I take a potato chip.
And eat it.
My room is dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of the television and the faint starlight drifting through my window. The curtains are half open, because closing them would be rude.
Tonight’s sky is a solid seven out of ten.
Points deducted out of spite.
Mostly because the stars’ latest anime recommendation is currently hovering around a four out of ten, with the trajectory steadily dropping toward a very well-deserved three.
I knew what I was getting into the moment I read the suspiciously long title. Still, I had hoped—naively—that perhaps this one might rise above the usual seasonal slop.
It did not.
The evidence is overwhelming.
PowerPoint animation.
A protagonist whose silhouette feels eerily familiar in the way that every cardboard cutout at a carnival booth feels familiar.
And the general emotional experience of biting into what you thought was a chocolate chip muffin only to discover raisins hiding inside like little traitors.
Truly incredible.
I eat another chip.
“This makes zero sense,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “You told me this was an underdog isekai. Why is he already strong in episode one?”
“Well… um…”
The star in question dims slightly.
I point accusingly at the television.
“And that’s not even mentioning the fanservice. It has been twenty minutes. Why is everyone half-naked?”
I am fifteen. I should not have to deal with this.
Silence.
The star wilts beneath the collective disapproval of both myself and a respectable portion of the night sky.
Several distant stars begin muttering darkly amongst themselves. I catch fragments of conversation drifting down through the window—something about weaponized supernovas, targeted meteor strikes, a localized black hole, and…
…baked beans.
I shudder.
The last one sounds particularly concerning.
Still, the criticism is deserved.
That is what he gets for recommending the anime equivalent of a dramatic treasure chest that opens to reveal a single pair of socks.
With a generous helping of gratuitous nudity on the side.
Because why merely recommend your daughter a terrible show when you could also lightly scar her eyes?
Thank the stars it was properly censored.
I suspect the rest of my celestial family would be far less forgiving if the recommendation had escalated beyond mildly questionable into something truly catastrophic.
Even so, this offense cannot go unpunished.
I sit up slightly straighter and point at the offending star.
“I hereby dub you: The Highly Concerning Uncle.”
He accepts his title with a soft, weary sigh.
Justice.
I flick my hair back haughtily.
I truly am the most magnanimous and beautiful being in existence, allowing the Uncle to escape with such a light sentence.
My hand finds the remote.
Click.
The newly demoted three-out-of-ten show disappears from the screen.
I stretch lazily and glance at the clock.
3:43 AM.
Right.
I should probably sleep.
I lie down and pull the covers over myself, settling in with the vague intention of eventually falling asleep when—
“Lyn. Leave the house. Now.”
I blink.
Then I get up immediately.
The hoodie goes on first, followed by the only pair of pants I own that qualifies as “leaving the house attire.” My phone disappears into the pocket as I move toward the door.
I do not hesitate.
The stars have my absolute trust. If they tell me to leave, then leaving is the correct course of action.
So I do.
Or at least I attempt to.
The door does not move.
Ah.
Right.
My parents’ “safety feature.”
Both locks are engaged from the outside.
A slide bolt and a chain lock, installed sometime after they realized that their ability to control me was… deteriorating.
In other words: a highly effective fire hazard.
Technically I could leave through the window. The tree outside would make the climb down relatively easy.
However.
Climbing out of a tree like some sort of woodland creature would be both undignified and mildly inconvenient.
Fortunately, these pedestrian security measures are not designed to contain a peerless genius of my caliber.
I reach behind my dresser and retrieve my specialized lockpicking instrument.
A thin plastic butterknife.
The slide bolt pops open immediately through the small gap between the door and the frame.
The chain lock takes slightly longer, but only slightly.
Click.
Two locks defeated by an object originally designed to spread butter across toast.
Truly remarkable engineering.
Putting effort into containment only to choose a slide bolt that opens with any sufficiently flat object, paired with a chain lock that functions more like anti-speedrunner tech than an actual barrier.
The clash between paranoia and plausible deniability is fascinating.
We host guests regularly, which means they cannot escalate beyond this without raising uncomfortable questions.
At the same time, they very clearly do not want me moving freely through the house.
The result is this compromise.
Locks that alarm visitors and accomplish nothing.
A strategy that satisfies neither objective.
Ironic.
The mansion is quiet.
The maids have long since returned to their own homes, and my parents are almost certainly asleep at this hour.
I walk through the hallways in silence.
The carpet muffles my footsteps as I move.
Then I smell it.
Smoke.
I nod.
It would appear that our mansion has caught on fire.
Which means that tragically, my computer and television will likely not survive the night.
I pause for a moment and pretend to wipe a tear from my eye.
They will be missed.
Overhead, the sprinkler system suddenly activates.
I sidestep the spray.
Getting soaked would be highly unpleasant, and, more importantly, ruin my carefully crafted image of perfection.
I refuse to step outside looking like I just lost a fight to an errant hose.
Water rains down from the ceiling in a uniform pattern, the emergency system reacting with impressive speed.
Our security systems are quite advanced, after all.
Which only makes the locks on my bedroom door even more ironic.
Highly sophisticated fire detection.
Highly visible slide bolts.
The contrast continues to baffle me.
The sprinklers run for several seconds.
Then the pressure abruptly weakens.
Water sputters from the ceiling before stopping entirely.
A moment later, the lights die.
Ah.
The fire must have reached the primary pump system.
Which means the fire suppression system has also failed.
Unfortunate.
The power also fully went out.
I pull out my phone and activate the flashlight before breaking into a run.
The hallways blur past as I move, passing the dining room, the bathroom, the party hall where my parents entertain guests.
Then I hear it.
Frantic banging.
I slow and turn toward the sound.
Right.
That is where the safe room is.
My parents must have smelled the smoke as well and evacuated there.
Logical.
I round the corner.
The smoke is thicker here.
And there they are.
Mother and Father stand behind the reinforced glass window set into the safe-room door, slamming their fists against it.
Their faces are pale, eyes wide with panic.
I can see the smoke creeping in behind them, curling through the hallway outside the safe room’s secondary door.
They notice me immediately.
Their expressions brighten with desperate relief.
They shout through the glass.
“LYN! HELP US! THE LOCKS WON’T OPEN!”
Ah.
Yes.
That would make sense.
All of our doors use electronic locks.
No power means no release.
In another brilliant example of architectural planning, the system was installed without any backup generator or emergency power supply.
Mother presses her hands against the glass.
“You can do it, right? You are so brilliant, after all.”
I could.
I was fully aware of the corners cut by the contractor who installed our security system.
No manual release, no way out.
Whoever designed the system apparently assumed emergencies would remain polite enough to preserve electricity.
I had prepared to deal with such incompetence months ago.
I know where the contractor hid the emergency maintenance release, and I know how to use it.
Just in case.
Still.
Even now, they are asking the asset to solve the problem.
A problem that they could easily solve themselves.
I turn around.
And walk away.
Toward the exit.
Behind me they begin screaming.
Begging.
Calling my name.
I ignore them.
The smoke thickens as I move through the halls, but the route to the front entrance remains somewhat clear.
As I walk, I let out a long, dramatic sigh.
I used to believe my parents were intelligent.
They are the star executives of a massive tech conglomerate, after all.
The tutors they selected are what turned me into what I am today.
The monster who outshines everyone around her.
The thing they sharpened into perfection at the expense of everything else.
People praise them endlessly for it.
Other executives speak of them with admiration, envy even. Visionaries. Brilliant strategists.
Exceptional parents.
It’s all theater.
Lies and lip service.
Smoke and mirrors layered over mediocrity so thoroughly that eventually they started to believe it themselves.
Because genuinely intelligent people do not make mistakes like this.
And now they are trapped.
Not in some random accident, not through unavoidable circumstance, but inside a burning tomb constructed entirely from their own decisions.
Because they did the one thing they spent my entire childhood teaching me never to do.
They believed in the honeyed words of someone they didn't implicitly trust.
A fatal mistake.
I unlock the door and step outside.
Cool night air replaces the burning smell immediately.
I cross our small courtyard, and exit through the main gate.
Behind me, the mansion burns.
The flames climb higher, swallowing the upper floors in bright orange light.
I am already far enough away that the heat barely reaches me.
I stop on the sidewalk and begin tapping on my phone.
911 answers quickly.
I explain the situation calmly.
The operator begins asking questions immediately.
Address.
Severity.
Whether anyone remains inside.
Emergency services are dispatched within seconds.
They ask me to stay on the line.
I hang up anyway.
Then I place a hand thoughtfully on my chin and glance up at the night sky.
“How long do you think it will take for the dye to fully disappear from my hair?”
A star answers.
“A year or two probably. Maybe faster if you use removal products, but I dunno. I’m not a hair doctor.”
I wrinkle my nose.
Bleach would damage my hair.
Completely unacceptable.
It appears I will have to do this the slow way.
Tragic.
I speak with the stars for a few more minutes before the first fire engine arrives.
Its lights cut across the street in violent flashes of red and white.
As it pulls to a stop, my expression shifts instantly.
My shoulders tighten.
My posture shrinks.
The mask changes.
Uneasy. Scared.
The expression someone should have after witnessing their home burn down.
The firefighters move quickly.
Questions are shouted as they approach.
“Are there occupants inside?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately. “My parents.”
They do not waste another second.
Commands are shouted. A hose is dragged toward the hydrant. Four firefighters rush through the front door I left unlocked.
It will not work.
Not with our locks.
The police arrive less than a minute later.
One of the officers gently pulls me away from the scene, speaking in a calm voice as he begins asking questions.
My name.
Whether I am hurt.
If I was inside the house when the fire started.
They are competent.
Nine out of ten.
Ambulances arrive shortly after the police.
I am guided inside one of them and seated on the edge of a stretcher while the paramedics begin their examination.
They check my pulse.
My pupils.
My breathing.
They inspect my arms and face for burns.
Within a minute they determine that I am physically fine.
After I assure them that I left the house quickly, they wrap a blanket around my shoulders and hand me a plastic water bottle before stepping away to confer with the nearby officers.
A few minutes later they return.
More questions.
Potential causes of the fire.
Whether anyone else was inside.
I answer calmly.
They leave again.
Several minutes pass.
Eventually the firefighters emerge from the house.
Their body language says everything before anyone speaks.
They gather with the police and paramedics, speaking in low voices.
Walkie-talkies crackle.
Orders are exchanged.
Expressions grow heavy with the particular kind of pity reserved for situations that cannot be fixed.
Then one of the officers breaks away from the group and walks toward me.
The man is practically leaking sympathy.
Despite this, his composure remains remarkably steady.
Impressive.
Eight out of ten.
He kneels in front of me so we are eye level.
“Lyn… the firefighters were able to reach your parents.”
He pauses.
“I’m very sorry. They didn’t survive the fire.”
I adjust my expression accordingly.
Devastation.
The appropriate response.
Unfortunately, no tears arrive.
Despite being the most beautiful and intelligent being alive, I do possess certain weaknesses.
Fake crying is one of them.
I have never quite mastered it.
They ask a few more questions.
I answer in a subdued tone, offering a performance of grief roughly comparable to the emotional devastation one might feel after accidentally dropping a perfectly good sandwich.
Eventually one of the officers asks the obvious question.
“Is there someone we should contact for you?”
I open my mouth.
Then pause.
“Yes. Can I give them a call?”
He nods immediately and steps away to give me privacy.
Thank the stars.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find Elizabeth.
The only other human that actually interests me anymore.
My only friend.
The line rings for a few seconds before she answers.
Her voice is thick with sleep.
“Lyn? What could possibly make you call this late? I swear if it's another raid boss I’m going to bonk you.”
She punctuates the threat with a long yawn.
Adorable.
This casual tone is something she only uses with her family and me.
I allow myself a small smile.
“My house caught on fire. Mother and Father are dead.”
There is a short pause.
Then—
“I will be right there.”
The line disconnects.
I roll my eyes.
She never changes.
Always so hasty.
Elizabeth and her father arrive so quickly that I am reasonably confident at least four traffic laws were ignored during the journey.
The moment they step out of the car, the police intercept Mr. Sterling and guide him a short distance away, immediately beginning a quiet but urgent conversation.
Elizabeth walks straight toward me.
Her posture is controlled.
Her expression is not.
Concern sits plainly on her face, unhidden.
I glance toward the nearest paramedic.
“Is it alright if I step away for a moment to speak privately with my friend?”
I lace the request with a faint tremor, letting my shoulders sag slightly as I look up at him.
The performance is subtle.
Convincing.
Elizabeth mirrors the expression perfectly as she looks at the EMT, her concern sharpening into quiet insistence.
He hesitates.
Only for a moment.
Then he nods.
“Not too far.”
“Of course,” I say softly.
Elizabeth and I step away together, circling around the ambulance until we disappear into the thin shadow cast by its flashing lights.
The moment we are out of sight—
The expression of grief vanishes from my face.
My posture straightens.
The mask of practiced composure settles back into place as naturally as breathing.
Elizabeth is not surprised.
We have known each other for many years, and during that time she has managed to deduce nearly everything worth knowing.
My feelings toward my parents.
Their feelings toward me.
I have never spoken about it directly, yet she arrived at the correct conclusions regardless.
Expected.
She speaks first.
“So, how did it happen?”
“The power failed,” I reply calmly. “They were trapped by their own security systems.”
“Ironic.”
“Indeed.”
She studies my face for a moment before continuing.
“What do you plan to do now?”
I consider the question briefly.
“I will likely move somewhere quiet,” I say. “Perhaps the countryside. A small town would suit me well.”
“The stars?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Elizabeth nods thoughtfully.
“Would you like my father to act as your guarantor? That would allow you to live independently.”
I feel myself brighten slightly.
“That would be extremely helpful. Thank you.”
She inclines her head.
“Will you stop dyeing your hair?”
This time it is my turn to pause.
So she figured that out as well.
Impressive.
“I will,” I answer.
“What color is it actually?”
“White.”
She blinks once.
Then she smiles.
A real smile.
“I am sure it will look beautiful on you.”
Ah.
So we are finished with noble conversation.
“Me too.”
I have never actually seen the true color myself.
Still, the probability of it being anything less than an eleven out of ten seems extremely low.
Elizabeth steps forward and wraps her arms around me in a light hug, resting her chin on top of my head.
I click my tongue internally.
I have developed quite a bit in recent years, but I am still smaller than normal.
Height differences remain a tragic injustice.
Still, I return the hug.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I am magnanimous enough to tolerate minor offenses against my dignity.
Just this once.
“I will miss you,” she says quietly.
“Me too.”
We separate.
She stretches out her hand.
“That plan is still a few weeks away, right? Surely you can spare some time for the poor girl who came out at this ungodly hour to rescue you from sleeping in a police station.”
I smile at her.
“I suppose I could. Since I am so generous, I will graciously spend a few weeks at your house playing games and stealing your snacks.”
She giggles.
I do too.
Then I take her hand.
The world begins to shift again.
But I have had quite enough of that by now.
My hair is white.
Shiny.
And inconveniently long.
It happens all at once, the illusion of dyed black vanishing in an instant as reality corrects itself.
My Astral Energy surges back to life, rushing through my body like a river that had merely been waiting for the floodgates to reopen.
My ears return.
My tail follows a moment later, swaying once behind me as if confirming its continued existence.
Elizabeth does not react.
Of course she doesn’t.
This is only a memory.
The seed inside me cracks again.
And again.
And again.
Fractures spread across its surface, thin lines splintering outward through the entire structure.
“Surely you understand by now?”
Whether the words are meant for the Lich or the System itself, I cannot say.
They simply feel correct.
The seed continues breaking apart.
“Completely unrealistic expectations. Endless lessons. Endless critiques.”
Another fracture.
“Yet in the end…”
The cracks deepen.
“I met them all.”
The shell splits.
“Every expectation.”
The pieces begin drifting apart.
“Every demand.”
Fragments float weightlessly through the space that I assume is my soul.
“Not only did I meet them…”
They collapse inward.
“…I surpassed them.”
The fragments compress into a single point of light.
Unimaginably dense.
A singularity.
“I crushed every one of their expectations beneath my foot.”
The light intensifies.
“That is my—”
The memory shatters completely.
The Garden of Eternal Midnight returns around me.
Thorned vines twist through the dark soil.
Black dahlias loom beneath the marble roof of the palace.
The Lich stands before me once more.
“...Pride.”
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You have embraced what you are.
You have gained the traits: [Pride] [Living Calamity]
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