Chapter 4: The brilliant game designer and her foster father 4
1088 Words
“Beep… beep… beep… Apologies, Ms. Meredith. 001 is unable to answer your question.”
Valeria smiled faintly. “If I truly do nothing, if I simply behave myself and hide at home on the day of the traffic accident, just as you suggested,” she said slowly, “then even with ten lives, it wouldn’t be enough to complete this mission.”
“Why would that be?” 001 asked anxiously. “Then what should we do? Is there anything 001 can assist you with?”
Valeria cast it a sideways glance.
“So other than announcing missions and transmitting the plot, what else are you actually capable of?”
001 fell silent. After a few seconds, it finally replied sluggishly,
“…It seems there isn’t anything else.”
Valeria let out a soft sigh. She had never encountered an AI assistant as useless as this one.
“The logic of the plot,” she said, her tone calm yet resolute, “we’ll verify it step by step.”
The corners of Valeria’s lips curved upward, a smile of genuine excitement taking shape. She suddenly realized that she was beginning to find this game interesting.
Valeria washed her hands, adjusted a few stray strands of hair in the mirror, then pushed the door open and stepped out of the restroom. She had no idea that another “surprise” was waiting for her outside.
“Who might this be?”
“Oh? So it’s the little sister from the group home.”
“Since when did the prestigious St. Rowland Academy allow some miserable orphan to set foot inside?”
“Even if you’ve been adopted by the Harold family, you still reek of poverty. Like rats crawling around in the sewers.”
Four young girls surrounded Valeria, step by step forcing her back until her spine pressed against the corner of the wall. Soft laughter and malicious whispers washed over her ears, as though humiliating her were an entertaining pastime.
The owner of this body and the female lead, Fiona, were twin sisters who had been separated since early childhood. They grew up in different group homes.
Fiona was adopted by Ralph Harold at the age of twelve.
Valeria, on the other hand, did not set foot in the Harold household until she was seventeen.
With her back pressed firmly against the wall, Valeria’s gaze flicked rapidly around her, silently assessing the situation and searching for a way out. The wariness in her eyes was deftly concealed beneath a façade of feigned confusion.
“W-What do you want?” she asked.
The auburn-haired girl at the front of the group let out a laugh, her eyes brimming with malice.
“Simple. You become our servant, or you get beaten by us every day. Take your pick.”
Bullying the weak was a habit, or a sick hobby for this group of delinquent girls.
Valeria had been adopted by Ralph for less than two months and had only just transferred from an ordinary public school to this elite private academy. Here, most students came from powerful, well-connected families.
The appearance of a girl who had grown up in a group home naturally made her stand out. Being singled out as a target for bullying was almost inevitable.
Valeria, of course, had no intention of becoming a servant to these rebellious brats, nor did she plan to get into a fight. After quickly surveying the surroundings, she silently devised a plan to distract them and make her escape at the first opening.
However, before Valeria could make a move, a tall figure suddenly appeared at the far end of the corridor, striding toward them.
It was a teenage boy over six feet tall. His light blond hair caught the sunlight, gleaming like honey. His blue eyes were clear yet unfathomably deep. A high, straight nose and sharp, flawless features gave his face a striking beauty, so much so that it was hard to look away once your gaze landed on him.
He was Roger Hawthorne, the youngest son of the Hawthorne family.
Although he was born to the second wife and was neither especially valued nor carefully groomed by the family, the Hawthornes were a lineage of long-standing wealth and power. The name alone was enough to make most people at the academy think twice.
Therefore, even though Roger was always distant and taciturn, his mere presence caused the atmosphere around him to unconsciously tighten.
Roger walked straight toward Valeria. Seeing this, the four girls surrounding her instinctively stepped aside, parting to form a path down the middle.
When he stopped in front of Valeria, his voice was calm and even.
“Ms. Taylor asked me to call you to her office. She wants to discuss something with you.”
Valeria gave a small nod and followed Roger out of the malicious encirclement.
None of the four girls dared to stop them. They merely stood there, watching the two figures disappear down the corridor, resentment flashing in their eyes as they silently calculated, waiting for the moment Valeria was alone again to settle the score.
Only after they had put some distance between themselves and the bullies did Valeria stop. She turned to look at Roger.
“Do you know why Ms. Taylor wants to see me?”
Roger did not answer right away. At that moment, the rims of his ears quietly flushed red.
After a few seconds, he spoke again, sounding slightly awkward.
“Ms. Taylor didn’t call for you. I was just lying to get them off your back.”
Valeria understood at once, Roger had stepped in to help her out of the situation.
Suspicion inevitably rose within her. She searched through the memories of this body. Valeria remembered clearly that in class, Roger always maintained a detached attitude toward everyone, not distant, yet never friendly either. Moreover, she had only transferred to this school two months ago; there had been no real opportunity for the two of them to grow close.
So why would he step forward to help her at a moment like this?
Valeria was the type who lacked a sense of security. Years of psychological manipulation by her biological mother had left their mark; it was only thanks to her firm will that her mind had not been completely twisted.
Besides, from childhood to adulthood, she had rarely received goodwill without conditions attached.
Therefore, when faced with Roger’s sudden act of kindness, her first reaction was not gratitude, but wariness.
- Writer
