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The system didn't tell me how to use the song.
It didn't need to.
The moment the melody settled in my head, I understood something terrifying.
This song didn't feel like inspiration.
It felt… complete.
Not rough. Not experimental. Not something that needed polishing.
It was the kind of song producers spent millions trying—and failing—to create.
And now it was sitting inside my brain like it had always belonged there.
That night, I sat at my old desk with a cheap laptop, staring at the blank screen while the city hummed outside the window.
"No shortcuts," I muttered.
If I suddenly pulled out a perfectly produced track, people would ask questions.
Questions I couldn't answer.
So I worked.
I wrote the lyrics by hand first, pretending to struggle. I changed small things—not because they were wrong, but because I needed to feel like I was creating something.
Hours passed.
By the time the sun started creeping through the curtains, my eyes burned and my fingers hurt.
But the song was there.
A soft, emotional pop track. Simple rhythm. Easy to remember. Dangerous in its subtlety.
I leaned back in my chair and laughed quietly.
"If this doesn't work," I whispered, "nothing will."
Yueyin found me asleep at the desk.
She poked my cheek.
"Brother."
I groaned.
"Why are you sleeping like a dead body?"
"Because some people actually work," I said without opening my eyes.
She leaned closer, peering at the screen. "What's that?"
I sat up slowly.
"A song."
She blinked. "A song?"
"For you."
Her expression shifted instantly—from lazy curiosity to sharp attention.
"…You wrote it?"
"Yes."
She stared at me like I'd just told her I was secretly a billionaire.
"You?"
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You can barely clap on beat."
"That was one time!"
She crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced. "You expect me to believe you suddenly became a composer?"
I met her gaze calmly. "Do you want to listen, or not?"
She hesitated… then nodded.
"Fine. But if it's bad, I'm saying it."
I pressed play.
The room filled with soft instrumentals. A gentle opening. Then the melody.
Yueyin's teasing smile froze.
Ten seconds in, she stopped breathing.
Thirty seconds in, her eyes widened.
By the time the chorus hit, she was standing completely still, lips slightly parted.
When the song ended, silence lingered.
"Well?" I asked.
She swallowed.
"…Sing it again."
I did.
This time, she started humming along halfway through.
When it finished, she turned to me slowly.
"Brother," she said carefully, "where did you steal this from?"
I snorted. "I didn't steal it."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
She stared at me, searching my face for cracks.
"…If this song is real," she said softly, "I could actually debut."
That was the first time she said it without arrogance.
Not I deserve it.
But I could actually do it.
"Only if you're serious," I replied. "This isn't a game."
She clenched her fists.
"I am."
Recording was the next problem.
We didn't have a studio. We didn't have connections.
So we improvised.
I used the money carefully—renting a small recording booth for a few hours under the excuse of a student project. Nothing fancy. Nothing suspicious.
Yueyin stood behind the microphone, headphones on, posture perfect.
She closed her eyes.
The moment she started singing, I understood something else.
She wasn't a genius.
But she wasn't bad either.
Her voice was clear. Emotional. Honest.
Combined with her looks and the song?
It was more than enough.
When we finished, the technician glanced at her twice longer than necessary.
"She's your sister?" he asked casually.
"Yes."
"Pretty talented."
I smiled politely.
Inside, my grip tightened.
Uploading the song was the final step.
No agencies. No announcements.
Just a simple video.
Yueyin sitting by the window, sunlight on her face, singing like she didn't know the world was watching.
No makeup team. No filters.
Just beauty and sound.
I hovered over the upload button.
"This is the point of no return," I said.
She looked at me.
"You'll protect me, right?"
I nodded.
"Always."
I clicked upload.
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The first hour was nothing.
Ten views.
Twenty.
Then a comment.
"Her voice is nice."
Another.
"Who is she?"
The counter ticked upward faster.
A hundred. Five hundred. A thousand.
By midnight, the video had crossed ten thousand views.
Yueyin stared at the screen, frozen.
"Brother," she whispered, "people are sharing it."
By morning, it was trending on a small platform.
Not exploding.
But rising.
Slow. Steady. Dangerous.
Exactly how the system wanted it.
But the system stayed silent.
No notifications.
No praise.
As if it were watching… waiting.
Yueyin hugged her knees on the couch, refreshing the page obsessively.
"Why is this happening?" she asked quietly.
I looked at the city outside the window.
"Because," I said, "you're worth watching."
She smiled.
And for the first time, it wasn't fake.
That night, my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
"Hello. I saw the video.""Who are you?"
I stared at the message.
The game had begun.
And the world didn't know it yet—
—but they already believed the lie.
That I was just a genius.
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