The moment I pressed Y, the cyber café vanished.
Not literally—the sticky keyboard, the smell of instant noodles, the flickering overhead light all remained. But a translucent blue dome enveloped my booth, filtering the world into muted background noise. The gamer kid typing furiously at the next terminal became a blurred silhouette, his keystrokes muffled like underwater bubbles.
A voice spoke directly into my skull. Not male, not female—not even human. It was the sound of a startup chime given personality: cheerful, efficient, and slightly smug.
[Binding complete! Host Song Anran, welcome to the Ultimate Romance System.]
I slapped my forehead. "Nope. This is a psychotic break. Induced by stress, sleep deprivation, and approximately three liters of self-pity."
[Error: Host mental stability is within acceptable parameters. Breakdown probability: 3.7%.] The voice sounded almost offended. [Would a hallucination deposit ¥50,000 into your account?]
"Prove it."
[Mission: Survive 24 Hours Without Crying. Current Progress: 0.5/24 hours.] A countdown materialized in the corner of my vision: 23:59:31... 30... 29... 28...
The rectangle expanded into a full interface, hovering at retina distance no matter where I looked. It had tabs. Tabs. Like a porn browser I couldn't close.
[Host Status]
Name: Song Anran
Level: 1 (Baby Doormat)
Charisma: 32/100 (Wallflower)
Career: 28/100 (Expendable)
Romance EXP: 0/100 (Dumped)
Special Tags: [Human NPC], [Invisible to Men Worth Loving], [Financially Screwed]
My eye twitched. "Did you just call me a Baby Doormat?"
[Term of endearment! Your starting class is "Unpolished Jade." Potential: SSS-Rank. Current Polish: Nonexistent.]
I should have been terrified. Instead, I was... offended. "And 'Human NPC'?"
[Non-Player Character. You were living as background decoration in other people's stories. That ends today.] The voice gained a conspiratorial edge. [Unless you'd prefer to keep crying into recycled noodles? Timer's ticking.]
The countdown burned neon in my periphery: 23:57:12.
The system had a point. I was one errant thought away from dissolving into a puddle. Mom's surgery, Gu's silence, the severance envelope that wouldn't even cover cremation costs—all of it pressed against my tear ducts like a thumb.
[Pro tip: Host's tear glands are currently at 89% capacity. Recommend immediate distraction.] A new window popped up: [Emergency Protocol: Hate is Easier Than Grief.] A photo of Gu Chenyu materialized, his corporate headshot perfectly styled. System helpfully added a mustache and devil horns. [Target Acquired: Gu Chenyu, 28, CEO of Chenyu Holdings. Current Regret Level: 0.3% (statistically insignificant). Mission: Elevate to 100%. Failure conditions: Host achieves inner peace before revenge is complete. Reward: Happiness? Unclear. Secondary Reward: Everything you've ever wanted.]
I stared at his pixelated smirk. The same lips that had kissed my forehead last week, murmuring You're too good for me—which I now realized wasn't a compliment but a warning label.
Something hard and hot unfolded in my chest. Not sadness. Fury.
"How?" I asked, and the system pounced like a cat hearing a can opener.
[Excellent question! The Path of the Scorned Woman offers many branches:] A skill tree materialized, branches glowing like neon veins. [Option 1: The Glow-Up (Physical). Option 2: The Power Grab (Career). Option 3: The Society Invasion (Network). Option 4: All of the Above, Because Why Settle?]
The timer pulsed: 23:54:02.
"I need money now. Not a makeover."
[Money is a byproduct of value. Value is a byproduct of belief. You don't need a loan—you need to believe you're worth investing in.] The voice dropped its game-show cheer, turning serious. [But fine. Baby steps. Complete the survival mission. Receive ¥50,000. Use it. Then we'll discuss the terms of your ex's psychological destruction.]
"Psychological destruction sounds... illegal."
[Civil destruction, then. I'll have you know my previous host turned a cheating ex into a monk. He's very peaceful now.]
I nearly laughed. The sound caught in my throat, a hiccup between sob and hysteria. The timer flickered.
[WARNING: Crying detected! Mission progress at risk!]
I swallowed the sound, forcibly, like shoving a pill down a cat's throat. My eyes stung, but my jaw clenched. Survive 24 hours. That was it. No tears. I could do that. I'd survived three years of being an afterthought. What was one more day of not feeling?
The system seemed to read my mind. [Attitude adjustment noted. Charisma +1 (Resilience). Total: 33. You're now "Slightly Less Invisible Wallflower." Progress!]
Throughout the night, the system was a relentless, hovering presence. When I dozed off on the booth's faux-leather seat, a gentle [DING!] woke me at 3 AM: [Sleep is acceptable. Drooling is not. Maintain dignity.] When I checked Gu's WeChat at 5 AM—still no reply—it blocked his profile with a red X: [Focus on future, not past. Also, he's posting gym selfies. Host's blood pressure is rising. Channel that.] When I used the café bathroom and caught my reflection—mascara-smeared, hair limp, blouse wrinkled—it overlay stats: [Current Appearance: "Recently Evicted." Post-Mission projection: "Unbothered Queen." Trust the process.]
By 6:47 AM, I'd developed a twitch in my left eye from fighting the system's notifications. But I hadn't cried. Not when the café kid kicked me out at closing (5 AM). Not when I walked the pre-dawn streets, box of office supplies awkward under my arm. Not when my phone buzzed—not Gu, but the hospital, reminding me of the 8 AM deadline.
The countdown showed 01:13:22. I was so close.
I took the subway to the hospital. Rush hour hadn't begun; the car was filled with overnight workers and insomniacs. I sat opposite a woman reading a book titled The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck. The system highlighted it: [Recommended Reading for Host.] I closed my eyes.
[Mission: Empathy Protection. Block external stimuli. Activate Focus Mode? Y/N]
I selected Y. The world muted. For seventy-three blissful minutes, I floated in a soundproof bubble, buffered from pitying glances and my own spiraling thoughts. When the ding sounded—[Mission Complete! Congratulations, Host!]—I opened my eyes to sunlight and the hospital's sterile smell.
[Reward: ¥50,000 deposited to Bank of China Account 4732 at 08:00:01. Timestamp verified. No, you cannot get it in cash. Yes, you can use it immediately.]
I checked my banking app, hands shaking. The balance stared back: ¥50,236.88. The 236.88 was my old life. The 50,000 was... what? A miracle? A glitch? A very specific, very timely hallucination?
The system materialized a new window: [Mission 2: The Deposit. Pay for Mom's surgery. Reward: [Medical Security], [Mom's Health Bar: +50%]. Failure: Host becomes actual orphan. Time limit: 2 hours.]
"You're pushy," I muttered, but my feet were already moving toward the billing office.
The administrator from yesterday—same professionally unsympathetic face—looked up. "Miss Song. The deadline was 8 AM. It's 8:17—"
I slapped my phone on the counter, showing the transfer screen. "I have the money. Process it."
She blinked. Her expression flickered from bureaucrat to human. "Oh. Well. That's... unexpected."
[Deception Detection: Unlocked!] the system trilled. [Administrator's "Unexpected" = "I thought you were poor and lying." Host satisfaction: +10.]
As I signed the forms—more zeroes than I'd ever written—a man in a white coat paused by the desk. He was young for a doctor, maybe early thirties, with the kind of face that belonged in a medical drama: sharp jaw, tired eyes, and a stethoscope worn like a fashion accessory.
"Dr. Shen," the administrator greeted. "This is Song Anran, Zhang Hui's daughter."
He turned to me. His gaze did that thing where it looked through you, like he was diagnosing your soul. "You're the daughter who was trying to negotiate a payment plan."
"Was," I corrected. "Now I'm the daughter who paid."
He studied me. I mean studied—like a specimen under a slide. The system helpfully provided a stat screen I didn't ask for:
[Dr. Shen Wei, 32, Attending Surgeon]
[Observation Skill: 89/100]
[Current Thought: "Her bio-energy shifted. Yesterday: depleted. Today:... aligned?"]
[Hidden Tag: [System Analyst] - WARNING: Do Not Engage]
I blinked. The system had never warned me about anyone before.
Dr. Shen's eyes narrowed. "You look different, Miss Song."
"I slept," I lied.
"No," he said quietly. "That's not it."
The system flashed red: [Host is being scanned by unauthorized entity. Recommend immediate exit.]
I snatched my receipt. "When's the surgery?"
"Tomorrow, 9 AM." He was still staring. "Miss Song, has anything... unusual happened to you recently?"
Aside from the digital hallucination that's saving my life?
"Just a really good nap," I said, and walked away before he could ask more. The system's warning pulsed in my vision like a migraine.
In the elevator, I finally let myself breathe. The ¥50,000 was real. Mom's surgery was scheduled. I'd survived twenty-four hours without crying. My reflection in the metal doors showed a girl who'd just traded her soul for a cheat code and wasn't sure she'd gotten the worse end of the deal.
My phone buzzed. Not the hospital. Not Lily.
Gu-laoban: Saw you paid the deposit. We need to talk.
The system materialized, its interface sharper than before: [Mission 3: The Talk. Engage with Ex. Options: Ignore (recommended), Reply (risky), Meet (dangerous). Reward: Variable. Failure: Emotional regression. Warning: Gu Chenyu's Regret Level spiked to 5% after hearing about payment. Curiosity is not remorse. Choose wisely.]
I stared at the text. Yesterday, it would have been salvation. Today, it was a side quest I didn't need.
The elevator dinged. I stepped out into the sunlight, my shadow stretching long and unfamiliar on the pavement. The system hovered, waiting.
[Host decision required. Path diverges here.]
For the first time in twenty-six years, I didn't immediately say yes to a man who'd made me wait.
I typed: Busy. Talk later.
The system didn't ding with approval. It simply updated: [Host has learned the first rule of power: Make them wait. Charisma +5. New tag acquired: [Learning Fast].]
As I walked toward the subway, my phone buzzed again. Another message, but not from Gu. This one had no sender, no number—just a black screen with white text:
[System Upgrade Available: The Glow-Up Protocol. Accept? Y/N]
I didn't know who'd sent it. I didn't know what it would cost.
But I'd just survived a day I shouldn't have. I'd turned tears into a down payment on my mother's life.
I pressed Y.
The screen went black. Then, in elegant silver letters: [Welcome to the Game, Song Anran. Your ex thinks he's the final boss. Let's show him he's just Level 1.]
Behind me, a black car with tinted windows pulled away from the curb. I didn't see it. But the system did.
[Observer Status: User Jiang Huai'an has logged on. Romance Value: ???]
I kept walking, toward a future that suddenly had options. The girl who'd cried over braised pork was gone.
In her place was someone who'd just sold her tears for ¥50,000—and had no intention of buying them back.