Chapter 1
Chapter One: The Best Policy
Honesty is a virtue. My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Gable, lied to me.
“Are you out of your mind? You actually submitted the quarterly report with a disclaimer?”
My manager, Greg—a man who wore too much cologne and not enough competence—was currently vibrating with a frequency that threatened to shatter his own glasses. His voice carried across the open-plan office, prompting my coworkers to suddenly become very fascinated by their cuticles or their empty coffee mugs.
I didn’t do the dramatic "hands behind my back" pose. I just stood there, feeling the sweat pool at the base of my spine.
“Greg, Mark asked me to finish his section at 4:55 PM on a Friday,” I said, trying to keep my voice flat, though it came out a bit thin. “I didn’t have the login credentials for the CRM. I literally told you—and him—that I was essentially typing fanfiction based on last year’s numbers. There are three separate emails where I warned you it was a mess.”
“You made me look like an idiot in front of the VP!” he bellowed.
Ah. The ego. The final boss of corporate life.
I looked at him—really looked at him—and realized that even if I stayed, I’d be spending the next six months apologizing for his own lack of oversight. The realization hit me with a weirdly peaceful thud.
“I think transparency is better than perjury,” I said. “But clearly, we have different priorities regarding jail time.”
Greg’s face didn't just turn red; it went a bruised, angry shade of purple. He didn't even use a full sentence. He just pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Out. Now. HR will mail your final check.”
The walk to my desk was surprisingly quiet. I didn't have a "bear mug" or a "cute notebook." I had a half-dead cactus, a tangled mess of charging cables, and a dull sense of relief that I’d never have to hear the word synergy again.
The subway ride home was a blur of humid air and the smell of stale pretzels. I kept waiting for the "Main Character" epiphany to hit—the moment where I’d swear to start my own firm and get revenge. Instead, I just felt a deep, hollow exhaustion.
By the time I reached my apartment, the professional mask didn't just slip; it disintegrated. I bypassed my "real" clothes and climbed into a pair of oversized, pilled flannel pajamas that smelled like lavender detergent.
I ignored the pile of dishes. I ignored my vibrating phone. I crawled into bed and opened my tablet, seeking the only thing that didn't require me to be "proactive."
The Love I Want.
It was a trashy, high-drama, mafia-romance web novel that I’d been following for eight months. The plot was a disaster, the heroine had the survival instincts of a lemming, and the miscommunications were infuriating.
But then there was Kilian.
The Second Lead. The villain. The man who existed in a permanent state of tailored suits and tragic loneliness. While the main couple was busy crying about "destiny," Kilian was actually getting things done—usually via kidnapping or extortion, sure—but he did it with such a haunting, quiet desperation that it ruined me.
I read the latest update: Chapter 244. Kilian was standing in a graveyard (classic), watching the heroine marry the "good guy" from a distance. The author described the rain slicking his hair back, the way his knuckles were white as he held a bouquet he’d never give her.
“You absolute idiot,” I whispered to the screen, my eyes stinging. “She’s not worth the dry cleaning bill, Kilian. Just go home. Have some tea. Find a hobby that isn't pining.”
I fell asleep with the tablet still warm against my chest, the image of a fictional man’s grief burned into my retinas.
I didn't wake up to a "system." I woke up to a sensation of being weightless, like I was floating in a sensory deprivation tank.
Then, a voice—or rather, a vibration in my teeth—started speaking.
[SYNCHRONIZATION: 0.02% ... ATTEMPTING TO STABILIZE HOST.]
"Is that my alarm?" I munted, or tried to. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton.
[HOST STATUS: DECEASED. CAUSE: UNDIAGNOSED CARDIAC ARREST.]
The weightlessness suddenly felt very heavy. "Dead? No, I'm... I'm just tired. I got fired today. You don't die from getting fired."
[THE BODY CEASED FUNCTIONING AT 03:41 AM. WOULD YOU LIKE TO REVIEW THE AUTOPSY?]
"Hard pass," I snapped. "Who are you? Are you an angel? A hallucination?"
[I AM THE INTERFACE FOR THE 'BETTER ENDING' INITIATIVE. I LACK A DESIGNATION.]
"Fine. I'll call you Echo," I said, mostly because I needed to name the voice to keep from screaming. "And let me guess... you've got a deal for me?"
The white void flickered, and suddenly, the cover of The Love I Want materialized in the air. Kilian’s cold, grey eyes seemed to stare right through me.
[YOU HAVE SHOWN HIGH EMOTIONAL RESONANCE WITH THIS NARRATIVE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO INTERVENE?]
I looked at Kilian. I thought about my empty apartment, my dead-end job, and the fact that I’d just died in my sleep in pilled pajamas.
"If I go in there," I asked, "do I have to follow the script?"
[THE SCRIPT IS THE PROBLEM, USER. THAT IS WHY YOU ARE HERE.]
I took a breath—or the ghostly equivalent of one. "Then let's go. If I'm dead anyway, I might as well make sure Kilian gets a decent ending."
[INITIATING TRANSMIGRATION. GOOD LUCK, USER.]
The white light turned into a deafening roar, and the smell of rain—real, cold, metallic rain—hit me all at once.
