George woke from a restless sleep—not because his body ached, but because his mind had apparently signed up for a midnight marathon.
Perfectly healthy. No fatigue. Definitely not the body's fault.
It was performance anxiety—the stress of walking into a meeting he was never meant to attend.
He sat up slowly, blinking against the dim light filtering through sleek, high-rise windows. His eyes adjusted—and then he saw it.
Color. Again.
It had spread.
What was once a grayscale world now shimmered faintly with life, like someone had dipped the universe in watercolor. Faint gold lined the edge of his desk. A soft navy pulsed from the curtains. The once-ashen walls now wore streaks of smoky blue, creeping upward like shy vines auditioning for a nature documentary.
His Record had clearly been working overtime.
The system's catching up, he thought.
He swung his legs off the bed, wincing at the chill of the floor, and shuffled to the mirror. The bathroom light flickered on dramatically, revealing a man dressed in borrowed history—elegant, practiced, and entirely confused.
He splashed cold water on his face, as if he could rinse away existential dread like last night's pizza grease. No luck. The anxiety clung like a stage-five clinger.
Back in the bedroom, he opened the wardrobe and pulled out a black suit. If he was going to fake his way through a meeting with world leaders, he might as well look like a professional liar.
As he dressed, his thoughts circled the upcoming Federation meeting—an Avengers-level reunion of power brokers, political giants, and professional backstabbers. People who had known the real George Helel.
What if they ask questions? What if I answer wrong? Can I fake being George among people who memorized his mask… or are they also seeing George for the first time?
In his fragmented memories this is the first time george attending a meeting of this scale
Ding.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.
Victor: "I'm out."
No explanation. No emoji. Not even a "lol."
George narrowed his eyes, reading the message again as if a second glance might conjure a location tag.
Out where, Victor? Out of the building? Out of patience? Out of his mind?
Victor Albrecht was sharp—too sharp. The kind of sharp that could slice through layers of bullshit and still have time to judge your tie. That made him dangerous.
George looked around at the slowly coloring walls, suspicion crawling up his spine like a cold lizard.
If he suspects something…
He closed his eyes. The system was silent—until he reached for it. Then it pulsed to life, humming like an overclocked fridge.
His Record: a living archive, a luminous thread of power only he could grasp. Through it, he could alter and bind, trace and rewrite.
You know, casual omnipotence.
He narrowed his focus to his mental space—a tiny sphere no bigger than a tennis ball, floating in blackness. Tight. Cramped. Like trying to meditate in a broom closet.
His eyes opened. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like judgmental wasps. The sterile scent of recycled air mingled with something… earthy.
Wait.
He spotted it.
A flower pot in the corner—small, chipped, and desperately trying to survive corporate décor. A single vine curled lazily over the rim, like it had just woken from a nap.
That pot had been the first. The first to receive his [RECORD].
[STILLBLOOM VEIL]
Aura Radius: 2.0 meters
Effect: Mild-to-moderate emotional sedation.
Warning: Side effects may include spontaneous sighing, therapeutic realizations, and craving hot tea.
And now… he'd have to destroy it.
Not out of anger. Out of necessity.
It was time to reclaim the record he given and it's intrest
As if in response, a warmth stirred in his chest. His mental space began to stretch—subtle at first, like someone gently inflating his skull with a bicycle pump.
But he hadn't done anything.
"What is this?" he muttered, barely audible over the lights buzzing like gossiping coworkers.
Then it clicked.
The vine. The living thread he had embedded his Record into.
It was responding. Returning something. Feeding him—
Right after someone stomped it.
Of course.
The vine had given him back a sliver of power—mental strength—but it was barely a flicker. Not enough.
He needed more. Much more.
George strode toward the pot, a calming aura washing over him like a sedative. Without hesitation, he picked it up… and smashed it to the floor.
The flower snapped. The flower crumpled beneath his shoe with a satisfying crunch.
And then he waited.
His mental space began to expand, a swelling clarity pressing outward.
From the size of a tennis ball… to something larger.
A ballooning soccer ball—overinflated, making his mind brimming with a newfound focus.
George stepped outside with deliberate care, as if the sidewalk might file a complaint if he walked too quickly.
The morning air greeted him with its usual blend of city grime and overachieving chill—a perfect pairing for a man who hadn't had coffee but was already tired of everything.
Just ahead, Victor stood like a professionally carved statue—immaculate suit, flawless posture, and that annoyingly composed expression that screamed,
' I definitely ironed this morning, unlike you.'
The man had the presence of a presidential aide and the emotional range of a high-end printer: precise, efficient, and absolutely unbothered.
"Good morning, sir,"
Victor said with a polite nod, opening the car door with the kind of grace reserved for award ceremonies and overly dramatic movie scenes.
George returned the nod, slipping into the car with the poise of someone who definitely belonged in this situation—and not, say, someone who had just Googled "how to act like a functioning adult" ten minutes ago.
Ah yes, he thought dryly, just another perfectly orchestrated morning in the life of George Helel—corporate darling, reluctant deity, and full-time fraud with excellent taste in shoes.
The window reflected a clean, controlled image back at him. Fake it till you make it, he mused. Or in my case—fake it, then overthink it, then wonder how the hell you got here in the first place.
As he got comfortable
The city moved past the car windows in a steady rhythm—steel, glass, and sky layered in clean lines. George watched it without expression, the familiar silence between him and Victor unbroken.
Victor reached into the leather compartment at his side and handed over a slim folder.
"The briefing," he said simply.
George nodded, accepting it without comment. He opened it, scanning quickly. Profiles. Roles. summaries with just enough context. No dramatics, no distractions.
And right below the option of objective in red it is written "CONFIDENTIAL"
Nothing has said aloud
The vehicle descended into the underground diplomatic entrance of the Federation Tower.
As the brakes eased to a stop, the doors opened seamlessly—no ceremony, no greeting party. Just a waiting attendant in uniform who gestured toward a private elevator already open.
Victor exited first. George followed.
The elevator rose without a sound.
When the doors parted, they stepped into a polished corridor lit by soft, ambient panels. A single lady stood at the end, waiting beside an open door.
"This way, sir," she said.
George gave a brief nod and walked forward. No one introduced themselves. No time wasted on pleasantries. The meeting room was already in session, arranged in a clean semicircle of modular seating, documents already distributed at each place. As he seated in last of the table of left where his name card is placed
He stepped into his seat.
No welcome No handshake Just work.
And that was exactly how he preferred it.
_______