George should have gone straight home.
Instead, his feet carried him down unfamiliar streets, his movements aimless yet deliberate, as if something unseen was guiding him. The cool evening air wrapped around him, carrying the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. A distant car honked, breaking the stillness of his thoughts, but he barely registered it.
Then he saw them: a mother and her daughter, walking hand in hand, the picture of simple, unburdened happiness.
George stopped in his tracks, breath catching in his throat. The girl couldn't have been more than seven or eight. Exactly the age his daughter had been. A raw and unfamiliar sensation coiled inside him, tightening his chest and squeezing his heart. He found himself unable to move, staring at the pair as if they were apparitions conjured just for him.
The little girl clung to her mother's hand, her laughter light and carefree as if she didn't have a sorrow in the world. The woman smiled down at her, and George watched as she adjusted the backpack slung over her shoulder before reaching up to ruffle the child's hair. This small, intimate gesture—a simple act of love—pierced something deep inside him.
A twisting, painful feeling. Cold and sharp, foreign in its intensity.
Jealousy.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that this little girl got to grow up, got to hold her mother's hand and laugh like nothing could ever touch her happiness. It wasn't fair that she had a lifetime stretching ahead like an open road, full of promise and possibility. His daughter never did. She never got the chance to laugh like that, to walk beside her mother in the evening chill. She never got the chance to live beyond the brief moments that had been given to her.
A flicker of memory surfaced in his mind—faint and distant, like a whisper echoing from a place he could barely reach. It was a memory of tiny arms wrapping around his neck, a voice calling out Mamá! The warmth of a child's love, pure and unconditional.
Images flashed before his eyes in a rapid, painful montage. A little girl with dark hair playing peek-a-boo from the folds of a blue blanket. A small hand reaching out to touch his nose, his cheek, his heart. Sweet, candid moments that should have been his to cherish forever.
He tried to hold onto the memory, to grasp it with every fiber of his being, to keep it from slipping away like everything else. But the visions faded quickly, as if they were never meant to stay.
His phone rang, slicing through the moment like a jarring riff in an otherwise tender ballad.
For a moment, he considered ignoring it, letting it ring out like an unanswered plea. But curiosity, or perhaps some deeper pull towards connection, made him glance at the screen. He hesitated. One of the French girls. Annabelle, most likely. Claire didn't have his number, did she?
"Salut, George!" Her voice was bright, cheerful, as if the world hadn't just stopped for him. As if he hadn't just glimpsed the ghost of everything he'd lost. "We've been meaning to call you sooner! You still in town?"
He exhaled, running a hand over his face, trying to smooth away the chaos beneath. "Yeah."
"Our family wants to invite you over—to properly thank you, of course! My sister and her baby are home now."
"Oh, uh… sure."
"Vlad too, of course! He was with you that day, right?"
"He's busy," George said quickly, offering the first excuse that came to mind, desperate to avoid dragging anyone else into this mess of emotions.
"Ah, that's a shame. Well, come alone then! You saved a life—you deserve a warm welcome."
There was a pause, a lingering silence that held both anticipation and uncertainty.
George hesitated, but only for a moment. Curiosity, and the hope of finding something that might give him peace, edged out his reluctance.
"Alright. I'll be there."
It wasn't long before he stood outside the sprawling Moreau residence once more. The grandeur of the place loomed before him, and George found himself wondering, not for the first time, how he—a simple Romanian kid—had ended up here, entangled in the lives of diplomats and dignitaries. He took a breath, trying to calm the rapid beat of his heart, then pressed the doorbell.
A moment later, the door swung open.
The mother—the woman he had saved—stood at the far end of the room, cradling a small, delicate bundle in her arms.
The baby—Anna—was nestled snugly in her arms, a tuft of soft, dark hair peeking out from beneath the blanket. The woman—Claire, the young mother he had saved—looked at him with a radiance that was both warm and a little shy. And the moment George saw her, saw them together so perfectly untouched by the chaos he'd grown used to, something stirred inside him.
It wasn't attraction. It wasn't nerves. It was something deeper. Something instinctual. A powerful urge he couldn't quite explain, a need to feel connected to this tiny life he had inadvertently played a part in saving.
Then, she smiled, a welcoming, genuine expression that seemed to pull open the floodgates of his heart.
"This is my daughter, Anna."
George froze.
He felt his entire world lurch sideways, the unexpected familiarity of the name hitting him like a tidal wave. His fingers clenched around the glass he didn't even remember holding, the cool condensation seeping into his skin and grounding him just enough to keep his expression from betraying the turmoil inside. But inside, his mind was spiraling.
Anna.
The same name. The coincidence was staggering, an impossibility that shouldn't have been real. The same name as his daughter in the simulation. It felt like time itself was playing a cruel trick on him, threading the past and the present together in a way that was too uncanny to comprehend. What were the chances? How could this be?
George's eyes were locked on the infant, her small presence commanding his full attention, making everything else disappear into the background. He wanted to reach out, to hold her, to see if there was something—anything—that would confirm the strange connection he felt. But doubt gnawed at him. What if this Anna, this real-world child, rejected him?
The mother hesitated for only a second, as if weighing the unusual intensity of the moment. She shifted the baby gently in her arms before speaking again. "I don't mind… but so far, I'm the only one who's been able to hold her without making her cry."
George swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Would she cry? Would she turn away from him just like every other certainty had in his life? Or—would she recognize something unspoken, something even he didn't yet understand? It was a risk, and the fear of being somehow less connected, less important, less to this tiny person was palpable. Disappointment had shadowed so many of his experiences; he wasn't sure he could bear it again. Yet the pull was irresistible, a magnetic force that urged him to take the chance.
Slowly, carefully, he extended his arms.
His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a thunderous reminder of his vulnerability, as he took the small, warm weight into his hands. He braced for the wail, the inevitable howl of a baby startled by unfamiliar arms.
Anna didn't cry.
Instead...
She giggled.
The room fell silent, the air thick with amazement and something else, something precious that George couldn't quite put his finger on.
Everyone watched as baby Anna curled her tiny fingers around the fabric of his sleeve, her delicate laugh ringing softly in the quiet space.
The mother's eyes widened, and her surprise spread like wildfire across her face. "She… she never does that." Her voice was barely a whisper, as though speaking the words any louder would break the spell that had just descended over the room.
A murmur rippled through the gathered guests, electrifying the air with astonishment. The grandfather's sharp gaze locked onto George, expression unreadable, while a few dignitaries exchanged hushed words in French, their voices tinged with curiosity and something George could only interpret as disbelief.
They leaned towards each other, whispering fervently, several sets of eyes darting back to where George stood holding the baby. The atmosphere was charged, buzzing with an intensity that made George feel like he was under a microscope.
He swallowed hard, the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on him.
This wasn't normal.
But why did it feel so incredibly, impossibly natural?
"Mon dieu," one of the women finally exclaimed, her voice filled with awe and perhaps a touch of envy. "It's as if he was born for this." Her words hung in the air, wrapping around George like a net he couldn't escape.
He stiffened, the unease crawling up his spine now a full-fledged invasion of doubt.
The mother nodded slowly, still staring at him with a mixture of wonder and something else—a knowing acceptance that George couldn't quite fathom. "Even her father hasn't seen her this comfortable before…" Her words were soft, but they struck him like hammer blows, each one driving home the singularity of what had just occurred.
A slow, creeping feeling of dread began to take root.
Was this the System?
The Child-Rearing Instincts reward—had it changed him more than he realized? Was it altering him in ways he never anticipated, ways that went far beyond the conscious skills and knowledge he thought he'd gained?
It wasn't just knowledge. It wasn't just a skill.
It was something deeper. Something embedded in the very core of his being, something that had emerged so effortlessly and visibly under the unfiltered gaze of individuals who wielded power on a scale he could barely comprehend.
Something instinctual.
Something that had just manifested in front of some of the most influential people he had ever met.
The grandfather leaned forward, his calculating eyes studying George with a new intensity, as if evaluating an asset of unexpected value.
"You have a natural way with children," he said smoothly, with a touch of admiration that hinted at deeper intentions. "Not many young men do."
George forced a small smile, trying to mask the roiling panic inside. "I… guess I'm just good with kids." He attempted a light-hearted shrug, but it felt awkward, misplaced in the charged atmosphere. He felt raw and exposed, as if everyone in the room could see right through him.
But inside, he was panicking.
What if they found out about the System? What if they realized that this wasn't just him, but something entirely different, something that could shake the foundations of their neatly ordered world?
The grandfather continued to watch him, his gaze as steady and piercing as ever, before finally speaking again.
"George," he said, his voice measured, carrying the weight of certainty. "I don't believe in coincidences." His words sliced through the room, through the tangled web of George's thoughts, pinpointing something George himself hadn't dared articulate.
George's grip tightened around the baby as he met the grandfather's eyes. The awareness and intent he saw there was unsettling.
"You are remarkably talented for someone your age. In driving. In languages. And now, even in handling children." The assessment was as direct as it was unnerving, each observation fitting together like pieces of a puzzle George hadn't realized he was in.
George didn't respond. He didn't know how to respond.
The grandfather smiled, setting down his glass with a deliberate motion. "A man of your calibre should not be found lacking in the future."
George blinked, caught off guard by the strange compliment. "What do you mean?"
"You deserve more than thanks, George. You deserve a future and so I decided to fund your attendance at Saint-Michel Académie for you if you agree."
The words hit him like a truck.
A scholarship?
"You saved my daughter and grandchild. That is not something I take lightly," the grandfather continued, his eyes never leaving George's. "But more than that, I see potential in you. And I want to make sure it does not go to waste." There was a sincerity to his offer, a conviction that left no room for doubt or modesty.
George's mind reeled.
This was too much.
Way too much.
A powerful French diplomat was offering to fund his education. A life-changing opportunity, all because of something he did in a single moment of instinct. He was being handed a path he never imagined possible, a future that had seemed light-years away just days ago.
And yet…
All he could think about was the baby in his arms.
The baby who had stopped crying for him.
The baby with the same name as his daughter.
For a brief, fleeting moment, he wasn't sure if he was about to say yes to the scholarship or simply break down entirely.
Was this really happening? The path before him was one that most people could only dream of. A golden opportunity. But golden cages existed too. If he accepted, everything would change—his future, his friendships, his very sense of control over his own life. Could he handle that?
But then—
George stopped hesitating.