The rooftop room reeked of stale sweat and cheap instant noodles, a perfume of desperation that clung to Samuel Montclair's skin.
His "apartment"—a generous term for the converted attic above a grimy New Avalon bodega—was a claustrophobic box with a slanted ceiling that dripped when it rained, which was damn near every night.
A single, flickering bulb swung overhead, casting jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper.
The window, warped and rattling, let in the city's pulse: honking cabs, drunken laughter, and the low thrum of bass from a club down the street. It was a soundtrack that made Samuel's blood itch for something more than this.
He slouched at a rickety desk, shirtless in the late-spring heat, his lean frame glistening under the bulb's weak glow. His laptop, a hand-me-down that wheezed like an old man, displayed a mess of half-written code for a computer science assignment due at midnight.
The cursor blinked like a taunt, daring him to finish. Samuel, 21, with messy dark hair and glasses that kept sliding down his nose, rubbed his eyes and cursed under his breath. 11:49 PM. Eleven minutes to submit, and he was drowning in syntax errors and self-loathing.
This was his life: a sagging mattress with a tangled sheet, a hot plate surrounded by crumpled noodle packets, a mini fridge that rattled like it was plotting mutiny.
His clothes—faded tees and jeans worn thin at the knees—draped over a rope strung across the room, because the landlord hadn't bothered with a closet.
It was all he could afford on his part-time gig at the university's IT desk, resetting passwords for coeds who barely glanced at him and professors who treated him like a ghost.
Samuel wasn't one to wallow, but tonight, the weight of it all pressed down like the humid air. Orphaned at seven, he'd been shuffled through foster homes, each one teaching him to keep his mouth shut and his dreams smaller.
No family, no savings, just a scholarship to New Avalon University and a stubborn streak that kept him scraping by. He'd thought college would be his escape, a chance to code something that'd make the world notice him. Two years in, he was still a nobody, lost in a campus of rich kids with trust funds and perfect smiles.
His phone buzzed on the desk, and his heart did a stupid little lurch. Chloe. It was always Chloe, even now. But the screen showed a bill reminder—$87 overdue, a middle finger from his carrier. He swiped it away, but the ache lingered, sharp and hot.
Four weeks ago, Chloe had dumped him in the campus café, her lips glossy and her eyes avoiding his.
"Sam, you're sweet," she'd purred, leaning close enough that he could smell her vanilla perfume. "But I need someone who's... more."
She didn't say "richer," but the next day, her Instagram was all sleek cars and rooftop bars, her arm around some guy named Bryce who probably spent more on cologne than Samuel did on rent. Bryce, with his tailored jacket and smug grin, had her pressed against him in a way that made Samuel's jaw clench.
He'd spent that night on the roof, shirt sticking to his skin, staring at the city's neon veins. He'd been good to her—stayed up late debugging her projects, kissed her slow and hungry when she let him, whispered stupid promises in the dark.
But it wasn't enough. Not when Bryce could offer penthouses and parties, not this leaky attic and a guy who smelled like instant ramen.
Samuel dragged his hands through his hair, forcing his focus back to the code. Finish the assignment. Pass the class. Get out of this hole.
But before he could type another line, a sharp *crack* split the air, like a whip snapping across his nerves. He flinched, knocking over a half-empty energy drink that dribbled onto the floor.
The bulb flickered wildly, buzzing like a trapped wasp, and his laptop screen spasmed—static tearing through his code, twisting it into jagged, impossible shapes.
"What the hell?" he muttered, smacking the monitor. The screen went black, then flared with a pulse of electric blue that made his pulse spike. Words materialized, floating in the air—not on the screen, but above it, glowing like they were carved from starlight:
[System Activated: Welcome to Love Points Online, Host.]
Samuel froze, his breath catching. Malware? A prank? Some CS asshole flexing their skills? But the air in the room had shifted—thick, electric, like the moment before a kiss that sets you on fire. His skin tingled, and the words pulsed, shifting:
[Host: Samuel Montclair. Status: Initialized. Love Points: 0.]
He leaned closer, heart hammering. "Okay, who's screwing with me?"
His voice sounded thin in the quiet. No answer, just the hum of the fridge and the distant pulse of the city. He unplugged the laptop, but the screen stayed lit, the words shimmering like they were mocking gravity.
This wasn't a virus. It was… something else.
The text scrolled again:
[Objective: Earn Love Points through intimate and affectionate interactions. Points may be redeemed for enhancements, abilities. Begin Tutorial?]
'Intimate and affectionate..?' The words sent a shiver down his spine, half thrill, half unease.
He pictured Chloe's smirk, the way she'd teased him with a brush of her fingers, and his mouth went dry.
'Was this for real? A system that rewarded… what, charm? Seduction?' He waved a hand through the floating text, and it rippled like water, sending a jolt through his fingers. His pulse raced.
This was no hallucination.
"Alright," he said, voice low, like he was afraid to break the spell. "Let's see what you've got."
He pressed the Y key, half-expecting nothing. Instead, the room seemed to *hum*, and a flood of images poured into his mind—not on the screen, but behind his eyes. A glowing interface overlaid his vision, sleek and seductive, like a game designed by someone who knew his deepest wants.
A counter blinked in the corner: LovePoints: 0. A menu unfurled, teasing options: Physical Enhancements (sculpted muscles, endless stamina), Mental Upgrades (irresistible charisma, razor-sharp wit), Supernatural Abilities (slow time, ignite desire), etc.
A voice—smooth, sultry, and faintly digital—purred in his head: "Welcome, Samuel Montclair, to Love Points Online. Your objective is to earn Love Points through connections that spark desire and devotion. The deeper the bond, the greater the reward. Spend wisely to claim your power. First quest: Earn 5 Love Points by sunrise. Reward: 10-point bonus. Penalty for failure: None. Begin now."
The interface faded, leaving the room dim and his laptop back to its pathetic code. But the counter lingered in his vision, a faint, teasing glow: Love Points: 0. Samuel stood, his bare feet sticking to the floor, and paced the tiny space.
His blood was humming, a mix of nerves and something hotter. A system that gave him power for making women want him? It was absurd, like a wet dream coded into reality.
He could be stronger, sharper, the kind of guy who'd have Chloe begging to come back. Hell, he could be the guy Bryce wished he was.
But a prickle of doubt curled in his gut. Why him? He was nobody—a broke orphan with nothing but grit and a chip on his shoulder.
And what was the catch? Games like this always had a hook, something to reel you in and gut you. He thought of Chloe, her lips parting under his, and the way she'd walked away without looking back. If this system could make him someone she'd crave, was it worth the risk?
He grabbed a faded black tee, tugging it over his head, and snagged his jacket from the rope. The counter pulsed as he moved: Love Points: 0.
Sunrise was hours away. The campus was still alive—late-night study groups, dive bars, maybe that club down the street where the music thumped like a heartbeat. He could start small, test the waters. A smile, a conversation, a spark. How hard could it be?
As he hit the creaking stairs, a new message flickered in his vision, its tone laced with a playful warning:
[Caution: The system watches. Lust earns points, but trust multiplies them. Choose your moves carefully, Samuel.]
His breath hitched, a grin tugging at his lips. This wasn't just a game—it was a challenge, one that played on his desires and dared him to push further. The city waited below, pulsing with possibility, and for the first time in forever, Samuel felt alive.