Vice sat cross-legged on his mattress, the faint green glow of his digital clock painting the room in soft shadows. The night hummed outside—crickets chirping, the house creaking faintly. He dove into the system messages, eyes darting over the blue text that had jolted him awake at 2:27 AM.
[Quest Completed: The Ballerina has seen acknowledgment in your eyes.]
[Reward: You have earned a Trait.]
'A trait?' Vice's brow furrowed, memory flicking back to the system's layout. He scrolled through the messages, landing on the main screen. Everything looked the same—name, Life Points, Skill Shop—until he hit the Traits section. There it was, new and glowing.
Trait: [Slow to Panic]
'Incredible,' he thought, amazement bubbling up. Questions swarmed his mind—how did it work? How could he use it? What did it mean for his career, and his dreams? And what else waited in the Skill Shop? Before he could spiral too far, a new message popped up.
[Slow to Panic: The doctor remains calm and collected in high-stress or life-threatening situations, enabling them to think clearly and take necessary actions without mistakes.]
'Ahh,' he thought, nodding slowly. Not something he could test now, but the potential hit him hard. 'Calm under pressure?' As a new doctor, that was gold—months, even years, of grit distilled into one trait. He pictured yesterday's chaos—blood pooling, hands shaking, the patient slipping away. 'This could've saved them,' he mused, then Lila's fevered collapse. 'Or made that easier.' His mind spun with possibilities: steady hands in the OR, clear calls in emergencies, no more fumbling when lives hung on him.
He lingered on it, grinning faintly, imagining Dr. Nam's gruff nod or Lisa's teasing shock. 'A rookie who doesn't crack?' After a few minutes, curiosity tugged him elsewhere—the Skill Shop, the part he'd been itching to see.
Life Points: 195
Skill Shop [Command "View" to open]
Quest Menu: N/A
'View,' he thought, testing the mental command he'd suspected. The system shifted instantly, text shimmering.
[Welcome to the Skill Shop!]
The words flared in stylized curls, the usual mechanical voice turning feminine, chipper—like a salesperson hawking wares. The message faded in a glittery burst, unveiling a menu.
[You can use mental commands to navigate through the shop.]
Vice smirked. 'Knew it.' He'd half-guessed the system read his thoughts—why else did it jump before he spoke? 'Foolish to expect normal rules,' he chided himself. The messages rolled on.
[1. Theoretical Skills]
[2. Application Skills]
[3. Titles (You have not unlocked this prestige)]
He eyed the options. Titles was blurred, unclickable. He tried anyway, willing it open—nothing. 'Figures,' he thought, chuckling. It piqued his interest—what were Titles? Power? Prestige? He shrugged it off and focused on the two he could access. With a thought, he entered Theoretical Skills.
A wall of text erupted—skills from obscure to everyday, each with a price. 'A simple cost for what people study lifetimes for,' he marveled.
[Surgical Theory (Recommended) – 150 Life Points]
[Traditional Herbology – 700 Life Points]
[Human Anatomy (Recommended) – 150 Life Points]
[Human Physiology (Recommended) – 150 Life Points]
His jaw tightened. 195 LP wouldn't cut it—not even for two recommended skills. He backed out with a mental nudge, the menu snapping back, and tried Application Skills. Blank.
[…]
'What?' he thought, frowning.
[To unlock Application Skills, you must first unlock certain prerequisite Theoretical knowledge. (Purchase all recommended items for best beginning)]
'Urg,' he groaned, shaking his head. Seven recommended skills at 150 LP each—1,050 total. He had 195. 'Not even close.' Still, a spark of hope flickered—150 was cheap compared to thousands for others like Surgical Theory. He exited Application Skills, eyes drifting to the blurred Titles. 'What's the price there?' he wondered, then let it go. He'd unlock it someday.
Flopping back on his bed, he stared at the ceiling, plotting. '1,050 Life Points.' He'd need to grind—patients, quests, anything. His gaze flicked to the door. 'But I've got to be free Friday for Lila's performance.' A silent groan escaped him. Work like mad, but no complaints—this wasn't just one night with family. If the system bestowed that knowledge, he'd skip years under Dr. Nam, half-trained and buried. 'More free time,' he realized, the thought alien. He'd braced for a life of toil, always scraping above average, never soaring. This could change that.
'I'll need to save 1,050,' he calculated, scratching his eyes, exhaustion creeping in. But the idea of helping people—really helping—melted the weariness. 'I can do this,' he said aloud, voice firm. 'It's worth it.'
***
The next morning dawned with a soft drizzle, rain tapping the roof and yard like a gentle drum. Vice stirred, the sound pulling him awake. His digital clock glowed 5:00 AM sharp. He rolled out of bed, grabbed his toothbrush from the drawer by the bathroom door, and scrubbed up, the mint sharp against his groggy haze.
Dressed in a loose shirt and pants, he padded to Lila's room. She was awake, propped against pillows, tissues scattered around her. Her nose was red, a sneeze rattling her small frame as he stepped in.
"Good morning, Vice," she said, side-eyeing him with a weak grin. He followed her gaze to the dining room—antique wood table, kneeling mats, a vase of dried flowers catching the gray light. "You know, I had the weirdest dream. You were bawling your eyes out, calling me a genius. Funny—I've always known that."
Vice snorted, grabbing two bowls of healthy cereal—oats, nuts, dried fruit—from the kitchen. "Yeah, a genius at sneezing," he shot back like her own body was conspiring against her. She sneezed right at that very moment.
Setting the bowls on the table. He knelt across from her, spoon in hand. "How're you feeling?" He asked holding back a laugh, she held down her head.
"Like a soggy rag," she said, scooping cereal. "But alive, thanks to you." She raised her head, embarrassment completely hidden, then winked, then sneezed into a tissue.
"Real charming," he teased, chewing. "Let me check you." He set his spoon down, grabbed the emergency kit from last night—still by her door—and checked her forehead. Warm, not scorching. "Fever's down, but you're still a mess."
"Gee, thanks," she muttered, smirking. "You're all heart."
"Someone's gotta be," he said, prepping a mild injection—vitamins, hydration—from the kit. "Hold still." He slid the needle in, quick and clean, her wince barely a twitch. "There. Now eat."
She scrunched up her face at him, then spooned more cereal. "Bossy. Bet you cried in that dream, though."
"Nah, just allergies from your genius dust," he quipped, grinning. They bantered on, the rain's patter a soft backdrop, bowls emptying as Vice's worry eased. Lila was tough—sick, but herself.
***
He cleaned up, then stepped outside, the drizzle cool on his face. A cab idled down the street, yellow in the gray dawn. He flagged it, sliding into the damp backseat, the driver grunting a greeting. As Vice settled in, he didn't know just what awaited him.