The line between dream and reality had become a cruel, blurry joke.
Samantha woke up not to the familiar, cloying fog of fatigue, but to a jarring hum of energy thrumming just beneath her skin. It felt like her very cells were vibrating, charged with a stolen, illicit power. Her muscles, which by all rights should have been screaming bloody murder after yesterday's ordeal, were instead laced with a taut, electric ache that was more invigorating than painful.
This was the System's work. A lie told by her own body.
She stumbled into the bathroom, the cool tiles a shock against the soles of her feet. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, a stranger wearing her face. The sallow undertones were gone, replaced by a healthy, vibrant flush. Her eyes, once perpetually shadowed by exhaustion, were clear and sharp.
It was the face of a normal, healthy teenage girl. A face she had only ever seen in her most desperate dreams.
And that was the most terrifying part of all.
Her gaze fell to her arm. Hesitantly, she flexed. The subtle ridge of a bicep slid into view under her skin, a smooth, defined curve that was as alien as a third eye. It was a tangible mark of her contract, a brand seared into her flesh by a force she couldn't comprehend.
"Okay," she whispered to her reflection, her voice raspy with sleep. "I am officially freaked out."
"Freaked out? You should be celebrating!" Mochi popped into existence beside her head, its blue eyes gleaming with proprietary pride. "This is the dawn of your protagonist era! You've shed your fragile caterpillar skin! Next, you'll be bench-pressing cars to rescue kittens from trees!"
Samantha gave the floating confection a flat, unimpressed look. "I'd rather not. The paperwork would be a nightmare."
She peeled off the sweat-dampened pajamas—the scent of her own exertion a bizarre novelty—and stepped into the shower. The hot water was a blissful shock, cascading over her shoulders and washing away the phantom aches that her brain insisted should be there. Steam billowed around her, turning the small room into a sanctuary of swirling white mist. But there was no escape from her own thoughts.
Strength: E → D-. Endurance: F → C.
The holographic text was burned into her memory. She wasn't just healthy; she was being quantified, her existence broken down into a series of upgradable stats like some video game character. This body was no longer entirely her own. It was a vessel being renovated by a silent, invisible landlord with a very strange agenda.
What happened when her Strength hit B? Or A? Would she still look like herself? Would she accidentally shatter a doorknob, or break a hand she was trying to shake? The image of the 'Cursed Physique' flashed in her mind—the monstrous parody of strength, the sickening combination of power and frailty. Was that her inevitable future, one failed mission at a time?
Her fingers tightened against the cool, slick tiles of the shower wall. The pressure was firm, solid. A week ago, her grip would have been weak, her fingers trembling.
And then there was Ren. Her brother. The suspicion in his eyes yesterday had been as sharp as glass. He wasn't stupid. He'd spent her entire life acting as her vigilant, human medical monitor. A lie about 'remission' wouldn't hold up to his scrutiny for long, not when she was exhibiting strength that bordered on the superhuman.
How long could she keep this secret? How long until her carefully constructed world shattered?
And do I even want to go back?
The question was a traitorous whisper in the back of her mind. Could she honestly say she wanted to return to the prison of her old body? To the endless days spent in bed, the metallic taste of medication, the suffocating pity in everyone's eyes?
No.
The answer was instant, and it filled her with a profound, soul-deep guilt.
"Sam-chan! If you use up all the hot water, you're paying the bill! You're going to be late!"
Her mother's voice, sharp but laced with its usual affection, cut through the steam and her spiraling thoughts.
"Coming!" she called back, shutting off the water.
Drying off, she pulled on her school uniform. The crisp white shirt felt looser around her shoulders, and the skirt hung just a bit differently around her waist. Small changes. Insignificant to anyone else, but to her, they were screaming evidence of her transformation.
She raced downstairs, the scent of toasted bread and miso soup pulling her toward the dining room. Her mother stood by the table, pouring tea, her movements precise and elegant. Ren was already there, scrolling through something on his phone, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. His head snapped up the moment she entered, his sharp gaze raking over her with an unnervingly clinical intensity.
"You look… energetic," he stated. It wasn't a compliment; it was an accusation.
"Slept well," Samantha replied breezily, sliding into her seat and pointedly avoiding his eyes. "Maybe it's all that fresh air and exercise. You should try it sometime, Nii-san."
A muscle in Ren's jaw twitched. "Hilarious."
Elena placed a bowl of rice in front of Samantha, her brow furrowed as she observed the silent, crackling tension between her children. "Is everything alright, you two?"
"Perfectly fine," they said in near-perfect unison, the practiced harmony of siblings closing ranks against parental inquiry.
Elena didn't look convinced, her lips pursed in a thin line of suspicion, but she let it drop. "Well, eat quickly. The traffic on Route 246 is a nightmare on Monday mornings."
The drive to school was an exercise in suffocating normalcy. The car hummed along, a bubble of familiar quiet surrounded by the cacophony of Tokyo's morning rush hour. Ren sat in the passenger seat, silent and brooding. Samantha rested her head against the cool glass of the window, watching the blur of concrete, glass, and steel slide by. It felt unreal, like watching a movie of her own life.
She was so lost in thought that the sudden, sharp ping in her mind made her flinch.
It was the System.
Motes of blue light only she could see coalesced at the edge of her vision, forming the stark, familiar interface.
[New Missions Unlocked!]
Samantha's heart gave a painful lurch.
"Don't do it," she mouthed silently, her eyes wide with dread. "Don't you dare—"
The screen expanded.
[Sub-Mission (School Life): Join a Sports Club!]
[Time Limit: 7 Days]
[Reward: ???]
[Penalty for Failure: 'Embarrassment' Debuff (Social)]
Ugh. Great. Forced social interaction. Just what I wanted. Her eyes scanned down.
[Sub-Mission (Priority): Save Your Older Brother.]
[Time Limit: ???]
[Reward: ???]
[Penalty for Failure: Unthinkable.]
Time seemed to freeze. The hum of the engine faded. The honking cars outside went silent. The only sound was the frantic, panicked drumming of her own blood in her ears.
Her breath hitched. A chasm of ice opened in her stomach, and she sat bolt upright so fast her head nearly connected with the roof of the car.
"What the hell…?" she whispered, the words stolen from her lungs.
Mochi shimmered into existence in the seat beside her, looking obnoxiously pleased with itself. "Oho! New quests already? The System must have high hopes for you, contractor! No rest for the wicked, eh?"
Samantha ignored the first mission entirely, her gaze locked, horrified, on the second. The words were a death sentence.
Save Your Older Brother.
Penalty for Failure: Unthinkable.
The single word was infinitely more terrifying than any detailed description of a cursed physique. It was a blank check for horror, a void into which her imagination immediately began to pour its darkest fears.
"Save Ren?" she breathed, the words tasting like ash. "What does that mean? From what?"
A suffocating wave of pure terror washed over her. She looked at the back of her brother's head. He was leaning forward, changing the radio station, completely oblivious. A normal boy, living a normal life. A life that, according to the soulless blue text in front of her, was now hanging over an invisible precipice.
"Mochi," she said, her voice low and dangerously tight. "Explain. Right now."
The little ghost blinked, its cheerful glow dimming slightly at her tone. "Huh? Explain what?"
"This mission! The one about Ren! Is he in danger? Is something going to happen to him?!"
"Hey," Ren's voice cut in from the front seat, his eyes finding hers in the rearview mirror. His brow was furrowed. "Everything okay back there, Sam?"
"Fine!" she snapped, then immediately softened her tone, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass. "Just… tired."
Ren's frown deepened. He knew her tells. He knew she was lying, but thankfully, he turned his attention back to the road.
Samantha's gaze bored into Mochi. "Don't play dumb with me. You have to know something."
Mochi fidgeted, wringing its stubby little hands. "Look, I'm just the user-friendly interface! A guide! The missions… they're generated by the core System. It runs on algorithms and cosmic principles I don't have clearance for. I don't pick them. I just… deliver the bad news."
Her hands, hidden from view, clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms, the faint sting a grounding sensation in a world that had just tilted off its axis. "So you're useless. You can't tell me what's going to happen. You can't tell me when, or where, or how."
"…Pretty much, yeah," Mochi admitted, its voice a small, apologetic squeak.
Rage, cold and pure, surged through her, momentarily eclipsing the fear. She was a pawn in a game with no rules, a puppet whose strings were being pulled by an indifferent god, and her only guide was an impotent, floating dessert.
She took a shaky breath, forcing the anger down. It wasn't useful. Fear wasn't useful. Only one thing was.
She looked at Ren again. At his broad shoulders, the way he tapped his fingers on the dashboard in time with the music, the way he'd always been there, solid and unshakable. Her protector. Her constant.
If something happened to him… if she failed this mission and the "unthinkable" came to pass…
No.
The thought was a physical wall in her mind.
I won't let it happen.
The fear didn't vanish. Instead, it transmuted, compressing itself into a cold, hard diamond of resolve in her chest. She had been a victim her whole life—a victim of her own failing body. She would not be a victim of this. Not when it came to Ren.
Whatever threat was coming for him, she would meet it head-on. She would become a shield. She would become a weapon. She would complete this mission.
No. Matter. What.
"Whoa," Mochi whispered, its wide eyes reflecting the terrifying new light in hers. "You've got that look on your face. The one characters get before they do something really crazy."
Samantha didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on the back of her brother's head, her eyes narrowed into slits.
"I have a bad feeling about this, Mochi," she said, her voice a low, chilling murmur.
"A bad feeling?"
"Yeah." A sliver of her old life surfaced—the intuition of the perpetually ill, the sixth sense for when things were about to go wrong. "And I'm rarely wrong about these things