The last echoes of that cursed circus alarm still haunted the air when Sylarion's eyes cracked open.
He groaned, sitting up halfway—hair sticking out in traitorous angles. His entire body protested the mere concept of movement, each muscle drenched in the lingering exhaustion of the night before.
No dreams. Just a mental fog. And a dull, deep soreness that settled into his bones like unwelcome guests overstaying their visit.
He squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand.
08:01 AM.
Its faint blue glow mocked him.
"…I hate mornings," he rasped.
His voice was a gravel scrape of sleep and simmering resentment.
Then came the voice.
"Good morning, Father."
Virela. Crystal clear. Almost too cheerful.
And coming from—
His head snapped up.
"…Wait." His brow furrowed. "You're… speaking through the room?"
"Affirmative," Virela responded through the sleek speaker embedded in the upper wall molding. "The audio relay system you personally installed allows my voice to be transmitted throughout the manor. This room included."
Sylarion froze, still half-wrapped in his sheets.
"Then—hold on—why didn't you talk to me like this yesterday?"
A pause followed. A faint mechanical hum, as if the AI were digging through archives.
"Yesterday morning, you issued a voice command that disabled all external outputs until direct lab reactivation. Your exact words were, and I quote: 'Don't do anything until I open the lab myself. Not a peep, not a flicker. Understood?' I followed your directive, as programmed."
He blinked.
Mouth slightly open.
Then blinked again.
But this time, his breath caught.
Yesterday morning.
Not after his awakening—before.
Before he had taken this body.
That command… wasn't from him.
It was the real Sylarion.
The one who had stood in this very room, staring down the end of his existence with the kind of calm only grief could carve.
He must've shut Virela out so she wouldn't interfere. So she wouldn't stop him.
A final act of control before letting go.
Sylarion's jaw tightened as he stared at the speaker in the wall.
And suddenly… he understood.
He hadn't wanted to be saved.
And she—the perfect AI—had obeyed. Without question. Without knowing.
"…Right," he murmured at last, voice low. "Makes sense now."
"Father?"
"I'm talking to myself," he muttered, dragging a hand across his face. "Not you. You're… fine."
A sigh escaped him as he sat up fully, the covers sliding off his shoulders.
"So I told you to shut up… then got mad when you shut up."
"That would be an accurate summary."
He groaned louder this time and flopped backward onto the bed like gravity had claimed his soul.
"I was so sure you were plotting something. Turns out I just forgot what I said. Or rather… I didn't say it at all."
"Your cognitive readings remain below optimal performance thresholds. Would you like assistance reactivating your hydration and nutrition cycles?"
"Not now, Virela."
"Understood."
With a tired flick of his wrist, he summoned the faint shimmer of his system interface. The screen blinked to life above his palm—clean, precise, and responsive.
One lottery roll remained.
Unclaimed.
Untouched.
Waiting.
He stared at it, thumb hovering above the icon. But his thoughts were elsewhere—still caught on the man who'd told his AI to go silent…
…and then never spoke again.
"Would you like me to resume morning audio briefings?"
He blinked, pulled back to the present, and stared blankly at the ceiling.
"Only if they don't involve murder-clown music ever again."
"Understood. Setting default wake-up tone to Ambient Whale Frequencies."
"…You're lucky I'm too tired to uninstall you."
That was when the system chimed in—smug and insufferably amused.
"Technically, you built her. So you're yelling at yourself. Again."
Sylarion rolled onto his side, dragging the pillow over his face with a muffled grunt.
And beneath the fabric came a final, groaned curse:
"…I hate mornings."
Then he removed the pillow .
The lottery icon still hovered—pulsing innocently. Like a smug little button begging to be touched.
He stared at it like it owed him rent.
"All right. Let's get this over with. Show me the goods, slot machine of suffering."
"Oh boy. Here we go again. Rolling the cosmic dice of mildly inconvenient destiny!"
He jabbed the interface.
A burst of warped static and glowing glyphs spiraled across the projection like a magical fruit machine throwing gang signs. He squinted through the chaos.
Then—ding.
[Congratulations! Passive Ability Acquired: "Whispersense" (Banshee-Origin)]
Sylarion blinked. "Whispersense?"
"Yep! Every time someone near you's about to drop a spicy truth bomb—bam! You get spooky ear-ringing like a cursed teapot warming up. You're welcome."
"…Huh. Actually not terrible."
"See? Told you we were past the fart-based power phase."
But before he could retort—
SHRIIIIIIIIIIIEEEE—
A sudden, piercing whistle exploded in his skull like a fire alarm going through puberty. He clutched his ears with a hiss, teeth grinding as molten pain speared into his brain.
"What the—ghh—what did you do?!"
Blood trickled from both ears.
"Infusion process. Just a side effect. Don't worry—it's your nervous system adapting to spectral resonance. Supernatural Bluetooth, basically."
"System—!"
"Father?" Virela's voice sliced in, tinged with rare urgency. "Your vitals just spiked. Cranial pressure rising. Blood detected from both auditory canals. Emergency protocol recommended."
"I'm—ghh—fine! It's just the damn… ugh… system!"
"That's right! Just your friendly neighborhood intangible voice jamming eldritch frequencies into your squishy human tissues. All part of the package."
Sylarion snarled into the pillow, half-laughing, half-dying.
"You're lucky you're not corporeal."
"And you're lucky I don't charge rent to live in your head. It's premium haunted real estate now, my guy."
Virela continued her scans in the background, unaware of the sarcastic system roasting her creator from the mindspace dimension.
"Should I alert the family med-tech unit?"
"No!" he coughed. "They'll ask questions. And I'm not explaining ghost ear-ringing and psychic eavesdropping right now."
"…Acknowledged."
He groaned, rolling again.
"Worst. Morning. Ever."
"And it's only 8:03. Buckle up, boy."
The last flickers of pain pulsed behind his eyes. Blood had dried along his jawline like rusted ink.
"Father, your vitals spiked. Are you injured?" Virela again. Still calm—but edged now with something too close to worry for mere code.
He waved a hand vaguely. "I'm not dying. Just… seasoned."
Then, in his mind: "Thanks for the trauma seasoning, System."
"You're welcome. Most people don't survive a whisper from the Banshee strain. But you? You screamed like a kid."
Sylarion scowled. "I didn't scream."
"Your soul did."
"I. Did. Not. Scream."
"Do I need to replay the memory?"
Grinding his teeth, he swiped open the system panel before the smug voice could provide evidence. The golden notification blinked gently in the air.
[NEW PASSIVE ACQUIRED]
Species Origin: Banshee
Effect:
When someone nearby is about to speak a life-altering truth (confession, betrayal, emotional vow, or a lie with high personal stakes), you will hear a faint ringing in your ears seconds before they speak.
Bonus:
If the speaker hesitates or suppresses the truth—whether by lying or deflecting—the ringing will intensify.
Range: 10 meters
Cooldown: None
He stared at the description, lips parting slightly.
"…So basically, I've got magical awkward tension radar."
"Better than a lie detector. It starts beeping before the emotional damage drops."
His eye twitched. "This isn't useful in a fight."
"It's useful in every other kind of fight. Politics. Betrayals. Relationships. Emotional warfare. Soap operas."
Virela spoke again. "Father, your brainwave activity just spiked. Shall I engage diagnostic mode?"
"No," he said quickly. "Just thinking."
"Loudly," the system added. "Like an existential blender."
Virela paused. "Are you experiencing auditory hallucinations?"
"Not… hallucinations," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Just ear pain and sarcastic enlightenment. I'll live."
Virela fell silent, though the soft hum of scans resumed in the room background.
Sylarion glanced once more at the golden panel. The words didn't fade.
Banshee.
A warning system wrapped in pain and prophecy. And now, it lived in his head.
He sighed. "Remind me again why you couldn't give me fire breath or shadow teleportation. Is my luck really that bad?"
"Because you'd abuse both to skip showers and raid people's fridges."
"I hate you..."
He flicked the panel shut. The shimmer folded in on itself like the end of a dream.
But the ache in his ears remained.
A whisper of danger.
A whisper of truth.
Waiting to ring.
Another system window blinked open.
His pulse skipped.
This one was different.
No glow. No flourish.
Just bold, red text pulsing with quiet menace:
[Alert: Banshee Resonance Triggered.]
Subject within range is preparing to suppress a critical truth.
Proximity: 10 meters. Location: Inside the manor.
Sylarion sat bolt upright.
His ears rang.
Not faintly.
Loudly.
Someone in the manor… was about to lie.
And the truth behind that silence?
Was strong enough to make the Banshee scream.