Saturday morning light felt different. It didn't highlight dust in my apartment; it highlighted the silence. The kind of silence that comes after a week where your entire life gets flipped on its head. I wasn't just Terrence Holt anymore. I was Terrence Holt plus. Plus a system. Plus a score. Plus a win.
I lay in bed, staring at the crack in my ceiling I'd named 'Frank.' My brain wasn't racing with anxiety for once, it was… sorting. Filing the week away. The humiliation, the fall, DES, the stats, Sasha's face when I shut her down. Each one a brick in a new foundation.
The system's second big command popped into my head: Obtain your first System Certificate. Sounded like corporate HR nonsense.
What did that even mean?
"DES," I said to the empty room. "Explain the certificate thing."
Words lit up in front of my vision, cool and blue.
The HUD ignited, not with a mission prompt this time, but with a catalogue:
«Certificate Catalogue» – DES Corp. Accredited
Available for Acquisition (Require Completion Points / Desirability Threshold):
• Culinary Arts (Professional Certification). Enhances social utility, direct pathway to influence via controlled environments.
• Data Science (MSc, TitanForge-Aligned). Career capital multiplier. Legitimizes rapid advancement.
• Financial Market Analysis (Series 7 Equivalent). Wealth-generation specialization.
• Conversational Hypnosis (Psychology-Adjacent). Non-certified mastery. Direct interpersonal influence tool.
Note: Certificates are not just awards. They are injected competencies. They require resource investment.
It wasn't just a piece of paper. It was a superpower voucher. Cook like a chef, code like a genius, trade like a wolf, talk people into handing you their wallets just by... choosing.
Below the list, a new, greyed-out section pulsed faintly:
«Skill Arsenal» – [LOCKED]
Prerequisite: Obtain First System Certificate.
Description: Targeted, supernatural influence modules. Effects are subject to target compatibility and skill level. Choose your specialization.
What it meant was simple: Special moves. Not just knowing stuff, but doing stuff that changes how people feel around you.
My eyes landed on the stolen SSD on my dresser. The proof. See, Want, Take. I took a thing. Now I could take a talent.
My phone screamed on the nightstand, dragging me from my thoughts.
Mom.
I braced myself and answered. "Hey, Mom."
"Terrence Alexander Holt. Do you know what day it is?"
"It's Saturday, Mom."
"It's Saturday," she echoed, voice thick with wounded drama. "The day my only son, who lives forty-five minutes away by bus, decides if his mother is worth visiting. Or maybe you're tired of me. Maybe I talk too much."
The opening gambit. Classic.
"It's not that. You know it's not that." I tried for a comeback.
"Then what is it? And don't give me the 'I've been busy with work.' I've heard that aria. I know all the verses."
"I have been busy with work!" I protested, falling right into the script.
A heavy, performative sigh came through the phone speakers. "I just can't believe it. My only son. After all I did… the sleepless nights, the PTA meetings, the time I fought that librarian over your overdue Goosebumps book…"
She was winding up for the full symphony. I saw the next hour of my life flashing before my eyes—a montage of guilt and recrimination. The fastest exit was surrender.
"Fine," I cut in, before she could resurrect the memory of my chickenpox. "Fine. I'll be there in an hour."
The wounded tone vanished, replaced by brisk victory. "Good. I already put the potatoes in to roast. They'll be ready before you get here."
I blinked. "…Wow."
Of course she was already cooking. The guilt trip wasn't a question; it was a setup. The outcome was baked into the premise, just like the potatoes.
---
An hour later, her house smelled like childhood and obligation. She opened the door, did her instant up-and-down scan, and froze.
"Terrence, you're... standing up straight."
"Posture video," I mumbled, slipping past her. A lie, but a good one.
She wasn't buying it, but the roast was calling.
We sat.
"So," she said, wielding a serving spoon like a gavel. "Sasha. How's my future daughter-in-law?"
The lie was warm and ready, like the food. "It didn't work out, Mom. We wanted different things."
Her face fell, all genuine softness. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. She sounded so lovely."
"She was," I said, the fiction smooth as butter. "Just not my person."
I ate. I listened. I nodded. This was the other world. The simple, noisy, loving one. For an hour, I let it be a blanket. A place where the only system was a mother's love, and the only score was how many helpings you took.
---
The bus home felt slow. The buzz from the morning—the idea of picking a superpower—was bottled up with nowhere to go. I got off a stop early, aimless, and walked into a convenience store I never visit.
The bell dinged. Fluorescent lights, the smell of old hot dogs.
The girl behind the counter was bored out of her mind, scrolling, not even looking up.
DES immediately tagged her with a casual, flickering overlay:
> Target Analysis: Yuri Akeno.
Age: 26.
Status: High boredom, low alert.
Substrate Signal: Open to stimulation / romantic attention.
Then she did. Her eyes flicked to me, then back to her phone. Then back to me, slower.
A thought, clear as if she'd whispered it, slid into my head: {Dead shift… ugh. Wait. He's kinda hot. Looks… focused too. Intense.}
I bought a can of bottled water, just to have a reason to be there. I took my change, got to the door, and stopped.
Why the hell not?
It was a test. No stakes. She was already interested. The whole point of this week was to stop walking away.
I turned around and walked back to the counter. She looked up, surprised.
I put my phone down on the counter between us. "I need your number."
Her mouth actually fell open. {Is he for real? Right now?}
I saw her pulse jump in her throat, literally.
[BPM: 72 → 88]
"I…you can't just…" she fumbled.
I leaned in, just a little. Just enough, then kept my voice low, like we were in on a joke together. "The quiet ones see everything," I said. "I saw you looking."
{Oh my GOD.} She blushed, deep and fast.
I let that hang for a beat, then added, the words softly, but the eye contact unbreaking: "You don't have to. If you don't want to."
My thought was cold, clear calculation: The out is an illusion. The eye contact is the trap. She'll say yes to prove she 'wants to.'
A part of me waited for DES to flash a prompt, to give me the perfect next line.
It never came. Didn't need it.
She took my phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed in her number.
Hm. Turns out I could handle some parts myself, and perfectly too.
I took the phone back, holding her wide, slightly dazed eyes. I let the silence stretch for two full seconds—let the reality of what she'd just done simmer between us.
Then, with a final, deliberate nod of my own: "I'll text you."
She nodded back, a slow, almost unconscious motion, like she was confirming it to herself.
{I just... gave him my number. Just like that.}
I walked out. The bell dinged. My heart wasn't pounding. My hands weren't sweaty.
It was clean, simple and effective.
Walking home, the night felt bigger. My mom's love was a fact. Yuri's number was a prize. The SSD was proof I could take what I wanted.
The system was offering me the keys to the world. Cook. Code. Con. Charm.
I used to lie awake wondering how to survive.
Now, I was starting to wonder which version of myself I wanted to become.
---
To be continued...