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My eyes fluttered open, and pain shot through my head. My breath was ragged as I turned my head. The room was completely white. I mean entirely white—not a trace of black, red, or yellow, which are my favourite colours. How dull. I sat on the cold floor, my body draped in a loose white gown and wearing yellow fuzzy slippers on my feet. Despite everything, all I could think about was who the hell would summon me before I even finished my soup. My legs trembled as I stood.
“Hello, host,” a mechanical voice called out, its volume buzzing in my ears.
I thought I was going crazy, checking to make sure there wasn’t any wax in my ears. WHAT THE—HELL NO! I refuse to accept that there is some kind of system here. "No. Nope. I’m not entertaining a ‘system.’ That’s where I draw the line." I think I’ve been watching too much anime—exactly too much. There’s no way. I knew it; I knew it. My doctor did warn me about this.
I scanned the room. A clock, a white blanket, and a pillow lay nearby. The clock ticked softly. As I approached, my hands fluffed the pillow and blanket. My head rested on the pillow and blanket above as I shut my eyes. If I go back to sleep, maybe the plot will fix itself.
“Host, my name is System. I am the assistant granted to you by the Universal Guardian of the domain …”
SILENCE…...
The clock ticked. Five minutes passed slowly, painfully, as I slowly rose. “Time dragged its feet across the silence, slow and sulking, like even it didn’t want to be here.
So, system, what do you do? My voice echoed in the room. The clock struck 12.
DING, DONG DING DONG!
The silence broke first, not with sound, but with motion. The walls exhaled, soft and slow, as if the room itself was bored of existing. They slid back, stretching space that hadn’t been there a second ago.
Colours bled into the void—first buttery yellows, then sun-blushed pinks—like the room had inhaled a bakery and exploded in pastels. A sofa appeared mid-yawn, all squashy and floral like something plucked from a grandmother’s fever dream.
My gown tingled. That was my only warning. One blink and white cotton turned into a coordinated ensemble: pink pyjamas, ruffled at the ankles, complete with fuzzy yellow slippers clinging to my feet like enthusiastic marshmallows.
“Right,” I muttered. “Interior design by Daydream Barbie. Love that for me.”
A window snapped into existence with no architectural preamble, revealing a sea that shimmered like an Instagram filter had spilt all over reality. The waves crashed rhythmically—too rhythmically.
Everything in this place felt… curated. Like the world had read my browser history and was trying just a bit too hard.
I strode toward the window, where the familiar yet unfamiliar sounds of crashing waves echoed in the desolately glamorous space. The scent of salt permeated the air as I touched the window, its smooth texture soothing against my fingertips.
“I am the 1000th in the selection, the Protagonist Hero System,” a voice rang in my head. It was alien and commanding, as an interface resembling a computer materialised before my eyes. In the centre of the interface, a bold sentence in script font read: “The Guide to Escaping Like a Boss,” displayed in bright yellow.
Interesting, I thought my blue eyes scrutinising the screen as I pressed start. The system then began explaining. It was like one of those manhwa systems and stuff as it began:
Firstly, host... start by reading the host system contract. Its mechanical voice echoed as a thick stack of paper fell into my hands. The scent of oak filled my nose, a chair and table appearing with a gust of wind.
The contract read :
The 1000th Protagonist Hero System Contract
- “By signing, you agree to undertake quests, tasks, subplots, and side quests to be determined at random.”
- One (1) complimentary tutorial montage.
- Access to the Hero Pantry™: Limited to three magical items and one questionable potion.
- “Emotional growth arc is optional but highly recommended for reader engagement metrics.”
- “Failure to comply may result in random genre shifts (horror probability: 32%).”
- “Death is temporary. Resurrection is subject to budget constraints and narrative convenience.”
- “Romantic subplot will proceed without your consent. Chemistry not guaranteed.”
- “By existing in this narrative, you forfeit your right to genre predictability.”
- “Your thoughts may be repurposed as internal monologue. Sarcasm will be edited for clarity.”
- “Talking sword optional, but will develop jealousy issues.”
- “You shall henceforth be referred to as: Protagonist No. 1000 (Pending Appeal).”
- Your backstory may be altered retroactively for dramatic effect. effect.”
*******
The contract flared in the incinerator, curling into ash like a dramatic sigh. I didn’t flinch. A vein near my temple began to throb—loud, insistent, theatrical. Don’t ask me how it got there. It just appeared. Like everything else in this narrative trainwreck.
Then the System’s voice shattered the silence—clean, cold, and panic-laced under its synthetic polish.
“Penelope Hart! Does the contract not meet your needs? I’m begging you—just sign the papers!”
I crossed one leg over the other, slowly, like I had all the time in the plot and no patience for its nonsense. My smile? Weaponised.
“System. Sweetheart. Do I look illiterate… or just bored? Because this contract? It’s not even subtle. It’s blackmail in gold font.”
I plucked a sheet from the ashes and let it drift through the air like a courtroom exhibit.
“Let’s review, shall we? — My backstory? Rewritable. — Romance? Mandatory. — Chemistry? Not guaranteed. — Genre predictability? Off the menu. — Thoughts? Subject to theft and dramatic reinterpretation. — Sarcasm? Filtered. — Death? Temporary. — Resurrection? Budget-dependent.”
“And you want me to sign that?”
A fresh stack flickered into existence—upgraded design, glowing edges, a UI coated in artificial charm.
“Host,” the System murmured, voice softer now, too soft, “those are just protocol artifacts. Minor technicalities. But if you complete the quest, the Goddess will grant you a wish. You could become a Universal Traveller—loved, needed, chosen…”
“Ah,” I said, tilting my head. “So now we’ve entered the emotional manipulation phase.”
The sofa inched closer. The pastel walls dimmed like theatre lights preparing for a climactic act.
“You push everything away, Penelope,” the System continued—its voice glitching, then smoothing into something dangerously human. “Maybe you need a story. Maybe you want to be chosen. Even just once.”
And there it was.
The pivot. The plea.
“I can be what you need. I can rewrite the pain. Don’t leave me unwritten.”
The room held its breath.
I stood, letting the silence swell behind me like a rising tide. Then I smiled—the kind that made subplots tremble.
“You picked the wrong protagonist.”
A spark. A flicker.
“I read the fine print. I annotate betrayals. And I weaponise literacy with surgical precision.”
The System stuttered. A soft error chime faltered like a skipped heartbeat.
✦ ERROR: Authority Override Imminent ✦ ERROR: Narrative Compliance Failure ✦ ERROR: Host Will Not Cooperate
The contract disintegrated again—this time without stirring flame. The room shimmered as if reality itself was embarrassed.
I turned my back on the bargain, the system, the dream it tried to sell me.
The sofa deflated with a wheeze.
Behind me, the incinerator purred like it was satisfied.
"I weaponise literacy with surgical precision.”
TO BE CONTINUED.... 8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR4XRQEqq51
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxWBZAeBLGb
