Everything was still. The streets outside were quiet. No messages from Vlad. No calls from home. Just silence and the subtle hum of Saint-Michel's antique heating system.
His eyes drifted to the notebook again—fresh pages, untouched since earlier that day. He hadn't written anything new since burning the last one.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he was afraid he might.
He could feel it again now—stirring, like a pressure in the back of his skull, just behind the eyes. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.
Twenty-four hours. Right on time.
That soft blue glow.
[Simulation No. 05 Available]
He swallowed.
Every time, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff—except this time, the ground below wasn't just unknown.
It was calling him.
George reached out and tapped the message.
The world went white.
Simulation No. 05 Begins
[Continuity link detected. World parameters unchanged.]
[Loading scenario…]
[The sky is gunmetal grey. Smoke coils upward from a half-destroyed trench. The ground beneath you is frozen, soaked with blood, and riddled with shell craters, the war that started over a river is still ongoing.]
[You wake coughing. Your uniform is torn. Your hands are raw. A rifle lies nearby, cracked at the stock.]
[You do not know where you are. But your muscles remember how to move.]
[Name: Elian Richter. Age: 21. Rank: Courier (Unmarked). Assignment: Eastern Prussian Intelligence Division. Mission: Classified. Survival: Unlikely.]
Day 1: Ash and Ice
[You are alone when the artillery ends. You don't know how long you've been unconscious. Your ribs ache. Your mouth tastes like iron.]
[You check your satchel. Empty. Orders burned. Compass gone.]
[You begin walking. North, you think. Or east. Toward the sound of distant shouting.]
[A girl finds you instead. Civilian boots. Soldier's coat. Rifle slung over her shoulder. Calm expression. No unit tag.]
["You're late," she says.]
[You open your mouth. Say nothing.]
["Your name's Elian Richter. Courier, Prussian Intelligence. I was assigned to assist you."]
[You hesitate. "You have papers?"]
[She hands you a folded sheet. Your name is on it. The signature is yours. But the ink is too fresh.]
["I'm Mira," she adds. "Let's move. Patrols sweep this sector every ninety minutes."]
[You do not remember requesting an assistant. But she moves like she belongs. So you follow.]
Week 3: Snowbound
[You haven't seen another friendly face in days. Only wreckage, dead soldiers, shattered bridges.]
[Mira never complains. She finds dry firewood where there shouldn't be any. She speaks Russian well enough to bluff checkpoints. She reads maps upside down.]
[She tells you she was a linguist's daughter. That she grew up in East Prussia. That she wanted to be a teacher.]
[You believe her. But only because she's too ordinary to be lying.]
[You've seen fear, rage, delusion. Mira carries none of it. Just precision. And silence.]
Year 2: Burned Cities and Broken Roads
[You cross into enemy territory disguised as traders. She slips into roles effortlessly: translator, nurse, mute servant, soldier's widow.]
[She memorizes codebooks in hours. You're not sure how. You stop asking questions.]
[You start trusting her to watch your back. You don't realize when that started.]
[You don't ask what she dreams about. You don't talk about the boy you once were—who studied Latin and laughed in candlelit halls.]
[This is who you are now. A ghost with a message.]
Final Week: No Return Route
[You deliver the last set of coordinates to a commander in a bombed-out village. He thanks you. Then dies in the next strike.]
[You and Mira are cut off behind the lines. No maps. No cavalry. No orders.]
[She suggests a route. You follow it. You're not sure you have another choice.]
[You both get sick from drinking poisoned snowmelt. She recovers faster. Helps you walk.]
[She's coughing when the final ambush hits. You kill three. She kills two. The sixth one puts a bullet in your leg.]
[You crawl behind a ruined wall. Mira drags you through a frozen stream. Your blood leaves a trail that the wind erases.]
Last Night
[You don't remember losing consciousness.]
[You wake up under a half-collapsed roof. Her coat covers you. There's firelight. She's singing—quietly. In French. Something about dreams.]
[She notices your eyes open. Her smile is tired but real.]
["You made it," she says. "That's something."]
[You don't respond. You're not sure what to say.]
[She reaches for your hand. It's an ordinary gesture. But something in you falters.]
[You squeeze back. Just once.]
[The roof above you creaks. The fire crackles. Your breath slows.]
[Your leg won't stop bleeding.]
[Your vision fades.]
[You do not hear your name when she calls it.]
[You die.]
Simulation No. 05 Ends
George sat bolt upright.
The dorm was dark, save for the lights of Paris blinking through his window. His heart pounded, the specter of cold and gunfire pulsing under his skin.
It took a moment to convince himself that he wasn't still Elian Richter. That he hadn't just left Mira to freeze alone in a bombed-out house.
The System's glow returned
Select Two Rewards:
① Combat Reflexes – Instinctively react to threats with speed and precision.
② Cold Resistance – Adaptation to freezing conditions.
③ Enemy Pattern Recognition – Sense hostile intent moments before action.
④ Mira
⑤ Morale Anchor – Presence inspires calm in others during chaos or fear.
George's eyes fixed on the fourth option. His heart nearly stopped, then pounded in his ears, louder than gunfire.
Mira.
He struggled to breathe.
He blinked.
He blinked again.
"Wait... what?"
The System might as well have punched him in the gut. The other choices disappeared, irrelevant as smoke. Only that single line stayed bright—softly, calmly, utterly insane. Mira. The girl from the simulation. The one whose hand he hadn't let go of. Who'd saved him from more than just a bullet. Who'd dragged him, half-alive, through a frozen hell like it was routine. Who'd bandaged his leg with unflinching hands. Who'd never once asked for anything in return.
A person. A real person.
Offered like she was an accessory. Like she was a book or a skillset.
He shook his head slowly, bile rising from his gut.
"What the hell does that even mean?"
The words broke in the empty dorm room, only to be swallowed by the silence. No one answered. The System never did.
His thoughts scattered and collected like light on broken glass, piercing and sharp. Her smile, tired but real. The warmth of her coat when she'd laid it over him. Her voice humming in that ruined chapel. Was it even possible? His mind reeled. Images of her flickered: her hands on his, the quiet firelight, the absolute calm in her eyes.
And now she was a reward?
A wave of cold revulsion crashed over him.
He wasn't choosing a toy. Or a language. He was choosing a person.
And yet—
And yet—
The thought of leaving her behind made his chest feel hollow.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. The System didn't care about morals or consent. It only cared about results. Probability. Optimization.
And she had been the difference between life and death.
Not a soldier. Not a spy. Just a perfectly ordinary woman in an extraordinary storm.
He hovered his finger above the option. Hesitated. Swallowed hard.
"I didn't save her," he murmured, "but she saved me."
A long, quiet breath.
Then:
Tap.
And a second tap.
Combat Reflexes.
He didn't want to be caught helpless again.
Not after what happened in that stream. Not if Mira was here now.
The screen blinked, but nothing happened.
***
The hallways of Saint-Michel buzzed with soft conversation, polished shoes clicking over marble floors. George moved through it like a ghost.
He hadn't spoken to anyone that morning. Hadn't eaten. The taste of ash still lingered on his tongue. His body felt fine—stronger, even—but his mind was somewhere else.
Buried in a roofless shelter, beside a fire, where someone had once whispered: You made it. That's something.
Someone real.
And now he was here again. Walking the halls like none of it had happened.
Until he saw her.
At first, it was peripheral—a familiar posture, a familiar braid, a voice like still water. Then she turned, and the world tilted.
Mira.
Same face. Same eyes. Same calm, unreadable presence.
She wore the Saint-Michel uniform like it had always been hers. Her ID badge read Mira Richter. Her schedule, clutched in one hand, bore the school's official seal.
George stopped walking.
The noise around him faded.
She looked up, caught his stare—and smiled.
Not politely. Not distantly. With recognition.
"You're late," she says "Didn't think I'd catch you before Latin."
His throat tightened. "You…"
She tilted her head. "I'm in your class now. They adjusted schedules this morning."
The words came like falling glass.
"I thought we already met," she added softly. A tease. A private thing.
He was dizzy.
"I—I thought you were gone."
Her smile faltered slightly. "George, are you okay?"
He couldn't answer. His chest felt hollow. Like something sacred had been carved into the space behind his ribs.
Mira stepped forward. Not hesitating.
Like she'd done on that snowbound hill, when she handed him a forged document with his own name already signed.
Like she'd always known where to find him.
His vision blurred.
Her hand rested on his arm, anchoring him to the moment. To this impossible reality. He blinked fast.
"I'm—yeah. I just didn't expect…" His words tangled.
She squeezed gently. "It's a lot to take in, isn't it?"
That's an understatement, he almost said, but the warmth in her eyes nudged down the chaos in his mind. "How are you…?"
Her expression shifted, thoughtful. As if she was searching for something just out of reach. "I think we'll figure it out," she said finally.
The bell rang, shrill and insistent, cutting through his confusion like a bullet through ice. Students began to move in practiced flows, heading for class.
George stood there, Mira's hand still on his arm, the halls spinning quietly around them.
"I'll see you after?" she asked. It was almost a promise.
"Yeah," he replied, breathless. "After."
"Don't freeze on me again." she said as she smiled—and for a second he was sure she knew everything—before sinking into the crowd and disappearing around a corner.
George leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply. The enormity of it all settled over him like fresh snow.
The System had given him more than lifetimes of experience or skills born from fiction. It had given him a pounding headache.
He needed some air. Some time.
Preferably both.
He pushed away from the wall, heading for the North Wing red doors, but ran right into Annabelle instead.
"Woah, where's the fire?" she asked, stepping back and eyeing him curiously. She tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
George swallowed hard. There was no way to explain this without sounding absolutely insane. Maybe he was insane.
"Did you see—" he started, then hesitated.
Annabelle smirked, her gaze flicked over to his arm—the one Mira had touched—and narrowed in interest. "You two know each other?"
George opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Yeah," was all he managed.
She cocked her head, amused at his inability to form sentences. "Look at that," she mused. "Didn't think it was possible for you to know someone here, at this school"
Before he had time to think of an answer he heard something. A loud crash.
George reacted. His newly honed reflexes surged.
Before he knew what he was doing, he'd yanked Annabelle against him, bracing to shield her. His other hand shot out, catching the incoming projectile right before it hit them.
He stared at it, breathing hard.
Not a grenade.
A baseball.
Wide-eyed, Annabelle pulled back slightly, obviously startled by his reaction. Her steady gaze shifted uneasily from the baseball to George's face. "Impressive," she said dryly, though her voice held a sharper edge. "Planning to join the Nationals?"
George let the air leave his lungs in a short, shaky laugh. "No—no idea where it came from," he stumbled. Outside, two middle-schoolers peeked through the window sheepishly, watching like they'd just lobbed a rabid animal through and hoped for the best.
Annabelle raised an eyebrow. "Your pick of different skills never chase to surprise me."
"Picked up a lot more than that," he muttered under his breath, still not completely convinced this was all real.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing!" It came out uneven and frantic. He tried again: "Just seeing things differently." He pocketed the baseball with a forced grin. She was still in his arms.
George realized it at the same moment she did.
They each took a step back, the air between them awkwardly charged, but neither of them made any comment on it.
Annabelle's eyes held a curious light. "Seen any other ghosts lately?"
Her question pushed past his embarrassment, bringing him abruptly back to Mira. He looked away, swallowing thickly. "I—maybe a ghost. Or not. I don't know."
"Sounds complicated."
"That's an understatement."
"So?" Annabelle prodded. Her analytical gaze revealed nothing of her own theories, which George suspected were many and probably better than his. "This girl?"
"She's…" He hesitated, then tried another tack..."She's someone I thought I'd never see again."
It came out softer than he intended, laced with exhaustion and something deeper—something raw.
Annabelle blinked, her usual composure flickering just slightly. "That's... dramatic," she said carefully, clearly fishing without wanting to seem like she was. "Old friend?"
George met her eyes, unsure how much of the truth he could even begin to share. Not now. Not yet.
He offered a small, noncommittal shrug. "Something like that."
Annabelle studied him for a beat longer—curious, but not pressing. She gave a little nod, letting it drop. For now.
But as she turned and started walking down the hall, she tossed over her shoulder: "Well... if ghosts start showing up at study group too, bring snacks."
George stood there for a moment, still reeling, but his mind still concentrated on only one thing.
Mira was here.
Not just some fragment of a dream. Not a lingering echo.
She had a name. A uniform. A schedule. A legal existence.
He just needed to know what she remembers—of the war they fought together.
But she was that Mira. He felt it. Every instinct screamed it.
She was part of his reward.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
Because if the System could bring someone like her across worlds… That meant all of the simulations could be real.
"Why then." he muttered, bitterness unmistaken in his voice.
"Why didn't I get this option before."
"Why not the woman in the back of the taxi?"
"Why not my daughter?"