George's beer sloshes onto the table, a frothy puddle spreading in tempo with the pounding music. Vlad grins and reaches for the bottle, but George jerks it away at the last second, spilling more amber liquid in the process.
"This round's on me," George declares, his voice a confident shout above the noise. They're four rounds past the point where the Romanian rock tracks have started to blur together, three rounds past when George can pretend to still have a grip on his wallet, and one round past caring.
He stands up to prove it, hands held wide, accidentally banging the edge of their cramped wooden booth with his knee and hissing in pain before breaking into a fit of tipsy laughter. "And the next," he adds with a wince. The night feels infinite and chaotic, like George's spinning mind, and even Vlad's smirk turns hazy with each hour that passes.
"How are you not bankrupt already?" Vlad asks, a wry edge to his smile. He shakes his head, blond hair flopping messily over his eyes. "You keep this up, and they're going to name the bar after you."
George leans back, overconfident and slightly reckless, until he almost tips the whole booth over. "That's nothing compared to what we did today." He straightens, with a heroic attempt to look sober and fails miserably, squinting against the pulsing strobe lights. "Frenchie said we got donations coming from three embassies!"
"And yet," Vlad counters, pointing dramatically at the soggy pile of receipts scattered between them, "You still had to borrow my taxi money the other day."
"I have my priorities," George declares with exaggerated dignity. Then, cracking up, he drags his friend in for a clumsy side-hug. "This night? Way more important than rent."
Vlad's mockingly somber face gives way to laughter. They raise their glasses in a toast, George knocking over more empties in the process, and down another drink in synchronized abandon. The bar thrums with the energy of a dozen conversations competing with the blaring music, but inside their little corner, George and Vlad are in a world of their own. The wooden booth feels like it's tilting with the rhythm of the songs, an amusement ride where only Vlad has any idea where they might get off.
"You're not the same guy who tried to swipe that thing away," Vlad says, shaking his head with wonder. "A couple weeks ago, I was afraid you'd just… disappear."
"I almost did," George admits. "But you—" He searches for the words, and in that pause, something changes in the air between them, something unsaid but deeply felt. He holds up his drink to cover it. "You're still losing. I'm doing another life tonight."
"You won't even remember it," Vlad challenges, echoing their old debate about his drinking habits.
"Memory's still better than yours," George shoots back. "And maybe it's not about remembering. Maybe it's about living." He staggers upright again. "More drinks!"
"You sure you want more of those?" Vlad points to the empty glasses on the table. "Pretty sure those have never even heard of Romania."
George teeters, mid-step, as if seriously considering. "No. More of those!"
He carves a path through the crowded bar, bouncing off one partygoer and the next like a pinball. The bartenders are a blur of speed and color, pouring and mixing in frantic precision, but George manages to catch one's attention. He orders cocktails with elaborate names he can barely pronounce, laughing and fumbling with his money. The strangers around him get pulled into his orbit, their questions mingling with George's haphazard Romanian and enthusiastic, though unintelligible French for some reason.
Back at the table, Vlad watches the scene unfold with a mix of amusement and exasperation. George is in his element—or rather, completely out of it—and Vlad knows there's no reigning him in. He leans back, stretching his arms along the top of the booth, as if the posture alone could keep the whole night from toppling over.
When George finally returns, it's with triumph in one hand and a precariously stacked tray in the other. He drops it down with a flourish, drinks spilling everywhere, and collapses onto the seat beside Vlad. "Told you I'd do it!"
"Is this for us or the entire city?" Vlad quips, scooping up one of the dripping glasses.
George attempts a serious expression, eyes unfocused and wild. "Yes."
They clink glasses, again and again, each time louder than the last. The hours move faster than they do. The air in the bar seems to ripple, distorted by the heat of bodies and alcohol and noise. To George, it's all dizzyingly unreal, the way a simulation becomes once the real world starts creeping back in.
"So," Vlad tries after a moment that may have been longer than either realizes. "Ever going to slow down?"
George tilts his head, considering. "Nope!" he announces, popping the 'p' as he downs another drink. It's unclear if he's answering Vlad or his own unsteady thoughts.
The blur intensifies. George finds himself proclaiming toasts and shaking hands, wrapped up in conversations he can't follow and challenges he can't refuse. He's generous with both his drinks and his bravado, speaking grandly of worlds to explore and lives to lead, his imagination slipping further into fantasy with every sip. Vlad is the only constant, always there to haul him back into the moment just before he tips too far over the edge.
"I really think," Vlad says finally, practically shouting to be heard over the madness, "we should go."
"Not until I finish this," George insists, lifting a glass that he proceeds to spill most of down his shirt. He grins sheepishly, then resolutely orders another round. His insistence is as boundless as his plans.
The night goes by in fragmented snapshots. George remembers arguing that they should fly to Mexico, though the logic behind the suggestion is as lost as his hold on reality. He recalls Vlad's face, upside-down, and then right side up again. The details get fuzzy, smeared across the canvas of his inebriation, until even his sense of time blurs.
When they finally lurch out into the street, it's under the disapproving gaze of the bartender and with the half-hearted protests of the people they've left mid-celebration. George feels the night air hit him like a wake-up call, clear and cold and stunningly real, but his legs betray him, sagging beneath his unsteady weight.
"Okay, let's get you home." Vlad says, steering him down the street.
George blacks out, midsentence.
***
The next morning mirrors the last—his hangover interrupted by the now-familiar System chime.
Without a moment's pause, he decides it is time to start his new adventure.
As the world slipped sideways again, George laughed—unaware that this time it was nothing like he expected.
[Simulation No. 03 Begins]
[Loading new scenario…]
[The world is hot. The air smells of dust and corn. A ceiling fan spins lazily above you.]
[Your stomach is heavy. Your back aches. Your legs are swollen.]
[You are seven months pregnant.]
[You are a single mother in modern-day Mexico.]
Month 7: The Weight of Responsibility
[You wake up to the sound of your neighbor's radio. The morning news hums in the background as you struggle to sit up.]
[Your belly is large. Your feet ache. You waddle instead of walk.]
[You count your pesos carefully. You don't have enough for a doctor's visit this week. You'll have to skip it. Again.]
You are already making sacrifices for a child that has not yet been born.
Month 8: Fear & Love
[The baby kicks. You cry, overwhelmed by a feeling you can't explain.]
[You are terrified. You are exhausted. You are in love with someone you haven't met yet.]
[At night, you whisper to your belly. You promise to do better than your parents did. You promise she won't go hungry. You promise she will be loved.]
But promises don't pay the rent.
Month 9: The Pain of Birth
[The contractions start at night. At first, they are tolerable. By morning, you are screaming.]
[You are rushed to the hospital in a borrowed car. The nurses barely glance at you. Another young, poor mother. Nothing special.]
[You are wheeled into a bright white room. The pain is unbearable. You feel like you are being ripped apart.]
[Then—relief. The sound of crying fills the room. Your daughter is here.**
[The doctor places her in your arms. She is small. Fragile. Warm. Your heart shatters and rebuilds itself in an instant.]
This is love. True love. Unconditional.
Years 1-3: Survival
[You wake up at dawn. You work all day. You come home exhausted, only to be greeted by a tiny voice calling, "Mamá!"]
[Your days are long. Your nights are longer. Sleep is a luxury. Food is scarce.]
[Your daughter clings to you. You are her world. She is yours.]
You learn to be patient. To be strong. To be everything she needs.
Years 4-6: Growth & Joy
[She is clever. She asks too many questions. "Mamá, why is the sky blue?" "Mamá, why do we have to share our food with the neighbors?" "Mamá, why do you look sad when you think I'm not watching?"]
[She sings when she plays. She hugs you tightly at night. She insists that the moon follows them home. Her laugh sounds like hiccups. She tells you she will buy you a big house when she grows up.]
[You work extra hours to buy her a birthday cake. When she sees it, she cries with happiness. So do you.]
She makes all the struggles worth it.
Year 7: The Sacrifice
[She is sick. The doctors say she needs a kidney transplant. You are a match. You do not hesitate.]
["Everything will be fine," you tell her, kissing her forehead. "Mamá will be right here when you wake up."]
[She nods, gripping your fingers tightly. Too tightly.]
["Promise?" she whispers.]
[You hesitate. Only for a second. But she sees it.]
[You force a smile, stroking her hair.]
["I promise."]
[She closes her eyes as the anesthesia begins to pull her under. But before she drifts off—]
["Sing to me, Mamá."]
[Your throat tightens.]
[You do.]
[Softly, you hum the lullaby you've sung since she was born. Her breathing slows. Her tiny hand in yours begins to loosen.]
[She falls asleep to the sound of your voice.]
[The doctors move around you, preparing the surgery. You don't hear them. You just watch her, memorizing every detail.]
["Please," you think. "Just let her be happy."]
[The surgery begins. The lights above you blur. You feel the anesthesia pull you into darkness.]
You never wake up.
[Simulation No. 03 Ends]
George woke up gasping.
His chest felt tight. His hands shook.
He had a daughter.
A daughter he loved more than anything in the world—but now, she was gone.
No. She was never real.
But it felt real.
His mind scrambled for details, for memories, but they were already slipping away, like a dream dissolving in the morning light.
Her laughter.
Her tiny arms hugging his neck.
Her voice calling him "Mamá."
Gone.
A screen flickered before his eyes.
[Simulation Complete. Choose one of the following rewards.]
① Child-Rearing Instincts – Your ability to nurture, guide, and protect others permanently enhanced.
② A small pink ribbon from your daughter's favorite dress.
③ The lullaby you used to sing to her every night.
George barely hesitated.
He selected Child-Rearing Instincts.
The moment he did, something changed. It wasn't like learning a skill. It was deeper. More natural.
If a child cried nearby, he would know exactly what they needed.
If someone was lost or scared, he would instinctively react with warmth and patience.
If he ever had kids of his own—he would be ready.
But none of it mattered.
Because the only child he had ever known…
Was already gone.
George sat on his bed, staring at his hands. His breathing was shallow. He felt raw. Empty.
Then, before he could stop himself, he grabbed his phone.
He called the one person who had always been there.
His mother.
The phone rang twice before she picked up.
"George?" she asked, voice groggy with sleep. "What's wrong? It's so early."
George hesitated. He wanted to tell her the truth. That he had just lived seven years as a mother, that he had loved a daughter who no longer existed, that he felt hollow and alone.
But instead, he forced a small laugh.
"Nothing, Mom," he said, his voice tight. "I just… I just wanted to let you know I passed my driving exam."
Silence.
Then, a relieved sigh. "Oh, sweetheart, that's wonderful! I'm so proud of you!"
Her warmth wrapped around him, even through the phone.
George swallowed hard, forcing himself to smile. "Thanks, Mom."
For a moment, he just listened to her voice.
And for now…
That was enough.