I wake up on my mattress on the floor and for three seconds I think the whole thing was a dream.
Lightning. Hospital. An app that rates my attractiveness like a Yelp review for humans. All of it. A fever dream cooked up by a brain that got too close to a million volts.
Then my phone buzzes.
[ Good morning, Host. ]
[ Current Stats: Physique 28 | Confidence 21 | Social IQ 35 | Charm 23 | Stamina 25 | Willpower 31 ]
[ Active Mission: Clean Slate ]
[ Reminder: You still own four t-shirts. The situation has not improved overnight. ]
Not a dream.
I sit up. My chest aches. My left hand throbs under the bandage. My studio apartment looks exactly like it always does — sad. A mattress, a mini-fridge, a folding table with a laptop, and a closet that contains the aforementioned four t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a funeral suit.
But there's $500 in an account that didn't exist yesterday, and a mission telling me to get a haircut and buy clothes that fit.
Reward: +3 Physique, +2 Confidence, $750.
I do the math. $500 plus $750 is $1,250. That's more than my rent. For getting a haircut and going shopping.
I've been paid less for a full month of work.
I shower. Put on the least offensive t-shirt. The grey one. It only has one small stain, near the hem, where I dropped hot sauce three months ago. I consider this my formal wear.
The barbershop is four blocks away. I've been going to the same one for three years. $15 cuts from a guy named Eddie who doesn't talk much, which is my preferred quality in a human being.
But today, when I sit in the chair, something is different.
"The usual?" Eddie asks.
The usual is a basic fade. Low maintenance. The haircut equivalent of giving up.
"No," I say. "Something different. Whatever you think would look good."
Eddie looks at me in the mirror. Actually looks. Like he's seeing my face for the first time.
"You got good bone structure," he says. "Been hiding it under that..." He gestures vaguely at my entire head. "Whatever this is."
"Thanks, Eddie. Really feeling the love."
He grins. Picks up the clippers.
Twenty minutes later, I don't recognize myself.
Not in a movie-makeover way. I still look like me. Same face, same scar on the eyebrow. But the haircut is... intentional. A textured fade, longer on top, the kind of cut that says "I thought about this" instead of "I remembered hair exists."
Eddie spins the chair. "See? Bone structure. I've been wanting to do this for three years."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"You never asked."
I pay him $15 plus a $10 tip because he just gave me a face I didn't know I had.
Next stop: clothes.
I don't know how to shop. I've never known how to shop. My mom used to buy my clothes until I was 18, and after that I just... stopped updating. Like a phone running software from 2018.
I walk into a store in the mall I've never entered because the mannequins in the window always seemed like they were judging me. They still are. But I have $500 from a supernatural dating app and nothing to lose.
A sales associate approaches. Early twenties. Short natural hair. Perfect eyeliner. Name tag: KEISHA.
"Can I help you find something?"
"I need..." I look around. Racks of clothes that all look like they belong to a more competent version of myself. "Everything, honestly. I need everything."
She raises an eyebrow. "Budget?"
"Three hundred."
"I can work with three hundred." She looks me up and down. Not flirtatiously. Professionally. Like a mechanic assessing what's wrong with an engine. "You've got broad shoulders for your frame. We should play that up. Dark colors. Nothing baggy. You've been wearing clothes two sizes too big."
"How did you—"
"That t-shirt is an XL. You're a medium. Maybe a large in slim fit." She's already pulling things off racks. "Try these."
She hands me a stack. Black henley. Dark navy chinos. A fitted olive jacket. A plain white crew neck that costs $40, which feels criminal for a t-shirt but it's the softest thing I've ever touched.
I go to the fitting room.
When I come out wearing the henley and the chinos, Keisha stops mid-sentence with another customer.
"Yeah," she says. "That's what I thought."
I look in the mirror.
The guy looking back at me has the same face. Same 5'9" frame. Same everything. But the clothes fit. Actually fit. The henley sits across my shoulders like it was made for them. The chinos have a taper that makes my legs look longer. The haircut and the clothes together create an illusion — not of someone I'm not, but of someone I could have been this whole time.
"You clean up nice," Keisha says. Not flirty. Matter-of-fact. The way someone says the sky is blue. Just observation.
"Thanks. You're good at this."
"I know." She rings me up. $287. I pay from my bank account — the real one. Saving the system money for something else.
I walk out of the mall carrying bags and wearing the henley. The air hits differently when your clothes fit. People's eyes land on you differently. Not staring. Just... landing. Registering. The opposite of invisible.
My phone buzzes.
[ MISSION COMPLETE: Clean Slate ]
[ Reward: +3 Physique, +2 Confidence, $750 ]
[ Current Stats: Physique 31 | Confidence 23 | Social IQ 35 | Charm 23 | Stamina 25 | Willpower 31 ]
[ Balance: $1,250.00 ]
Physique jumped to 31. I didn't work out. I didn't change my body. I got a haircut and wore clothes that fit and the system registered it as a physical upgrade.
Because it's not just muscles. It's how you present the body you have.
The system gets it.
[ New Mission Available ]
[ MISSION: First Impression ]
[ Objective: Go to a social venue tonight. Start a conversation with a woman you find attractive. Get her to laugh. ]
[ Reward: +3 Charm, +2 Social IQ, $1,000 ]
[ Bonus: If she gives you her number voluntarily (without you asking), additional +2 Charm, $500 ]
[ Note: Bars, clubs, lounges, coffee shops, and bookstores all qualify. The system does not judge your venue choice. The system does judge your drink order. ]
I read the note three times.
The system judges my drink order.
This app has personality and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
A social venue. Tonight. Talk to an attractive woman. Make her laugh.
My Confidence is 23. Three weeks ago it was whatever number means "hasn't spoken to a woman outside of customer service interactions since 2024."
But three weeks ago I didn't have a haircut that shows my bone structure and a henley that fits my shoulders and $1,250 from an app that rewards me for being a human being.
I go home. Iron the jacket. Look at myself in the bathroom mirror — the one with the crack down the middle that splits my reflection into two slightly offset versions of me.
Left side: the old Ryan. Invisible. Below average. 23 Charm.
Right side: whatever this is. Same guy, but assembled correctly for the first time.
I text Jay.
Ryan: What are you doing tonight?Jay: nothing whyJay: waitJay: are you... asking me to go OUT? like OUTSIDE?Ryan: There's a rooftop bar in DTLA. Want to go?Jay: who are you and what have you done with ryan malikJay: is this a hostage situation? blink twice if you need helpRyan: Are you coming or not?Jay: bro i've been WAITING for this dayJay: i'm literally putting on pants right nowJay: also since when do you know about rooftop bars?
Since a supernatural app on my phone told me to go to one. But I can't say that. So instead I type:
Ryan: Just felt like a change.
I put the phone down. Look at the mirror again.
31 Physique. 23 Confidence. 23 Charm.
Below average across the board. Walking into a rooftop bar in downtown LA where everyone is richer, taller, and more comfortable in their skin than I've ever been.
This is either going to be the best night of my new life or the most humiliating.
The system buzzes one more time.
[ Outfit assessment: Significant improvement. The host no longer resembles a man who has given up on visual communication. ]
[ Hair assessment: Excellent. Eddie should receive a larger tip next time. ]
[ Projected mission success rate: 34% ]
[ Note: 34% is considerably higher than the host's historical success rate, which the system has calculated at approximately 0%. ]
Zero percent.
The app just told me my lifetime success rate with women is zero percent.
I grab my jacket.
"We'll see about that," I mutter.
[ The system appreciates the host's competitive response to statistical humiliation. This is a positive indicator. ]
Yeah, we're going to get along just fine.