The morning light slipped gently through pale-blue curtains, casting soft ripples of gold across the modest yet tastefully decorated apartment perched above the humming heart of Fontaine. Warm hues bathed the wooden floorboards, glinted off the brass fixtures, and danced lazily across scattered papers, camera equipment, and a half-drunk cup of coffee left forgotten on the windowsill.
Outside, the city was beginning to stir. Birds flitted past the open window, chirping cheerily as they dipped low over the canal. The steady turning of the old waterwheel below echoed faintly through the stonework, a lullaby of motion and rhythm. Somewhere nearby, a steam tram let out a soft hiss as it prepared for its morning route.
And in the cozy sanctuary of the bedroom, Kyle Claudius stirred beneath the covers.
He blinked slowly, bleary-eyed, as the sun's rays spilled across his face like a persistent invitation to the waking world. A faint groan escaped him as he stretched, rolling onto his side in a fluid, almost feline motion. His arm reached out blindly, draping itself across something warm and soft.
Something—someone—who squeaked in protest.
"Mmmf—Kyle!" a voice chirped, muffled under his weight. "You're squishing me again, you big oaf!"
Kyle cracked one eye open. A lazy, smug smile crept across his lips.
There, half-buried in the mess of tangled sheets and pillows, lay Charlotte, journalist extraordinaire, star photographer of the Steambird… and his current bedmate, roommate, and—somehow, to his endless delight—his girlfriend.
Her tousled pink curls glowed in the sunlight, spread across the pillow like candyfloss, and her cheeks were flushed in that perfect shade of sleepy morning annoyance. Her signature glasses teetered on the bridge of her nose, half-fogged, while the rest of her—swallowed in his oversized dress shirt—looked like the very definition of stolen domestic bliss.
"You know," Kyle murmured, voice thick and warm with sleep, "for someone so small, you make an excellent pillow."
"You're literally crushing my ribs, you brute," Charlotte muttered, squirming beneath him as she attempted to shove him off with all the strength of a disgruntled kitten.
Kyle didn't budge.
Instead, he pulled her closer with a lazy grin, arm tightening around her waist until she let out a helpless little "eep."
"Oh no," he whispered dramatically, nuzzling the crown of her head, "now you're trapped. Completely helpless. Might as well surrender to my villainy."
Charlotte huffed, but the corner of her lips twitched—betraying the smile she was trying very hard to suppress.
"Villainy doesn't usually involve spooning," she grumbled, cheeks turning pinker. "Also, I have work in an hour and you—" she jabbed a finger into his chest, "—have an interview. With Euphrasie. Remember her? Stern lady? Literally runs the Steambird?"
"Sounds vaguely familiar," Kyle said, voice dripping with faux-innocence as he pressed a lazy kiss to her temple. "Didn't she have a grudge against photographers who were too pretty?"
Charlotte rolled her eyes and shoved at him again, this time with a little more strength. "You're going to be late. Get up already! I vouched for you, remember? If you blow this, I'll never hear the end of it."
Kyle sighed, dramatically peeling himself off her like it required monumental effort. He sat up at the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his tousled black hair as golden light poured across his bare back and shoulders.
Charlotte couldn't help the way her gaze lingered on him just a little too long.
He caught it, of course.
He turned his head, caught her stare, and grinned like the absolute menace he was.
"See something you like, Miss Reporter?"
Charlotte's pillow hit him square in the back of the head. "Go take a shower!"
Laughing, Kyle rose to his feet and sauntered to the bathroom with all the swagger of a man who knew exactly how good he looked in morning sunlight.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in his sharp black tuxedo with his tie expertly knotted and his dark hair neatly styled, Kyle stood at the apartment's threshold. He adjusted his cuffs with slow, deliberate precision—every inch the refined, dashing professional he could be when the occasion called for it.
Charlotte, now in her own crisp outfit—camera slung over her shoulder, notepad tucked into her satchel—watched him with folded arms and a slightly tilted head.
"You sure you're ready?" she asked, teasing but earnest beneath it all.
Kyle met her gaze with a rare touch of sincerity.
"Thanks again. For… you know. All of this."
Charlotte blinked.
Then she stepped forward and rose onto her tiptoes, brushing her lips lightly against his lips.
"Go show them what you've got, Claudius," she whispered. "I'll be waiting."
He lingered for a beat. Then nodded.
"Always."
And with that, Kyle turned and headed out—down the spiral staircase, into the vibrant, steam-scented heart of Fontaine—and toward the Steambird.
The Court of Fontaine stirred with the gentle hum of early morning life. Steam carriages hissed along the cobbled streets, their glass windows catching slivers of sunlight as it filtered through the drifting clouds above. Cafés opened their brass-framed doors to the scent of freshly baked brioche and honeyed tea, and fountains burbled beside the wide boulevards, their crystal waters reflecting the ornate iron balconies overhead.
In the midst of this harmonious bustle, one figure moved with effortless elegance through the tide of citizens—a tall, striking young man, his every step deliberate, unhurried, precise.
His black tuxedo, perfectly tailored, hugged the contours of his frame like a second skin—sharp lapels, glinting buttons, and a subtle satin finish that shimmered with each movement. His dark hair was slicked back with meticulous care, exposing a strong brow and angular jawline, while his sea-blue eyes scanned the streets with a quiet, magnetic confidence.
Kyle Claudius.
He walked like a noble, but with the ease of someone who'd been in far more dangerous places. He didn't try to draw attention—he commanded it. Every motion, every glance, was effortless allure. Women paused mid-step to glance at him, some shy, others more bold, whispering behind delicate gloves or fanning themselves just a little faster. Even men gave second looks—whether in appraisal, challenge, or envy.
Kyle didn't react. He simply walked with the same calm poise, lips tilted in the ghost of a smirk, the sort that made it impossible to tell if he was planning to charm you or outwit you.
His destination stood tall at the edge of the square: the Steambird Office, an architectural marvel of stained glass, steel beams, and polished brass—a towering cathedral to truth, press, and power. Its domed roof glittered with refracted light, its front plaza alive with delivery carts, pigeons, and editorial messengers darting between newsstands like clockwork spirits.
Kyle stopped before the towering brass doors and glanced up at the plaque carved into the arch:
"Veritas. Vox. Virtus."Truth. Voice. Integrity.
He gave a soft huff of amusement. "Let's make some waves."
Inside, organized chaos reigned.
Scrolls were hurled across pneumatic tubes with pressurized hisses. Reporters barked half-finished stories over the hum of typewriters, and the entire ground floor was a tangle of ink, ambition, and barely-controlled caffeine jitters.
Even so, Kyle's entrance didn't go unnoticed.
He moved like a breath of cool air in a room full of steam—cutting clean through the din with his polished shoes tapping against the marble floor in elegant rhythm.
Behind the front desk, a young receptionist blinked rapidly as Kyle approached—her quill pausing mid-stroke. It wasn't every day that a man who looked like a fashion plate from a high-class poster strolled through the editorial floor with that kind of confidence.
"Good morning," Kyle greeted, voice smooth as velvet. He offered a charming smile and leaned in just a little. "Kyle Claudius. I have an appointment with Chief Editor Euphrasie."
The receptionist stammered slightly before regaining her composure. "Y-Yes, Mr. Claudius. Editorial wing—last door on the left."
Kyle offered a wink. "You're a lifesaver."
He reached the end of the corridor and paused before a heavy oak door.
One knock. Then another.
"Enter," came the voice within.
The office of Chief Editor Euphrasie was an elegant battlefield of paper and principle. Towering stacks of parchment flanked a heavy desk carved with judicial motifs. Walls lined with bookshelves sagged under the weight of court transcripts, archived issues of The Steambird, legal records, and framed front pages dating back to the days of the previous Hydro Archon.
Behind the desk sat Euphrasie herself—a woman of iron composure and sharp eyes, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a coiled bun so tight it looked like it could cut glass. She looked up from a legal document with a gaze that dissected more than it observed.
"Kyle Claudius," she said. "Punctual. That's a promising start."
"Only the first of many," Kyle replied, slipping into the chair opposite her with practiced ease. His tone was respectful, but his smirk betrayed just a trace of mischief.
Euphrasie's expression didn't change. But something in her eyes glittered faintly—interest, perhaps. Caution. Curiosity.
"You're not from here," she stated.
"No, ma'am," Kyle replied. "But I'm learning fast."
She nodded slowly, fingers steepling before her. "Charlotte says you're sharp. Said your pen cuts like a scalpel, and your instincts are wasted outside the field."
Kyle's smile softened. "Charlotte's been generous. I wouldn't be here without her. She's… helped me find my feet here."
Euphrasie raised a brow slightly. "She rarely vouches for anyone. And never without reason. She's one of our best—bright, relentless, honest to a fault. If she believes in you, Mr. Claudius, that carries weight."
Kyle inclined his head slightly. "I intend to live up to that trust."
"Good," Euphrasie said curtly, then reached into a stack of scrolls beside her. She plucked one—sealed with a wax sigil bearing the mark of the Opera Epiclese—and slid it across the desk.
"A test, then," she said. "Your first real assignment."
Kyle broke the seal and read.
"…Lord Armand?" he blinked. "The head of Fontaine's purification trust?"
"On trial for embezzling over three million credits in state funds," Euphrasie said, her tone flat. "The case has implications reaching every noble family tied to the Water Commission. You'll be covering the trial today."
Kyle let out a soft whistle. "That's a hell of a first assignment."
Euphrasie's smile was faint, but there. "Welcome to The Steambird. Truth waits for no one."
Kyle rolled up the scroll and tucked it under his arm. "You'll have your report by sunrise."
"Make sure I do," Euphrasie said, her tone calm but firm. Then, softer: "And… give Charlotte my regards. She's watching this assignment closely, whether she says it or not."
Kyle's eyes flicked up, a glint of warmth touching his features. "So am I."
As Kyle stepped back into the morning air, he felt a fire awaken in his chest. The kind of fire that only comes with purpose. Challenge. A path worth walking.
The Opera Epiclese rose before him like a dream given form—arches of marble and hydrocrystal towering into the sky, its courtroom balconies curled like waves frozen mid-motion. The canals at its base shimmered with elemental energy, and voices echoed through the courtyards like song and sentence woven together.
And then—
Beep.
He stopped in his tracks.
A strange chime echoed inside his skull. Not out loud. Not from the world around him. It sounded internal—like a notification from a device that shouldn't exist.
[Beep~ Place of historic significance detected nearby.]
[Life Simulation System is initializing… Loading… 83%... 94%...]
Kyle's breath caught. A blue interface bloomed before his eyes, like glass laced with filigree, overlaid on reality itself.
[Welcome, Host Kyle Claudius.][Life Simulation System has been activated.]
"What the hell…?" he whispered.
The interface flickered—clean, artificial, impossibly detailed. Runes pulsed softly in the corners, and prompts appeared one by one like a HUD from a game he didn't remember playing.
He blinked, but the image remained.
"Simulation System…?" he muttered.
Kyle stared up at the Opera Epiclese again, now seeing it not just as a building—but as a stage.
"Well," he exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "guess I really am the main character."
With that, he stepped forward, the interface quietly trailing behind his gaze like a second reality.