Ethan had the apartment to himself, the blinds drawn just enough to let streaks of sunlight fall across the floor like stage lights.
A script lay untouched on the table. He wasn't reading it. Instead, he was watching.
Old black-and-white noir films flickered on his laptop—Humphrey Bogart, Gloria Grahame, Peter Lorre. The classics. The ones where every word carried weight and every silence said more than a monologue.
He scribbled into a notebook between scenes, pausing to rewind moments that struck him. The way a brow arched, how someone exhaled slowly after a lie, the tension in a simple glance.
Then came the improv.
He practiced in front of the mirror, switching characters with each line he imagined. A suspect, a detective, a lover, a liar. No lines—just intentions.
He whispered to himself, tried different stances, different postures. What kind of man would kill in silence? What kind of woman would know and never tell?
He worked. For hours.
But what nagged at him wasn't the effort.
It was the silence.
No floating screens.
No sarcastic remarks.
No System.
Even the glowing mission text had faded. The corner of his vision was finally, blissfully clear.
And yet... it felt wrong.
The System had become a voice in his head, a presence in his ear. An annoyance, sure. But also, a rhythm. A constant. Something to brace against.
Its absence made the world feel too quiet.
But something else disturbed him more.
When he reviewed his skills—when he mentally reached for the things he knew the System had gifted him—he felt them stronger.
Sharper.
His Character Immersion skill had a tactile feel now. It wasn't just a stat—it was an instinct. A muscle. He could drop into a persona without hesitation. Line Delivery felt steadier, more confident. Emotional Range? He felt layers unfolding when he spoke. The mirror didn't reflect a man trying to act—it showed a man inhabiting.
He blinked.
"This isn't just memory," he muttered to himself. "It's more than that."
Then, the air around him shifted.
A golden screen shimmered into view.
{ System Update Complete. Welcome to Version 1.2. }
Ethan jumped.
"Miss me?" the System said, voice back with a silky smugness.
"Where the hell have you been?" Ethan demanded.
"Updating. Patching. Evolving. While you binge-watched detective flicks like a true method actor. Bravo, by the way."
Another screen opened beside the first.
{ New Feature Unlocked: XP Conversion System }
Every successful mission now grants XP. XP may be accumulated and exchanged for Skills, Perks, or Consumable Items. Some purchases are permanent. Others are temporary boosts.
A third screen faded into view.
Current XP Balance: 180 XP
Available Exchange Options:
Script Retention Lv. 2 – 100 XP
Vocal Control Enhancement (Temporary – 3 Days) – 50 XP
Scene Partner Insight (Read a partner's emotional cue accuracy) – 150 XP
Consumable: Nerve Block (Suppress visible anxiety for 30 minutes) – 30 XP
Ethan blinked at the display.
"This... is new."
"You're leveling up, starboy. We both are. Now your wins mean something more than just bragging rights and not dying. We're gamifying the grind."
Ethan crossed his arms, lips twitching. "And how exactly do I earn XP again?"
"By succeeding missions, of course. Side quests, main objectives, even the occasional bonus challenge. Think of it as... applause from the universe. Tangible now."
Ethan scanned the list again.
A real reward system. Choice. Agency.
It felt like control. Like structure in chaos.
"I like this," he said.
"Don't get used to the silence though," the System added. "I'm back. And sassier than ever."
Ethan cracked a smile.
Somehow, that felt like progress too.
Later that afternoon, curiosity got the best of him.
"Alright, System," he said, standing before the mirror. "Let's try something. Give me a prompt."
"A prompt?"
"For improv. Like a scene. A vibe. Something I can work with."
"What do I look like, a drama coach?"
"You literally live in my brain. The least you can do is throw me a challenge."
"Fine. Let's see… You're a burned-out ex-detective being questioned by Internal Affairs. But you're hiding the fact that your partner is guilty, not you. Go."
Ethan closed his eyes, breathed in. When he looked up, the mirror reflected someone different. A weariness in the shoulders. A coldness behind the eyes. A man with secrets.
He started to speak.
"You ever lose sleep over doing the right thing? Not because it cost you something... but because it didn't?"
"Okay, okay, slow down Brando," the System muttered. "You're gonna melt the glass."
Ethan smirked, relaxing out of the stance. "Another one."
And so the afternoon went—prompt after prompt, some absurd, others heavy. Ethan shifted through them like a chameleon, surprising even himself.
But the high didn't last.
As night crept in, he stood before his closet.
It was a graveyard of discount tees and jeans. Nothing that said murder mystery noir.
"No dress shirt. No jacket. No trench coat."
"Honestly, it's giving 'first-time waiter,' not 'suspect number three,'" the System chimed in.
Ethan sighed, rubbing his face. "I can't buy anything either. Rent barely cleared last week. I'm down to... forty-eight dollars."
"Yikes."
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the floor.
No costume. No cash.
Still—he had the part. He had the voice. The instincts.
He'd find a way to look the part too.
Even if he had to fake it.
Again.