I came back from Seven-Twelve carrying a plastic bag full of questionable food and a giant cup of coffee that tasted like burnt tires but at least had caffeine.
"Home, sweet home," I muttered, kicking the apartment door closed behind me and dumping everything on the wobbly coffee table.
My haul: two instant ramen cups, a pack of chocolate cookies, a bottle of soda that promised an "explosion of flavor," and the main item—a chicken cheese tornado.
Yes. A chicken cheese tornado.
It was basically a sort of hot dog wrapped in dough, stuffed with chicken and melted cheese. It was the size of my forearm, greasy to the touch, and smelled simultaneously amazing.
In other words: perfect.
I plopped onto the floor (because the desk chair was uncomfortable and a couch didn't exist), leaned my back against the bed, and unwrapped my breakfast.
The first bite was… an experience.
"Oh my God," I said with my mouth full, melted cheese dripping down my chin. "This is so wrong, but so right."
I was in the middle of the third bite, completely covered in sauce and cheese, bits of chicken falling on my hoodie, when my phone vibrated on the table.
I looked at it, then at my greasy hands, then back at the phone.
"It can wait," I told the phone, taking another bite. "I'm having a moment here."
The phone vibrated again. And again. And again.
"OKAY, OKAY!" I put the tornado back in its wrapper, wiped my hands (vaguely) on my hoodie (because I was an adult making responsible adult choices), and picked up the phone.
The screen was full of notifications.
NATIONAL BANK: Deposit received - $2,000,000.00
NATIONAL BANK: Your current balance is: $2,000,847.32
NATIONAL BANK: Large transactions require security verification. Please call…
I blinked. Once. Twice.
And then the realization hit me like a freight train.
"TWO MILLION!" I yelled to the empty apartment, jumping to my feet so fast I got dizzy.
I did a little victory dance in the middle of the apartment, my bare feet slapping the wooden floor, my arms flailing in the air.
"I'M RICH! WELL, NOT RICH RICH, BUT LIKE, DEFINITELY NOT BROKE! I HAVE MONEY!"
My neighbors were probably wondering what was going on, but I didn't care.
I had two million dollars.
Two. Million.
I could buy proper recording equipment. I could pay for a decent recording space. I could… wait, what else did I need?
My excitement faded a bit as reality began to set in.
"Okay, okay, think," I told myself, sitting back down on the floor and picking up my tornado again. Because priorities. "I need to record a video. A good video. Professional. Not just me holding my Xphone in the bathroom with terrible lighting singing into the mirror."
I chewed thoughtfully.
Equipment would be… expensive, probably. A decent camera. Microphones. Lighting. Editing software. Maybe I needed to rent a studio? Or…
Ding.
I almost spat out my food.
That sound. That specific sound I had only heard once before, when the system first appeared.
And then, floating in the air in front of me, that familiar blue screen materialized.
---
[ NEW MISSION AVAILABLE ]
MISSION: Record and publish a professional video on Wetube
DESCRIPTION: You have chosen the path of the Singer. Now it's time to show the world your talent. Record a professional performance video and publish it on Wetube to begin your journey.
REQUIREMENTS:
• Professional video quality
• Professional audio quality
• Complete performance of one song
REWARD: ???
---
I stared at the screen, my tornado forgotten in my hand.
"Professional video?" I said out loud, my voice rising an octave. "PROFESSIONAL? System, I literally have no idea how to do that!"
The screen didn't respond. It just hovered there, silently judging my inadequacies.
"I don't know how to edit video! I don't know about lighting or camera angles or any of that technical stuff!" My voice was getting slightly hysterical. "I'm a nerd who read web novels, not a… a… film director!"
Silence.
"System? SYSTEM? Aren't you going to give me like… a tutorial? Some tips? ANYTHING?"
The screen blinked once and then disappeared.
"THAT'S NOT HELPFUL!" I yelled at the empty air.
I let myself fall back onto the floor, staring at the ceiling with its peeling plaster.
Okay. Okay. Panicking wasn't going to help.
I needed professional help. Someone who knew how to make videos. Someone with equipment and experience.
But who?
I didn't know anyone here. Cassandra's memories were mostly of high-society people who definitely wouldn't help me now that I was disinherited. Her "friends" had vanished faster than… well, faster than anything really fast.
So I needed to hire someone.
My eyes fell on my phone, still in my hand.
Maybe… maybe I could find someone online?
I sat up, wiped my greasy fingers on my hoodie once more (definitely going to have to wash that), and unlocked my phone.
I opened the social media app—InstaLife, because apparently this world also had zero creativity for names—and went to Cassandra's profile.
And… wow.
@CassandraWhitmore
8K followers
57 posts
The account was full of photos. Cassandra at glamorous parties, wearing designer dresses. Cassandra on exotic trips—tropical beaches, snow-covered mountains, European cities. Cassandra at expensive restaurants, in luxury cars, on yachts.
Every photo screamed wealth and privilege.
Every photo was a lie about who she really was.
"Ugh," I murmured, scrolling through the images. "This is… this is all so fake. So performative."
There were comments too. Thousands of them. Most were from before the "accident."
"Queen! 😍"
"OMG that bag! Need!"
"Life goals ✨"
But the most recent posts—the few Cassandra had made after Eloise fell—had a very different tone in the comments:
"Jealous bitch"
"Hope you rot in jail"
"How do you sleep at night knowing what you did???"
I felt my stomach turn.
Cassandra had seen these comments. Had read every hateful word. And had still tried to defend herself, posting explanations that no one believed.
"You didn't deserve this," I whispered, looking at the photos. "You really didn't."
My finger hovered over the "Edit Profile" button.
And then, on an impulse, I started deleting.
One by one, the photos disappeared. The parties, the trips, the expensive cars, the designer clothes.
Everything.
I deleted everything until only one photo remained.
It was old. One of the first things Cassandra had posted on this account, years ago, before she understood about feed aesthetics or image curation.
The photo showed a little girl—Cassandra at maybe five or six years old—sitting in front of a simple homemade cake. The cake was clearly lopsided, the frosting uneven, with a few colorful candles stuck on top. The girl wore simple clothes, clearly second-hand, but she was smiling—a huge, genuine smile that lit up her whole face as she prepared to blow out the candles.
The caption read simply: "My first birthday at the orphanage. Mrs. Chen made cake! ♥"
It was from the orphanage where Cassandra had lived before being adopted by the Whitmores.
When she was still just a hopeful child who didn't know she would eventually be discarded by the family that took her in.
I looked at that photo for a long time, my chest tight.
"Okay," I said softly. "This one stays."
I saved the changes, leaving only that single photo on the profile.
A new beginning. A blank canvas. A chance to be something different from what Cassandra had been.
Now, back to the problem at hand.
I needed to find someone who made professional videos. Some company or freelancer who could help me record something of decent quality.
I went back to my phone's browser and typed: "Professional video recording services"
Several results appeared. Large studios that probably charged a fortune. Freelancers with impressive portfolios. Companies that looked legitimate.
My eyes stopped on one.
VisionWave Studios
"Bringing your vision to life with premium video production"
The website looked professional. The portfolio showed music videos, commercials, promotional content—all high quality. And, crucially, they had a "Contact" button with a direct messaging number.
"Okay," I took a deep breath. "Let's do this."
I clicked the message button and started typing:
---
Hello! My name is Cassandra and I'm looking to hire someone to record a professional music video. It would just be me singing, probably with a simple setup, but I need the quality to be really good—both video and audio. Would you be available to discuss a project? Thank you!
---
I reread the message three times, deleted "Thank you!" and put just "Thank you." because the exclamation point seemed too desperate, and then finally pressed send before I could get any more neurotic.
"There," I said, tossing my phone aside. "Now I just need to wait and—"
Ding.
I picked up the phone so fast I almost dropped it.
They had responded. Immediately.
---
VisionWave Studios: Hello Cassandra! Thank you for reaching out. Yes, we can definitely help with that! It would be great to discuss your project in person. Would you be available for a meeting tomorrow? We can meet at our studio or at a location of your preference. What time would work for you?
---
I blinked at the screen.
Wow. Okay. That was… fast. And professional. And seemed legit.
Maybe my 52 Luck was working?
I quickly typed back:
---
Tomorrow works perfectly! How about in the morning? Around 10am? And your studio is fine—can you send me the address?
---
The reply came almost instantly:
---
VisionWave Studios: Perfect! 10am tomorrow. Our address is 847 Riverside Street, 4th floor. Look for the VisionWave sign at the entrance. Looking forward to discussing your project! See you tomorrow. - Marcus
---
I saved the address in my phone and let myself fall back onto the floor, my heart pounding with excitement and nervousness.
"Okay," I told the ceiling. "Okay. This is happening. This is really happening."
I had an appointment. Tomorrow. With real professionals who could help me make a real video.
And I had two million dollars to pay for it.
And I had an Angelic Voice to make it worthwhile.
And I had songs from another universe that no one here had ever heard before.
"I can do this," I said out loud, trying to convince myself. "I can totally do this."
My stomach chose that moment to growl again, reminding me that my chicken cheese tornado was getting cold on the floor beside me.
"But first," I picked the tornado back up, "I finish my breakfast. Because priorities."
I bit into the now-cold dough, semi-solidified cheese sticking to the roof of my mouth, and smiled.
Tomorrow, I would start my journey for real.
Tomorrow, I would take the first step to becoming something more than just a disposable web novel villain.
But today?
Today I was going to enjoy my last day of relative normality by eating junk food on the floor of my tiny apartment.
And honestly?
It seemed perfect.