The interior of the bounce house was a neon-yellow nightmare. It smelled of heated plastic, stale sweat from the Thorne children who had spent the afternoon jumping in it, and the looming scent of his own impending ruin. Hiroki lay there, his lungs burning as they fought to recalibrate to the thick, humid air of a summer evening in the Emerald Archipelago.
Just moments ago—or was it a week from now?—he had been falling through the grey, biting wind of a suicide jump. Now, he was back in the "Garden Gala" timeline. The transition was so violent it felt like his soul had been put through a paper shredder and taped back together by a blind god.
[DING!] [SOVEREIGN PROTOCOL: RECOVERY COMPLETE.] [CURRENT BALANCE: -90 POINTS (INTEREST APPLIED).] [NOTE: HOST IS OFFICIALLY THE SYSTEM'S BITCH UNTIL DEBT IS PAID.]
"Interest?" Hiroki rasped, clutching his ribs. "You've got to be kidding me. I literally just got here."
The system didn't answer. It just hovered there, a translucent blue rectangle of clinical indifference.
Outside the vinyl walls, he could hear the distant, muffled sound of a string quartet and the high-pitched, artificial laughter of the Archipelago's elite. It was a sound he knew well—the sound of people who owned the world and were bored with the view. But closer than the music were footsteps. Heavy, disciplined, and purposeful.
"I'm telling you, Mr. Jenkins, I saw him grab it," a voice whispered. It was Tony—Ryota's personal "weasel," a kid whose only personality trait was being a footstool for the Thorne heir. "The charity case took the crystal flute right off the buffet. Probably going to sell it to buy a phone that wasn't made in the Stone Age."
Hiroki's hand instinctively dove into his pocket. His fingers brushed against something cold, hard, and unmistakably glass.
The planted evidence.
In his original timeline, this was the moment that had ended his life before he even stepped off the roof. Jenkins, a man who treated his taser like a religious relic, would pull him out of the bounce house, find the flute, and drag him across the lawn in front of three hundred guests. Sayaka-san would look at him with that terrifying, silent disappointment—the kind that cut deeper than Ryota's fists—and he would be branded a thief forever.
Think, you idiot. Change the script.
The Sovereign Protocol flickered. [SUGGESTION: CREATIVE DECEPTION. COST: 0 POINTS. CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 40%.]
"Forty percent? I'll take it," Hiroki muttered.
The vinyl doorway unzipped with a violent shhhht sound. Two silhouettes stood framed against the moonlight: Jenkins, a wall of muscle in a black suit, and Tony, looking like a rat that had just found a block of cheese.
"Out," Jenkins barked. He didn't ask; he commanded. This was a man who spent his life protecting the Thorne family from "threats," and in his eyes, Hiroki was a stain on the upholstery. "Nice and slow, Hiroki. Hands where I can see them."
Hiroki didn't stand up. Instead, he curled into a tighter ball, clutching his stomach. He let his face go pale—which wasn't hard, considering the adrenaline was currently poisoning his blood—and began to tremble.
"Mr. Jenkins... please," Hiroki wheezed, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel. "I-I can't move. Ryota and the others... they pushed me from the balcony. I hit the edge of the castle. I think... I think something's wrong inside."
Jenkins paused, his hand hovering over his holster. Tony sneered, stepping forward. "Don't listen to him! He's just acting! Search his pockets, he's got the—"
"Tony, shut up," Jenkins snapped. He looked at Hiroki with a flicker of genuine hesitation. Even for a Thorne loyalist, pushing a kid off a second-story balcony was a "liability issue."
Hiroki saw the opening. He needed a distraction so foul, so visceral, that no one would want to get within ten feet of him. He remembered the "gross-out" tactic from the original Phei Maxton's memories.
He clenched his abdominal muscles, forcing a pressure he hadn't felt in years. He thought about the cheap cafeteria sushi he'd eaten earlier that day. He thought about the sheer, unadulterated rot of the Thorne family. He channeled all of it into his gut.
PRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.
The sound was legendary. It vibrated the floor of the bounce house. It was a wet, rhythmic, and undeniably "medical-grade" sound that echoed off the vinyl walls like a trumpet announcing the apocalypse.
"Jesus Christ!" Tony yelped, leaping back and covering his nose. "What the hell is that smell?!"
Hiroki didn't stop. He groaned, a long, pathetic sound of manufactured agony, and released another one—this time shorter but sharper. PFFFFT.
"The shrimp!" Hiroki wailed, rolling onto his side, ensuring his hand stayed over the pocket containing the flute. "I told them... I told the catering lady it smelled like ammonia! Oh god, it's coming out both ends!"
He began to make retching noises, his body jerking with the force of a fake vomit-spell.
Jenkins, a man who had faced down armed burglars without blinking, actually turned a shade of grey. He took three massive steps back from the entrance. "Tony, get back. If he's got food poisoning from the Thorne buffet, the last thing we need is a scene in the middle of the gala."
"But the flute!" Tony screamed, his voice reaching a pitch that only dogs could hear. "He's got the flute!"
"I don't care if he's got the Crown Jewels in there," Jenkins growled, pulling out his radio. "I am not patting down a kid who's currently a biohazard. Medical Unit 2, we have a guest with severe gastric distress at the bounce house. Inform the Matriarch... quietly."
Hiroki lay there, listening to them retreat. He felt a wave of relief so powerful it was almost better than the "hot honey" healing.
[DING!] [TIMELINE DIVERTED: SOCIAL ANNIHILATION AVOIDED.] [REWARD: +15 POINTS. CREATIVITY BONUS: +5 POINTS.] [CURRENT BALANCE: -70 POINTS.]
"Twenty points for a fart," Hiroki whispered to the yellow ceiling. "The bar is low, but I'll take it."
He waited until he was sure Tony was gone, then he reached into his pocket. He pulled out the crystal flute—a delicate, hand-blown piece that probably cost more than his father's car. With a quick, silent movement, he tucked it under the heavy interior flap of the bounce house, burying it deep beneath the vinyl where the cleaning crew wouldn't find it for weeks.
The "Medical Unit" arrived five minutes later. They were two guys in white polos who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. They loaded Hiroki onto a gurney with the kind of clinical detachedness you'd show a broken piece of furniture.
As they wheeled him across the lawn, Hiroki caught his first glimpse of her.
Sayaka-san.
She was standing near the koi pond, surrounded by a circle of men in tailored tuxedos who were leaning in as if her words were gospel. She was wearing a dress of emerald silk that matched the name of the estate—deep, rich, and dangerously beautiful. Even from fifty yards away, her presence was like a cold front moving through the party. Her black hair was pinned up in an intricate web of pearls, exposing a neck that looked like it was carved from ivory.
She turned her head as the gurney passed. Her eyes—dark, predatory, and infinitely bored—locked onto Hiroki's for a split second.
She didn't show concern. She didn't show anger. She simply looked at him the way one looks at a fly that has landed on a piece of expensive cake. Then, she turned back to her conversation, dismissing his entire existence with a single blink.
Just wait, Sayaka-san, Hiroki thought, his grip tightening on the edge of the gurney. In a few hours, you're going to be the one who can't look away.
The medical van was a "Thorne-spec" Mercedes, all leather seats and silent engines. They took him to the estate's private clinic—a place so clean it felt like it had been sterilized by a laser. The doctor, a man named Richardson who looked like he hadn't smiled since the Cold War, gave him a cursory exam.
"It's just a mild stomach upset," Richardson said, scribbling on a digital tablet. "And some bruising on the back. You're lucky, Hiroki. Falling from that height could have been fatal."
"I guess I have a guardian angel," Hiroki said.
The doctor looked at him, confused. "Pardon?"
Hiroki realized his voice had changed. Even without the Charm Speech fully activated, there was a new resonance to it. It wasn't the voice of the "beige wall" orphan anymore. It was steadier. Sharper.
"Nothing," Hiroki said. "Can I go back to my room?"
"The Matriarch has requested you stay out of sight for the remainder of the evening. She'll speak to you in the morning."
No, she won't, Hiroki thought. Because at 1:30 AM, I'm going to the library.
They released him at 11:00 PM. He crept through the mansion, avoiding the main halls where the party was still winding down. The Thorne estate at night was a museum of ego. Every painting was a Thorne ancestor looking down with judgment. Every statue was a reminder of what Hiroki didn't have.
He made it back to his room—the shoebox next to the laundry. He sat on his bed, the springs groaning in protest. He had two hours.
"System," he whispered. "Open the Sovereign Pack."
[DING! OPENING SOVEREIGN BEGINNER PACK...] [RECEIVED: 1x BOTTLE OF 'SINCERITY SERUM' (Single Use).] [RECEIVED: PERMANENT PASSIVE ABILITY: 'PREDATOR'S EYE'.] [RECEIVED: ACTIVE ABILITY: 'CHARM SPEECH LV.1'.]
Hiroki felt a tingle in his retinas. Suddenly, the room looked different. He could see the structural weaknesses in the wood. He could see the dust motes dancing in the air like they were highlighted in gold. He looked at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.
Above his head, a small bar appeared: [Sovereign Level: 1 (0/100 EXP)].
He looked at the bottle of Sincerity Serum. It was a small vial of clear liquid that looked like water but shimmered like a diamond. [NOTE: MAKES THE TARGET UNABLE TO HIDE THEIR TRUE DESIRES FOR 30 MINUTES.]
He tucked it into his pocket. Then, he focused on the ability Charm Speech.
[ACTIVATE?]
"Yes."
A wave of heat washed over his vocal cords. It felt like he'd just swallowed a shot of expensive whiskey—smooth, burning, and intoxicating. He tried to speak, just a whisper.
"Sayaka-san."
The name didn't just exit his mouth; it hung in the air. It sounded... inviting. It sounded like a promise and a threat wrapped in velvet.
Hiroki stood up. His legs didn't wobble anymore. His back didn't ache. He looked at the clock. 1:20 AM.
The Garden Gala was over. The guests were gone. The Thorne children were in their rooms, safe in their cocoons of privilege. And in the East Wing, Sayaka-san was walking toward the library.
Hiroki knew her routine because he'd been a ghost in this house for a decade. He knew she couldn't sleep when Harold was away on business. He knew she preferred the library because the silence there was the only thing she couldn't control. And he knew about the "secret."
He stepped into the hallway. The Predator's Eye showed him the path—the spots on the floor that creaked, the angles of the security cameras, the blind spots where he could disappear.
He reached the library door. It was heavy, made of solid mahogany that had been imported from a forest that probably didn't exist anymore. He pressed his ear to the wood.
At first, there was nothing. Then, a soft, rhythmic sound.
Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.
And then, a breath. A sharp, impatient whimper that Hiroki had only ever heard in his darkest, most forbidden dreams.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't feel the shame that used to paralyze him. He simply placed his hand on the handle and turned it.
The door eased open on silent hinges.
Sayaka-san was there. She was naked, her emerald dress a discarded pile of silk on the floor. She was draped across her husband's leather chair, her ivory thighs splayed wide, her fingers buried deep in her own heat. The blue light of the monitor painted her skin in clinical, freezing tones, but her face was a map of raw, burning hunger.
She didn't see him at first. She was too far gone, her head thrown back, her throat a long, elegant line of surrender.
Hiroki took a step into the room, the moonlight catching the new, predatory light in his eyes. He didn't hide. He didn't whisper. He stood in the center of the room and spoke her name with the full weight of the Sovereign Protocol behind it.
"Sayaka-san."
She bolted upright, her hand yanking back from her body with a wet, obscene pop. Her eyes, wide with a terror he'd waited ten years to see, locked onto his.
"Hiroki? How... how dare you!" Her voice was a whip, but it was shaking. "Get out! I'll have you destroyed! I'll—"
"No, you won't," Hiroki said, his voice dropping into that velvet, terrifying register of the Charm Speech.
He took another step, his shadow stretching across her naked form.
"Because tonight, Sayaka-san, you're going to tell me exactly why you're begging a computer screen for the one thing your husband can't give you."
[DING!] [TARGET: SAYAKA THORNE.] [RECEPTIVITY: 65% (HEIGHTENED EMOTIONAL STATE).] [SOVEREIGN COMMAND: BEGIN.]