"Would you like assistance initiating contact?"
"Drop it."
"Suggestion: Compliment her typing speed."
"What? That's the worst opener I've ever—"
She suddenly turned and looked straight at him. He panicked and gave her an awkward nod.
She smiled. "Hey."
His heart skipped. "Uh—hey. Morning."
"You were in this class yesterday, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I'm Victor."
"Benedicta. Or Benny. Whichever."
He grinned. "Cool name."
"Thanks. You're new, right? Nigerian?"
He blinked. "How'd you know?"
"The accent. Plus, my roommate's Nigerian. You all have that energy."
"Is that a good thing?"
She laughed. "Definitely. You bring the drama."
Victor chuckled. "I'll take that."
As the professor entered, Benny turned back to her laptop, but not before giving him one last smile.
"Heart rate spike: 12%. Dopamine levels rising," the System whispered.
Victor whispered back, "Shut up."
---
After class, Victor made his way to the student center. He had a one-hour break before his next lecture, and he wanted to get ahead on readings.
He grabbed a seat by the window, pulled out his textbook, and dove in. But ten minutes in, his concentration faltered.
His phone buzzed — a group chat message from home.
> Emeka: Guy, Na you dey Yankee dey flex now o. We still dey manage PHCN.
Victor smiled. Emeka always cracked jokes. His boys back home never let distance ruin the vibe.
> Victor: I dey hustle die. Cold wan finish me here.
> Emeka: Make Yankee no freeze your rap career o!
Victor laughed and opened his notes. He scribbled a bar on the side:
"Na from PHCN blackout to Ivy League spotlight…"
Then another:
"From hustle and suya to pancakes and pressure…"
The words poured in effortlessly. His hand couldn't keep up.
The System chimed in.
"Creative output spiking. Emotional resonance detected. Suggestion: Record voice memos for spontaneous bars."
Victor opened his phone's recorder. "Good call."
He paused, then whispered into it, "Vee Blaze. Day 2. Still hungry."
---
By evening, his body ached in all the right ways. He'd made it through a full day of classes, two study sessions, and even managed to scout out the music bulletin board at the student center. A flyer caught his eye:
Open Mic Night — This Friday. Sign Up. Bring Your Fire.
His heart skipped.
"Do it," the System urged.
"Too early. I haven't settled in yet."
"Growth begins at the edge of discomfort."
Victor stared at the sign, debating. Then slowly… he tore off a tab with the sign-up link.
Not yes. But not no either.
---
Back in his dorm, he lay on his bed, muscles sore but mind alive. He scrolled through his mom's WhatsApp status — a Bible verse, a photo of the family goat, and a blurry pic of her smiling outside the church.
Then her voice note dropped in.
> "Victor my son… I prayed for you today. Just trust God and do your best. We're proud of you."
He played it twice.
Then once more.
The System didn't speak, but it didn't need to. That voice was all the fuel he needed.
Victor rolled over and opened his notebook.
He wrote a title across the top:
Becoming Victor.
The pen felt heavier in his hand than usual. Not because of fatigue — but because, for the first time in his life, he was writing a story he was finally living.
And this time?
He was the main character.