THE ASCENSION SYSTEM

CHAPTER 3

A pulse of static rattles my skull as I reach for something unseen, my mind stretching into the void. The world around me flickers—distant, muffled—like reality itself is an old television struggling to maintain its signal.

And then, everything sharpens.

A screen materializes in my mind’s eye, the words forming as though whispered into existence:

[Status Screen] Strength: Human (Upgradeable) Reflexes: Enhanced (Unstable) Cognitive Processing: Above Normal]

My breath catches in my throat. This isn’t normal. This isn’t possible.

Before I can even process what I’m seeing, another message overlays the first, stark and sterile in its cold declaration:

[Welcome, Anomaly. You are not supposed to exist.]

Ice floods my veins. My stomach twists. My entire body stiffens as if the mere acknowledgment of my existence is enough to unravel me from the inside out.

I am not supposed to exist.

What the hell does that even mean?

My pulse hammers in my ears. My hands clench into fists. I take a shaky breath and force my legs to move, pacing the dimly lit room. The air feels thicker and heavier. The walls seem to press in closer, suffocating me with their silence.

Someone—something—is watching me. I can feel it.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head, trying to steady the chaos clawing through my thoughts. “No, no, no. This has to be a mistake. Some kind of glitch.”

But the words on the screen don’t change. They remain, imprinted on my consciousness like a cruel joke.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the edges of my desk until my knuckles turn white. If this is real—if this system is inside me—then I need to understand it. I need to control it before it controls me.

Taking a deep breath, I focus. Status Screen.

The display doesn’t shift, but I push harder. Details.

A new set of information unfurls, breaking down each stat:

Strength: Base human capacity, potential to increase via upgrades.

Reflexes: Enhanced neural response, currently unstable due to synchronization errors.

Cognitive Processing: Heightened analytical ability. Temporary spikes in pattern recognition. Potential risk: Information Overload.

I swallow hard. Unstable? Synchronization errors?

I test my reflexes, flicking my hand toward a nearby glass of water. My fingers react faster than I expected, the motion shand arp, unnatural. The glass nearly flies out of my grip. I barely stop it from slipping through my fingers. Enhanced reflexes. I exhale. Yeah. That tracks.

But unstable.

The thought sends a chill through me. What happens if it fails at the wrong moment? If my body moves before my brain can catch up?

A creak echoes in the silence.

I freeze.

I am alone. My apartment is empty. The doors are locked. But the air shifts, as though someone—or something—has just moved.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My hands tighten into fists. I pivot toward the sound, my breath shallow, my heartbeat a drum against my ribs.

Nothing.

My vision sharpens. My hearing strains against the quiet. But there is nothing there. At least, nothing I can see.

I swallow back the panic rising in my throat and force myself to move. If I stand here frozen like prey, whatever is out there—if something is out there—will know I’m afraid.

I step toward my desk and grab the nearest object—a metal pen. Not much of a weapon, but if my reflexes are truly enhanced, maybe I won’t need much.

“Show me more,” I whisper, focusing again on the system.

The screen flickers. A new message forces itself into view.

[External Influence Detected.]

The world tilts. The message pulses, as if alive. My grip on the pen tightens, my knuckles aching.

“External what?” I rasp, my voice barely audible.

A low hum reverberates through the room, deep and unnatural. It isn’t sound—it’s inside me, vibrating through my bones, echoing in the hollows of my skull.

[Connection Attempt: Pending.]

My breath stutters. My thoughts tangle.

“NO!” I scream, pushing back with everything I have.

The screen shatters. Not physically, but in my mind, the text dissolves into static before vanishing entirely. The hum cuts out. The presence recedes like an ebbing tide, leaving me gasping, shaking, gripping the edge of my desk like a lifeline.

Silence crashes back into the room, heavy and deafening.

I stay there, frozen, until the numbness fades and my mind starts to process what just happened.

Someone—or something—tried to connect to me.

This isn’t just a system. It isn’t just some weird anomaly. I am being watched.

I need answers. Now.

Gritting my teeth, I move. My body is on autopilot—pulling on a jacket, grabbing my phone, slipping the metal pen into my pocket like some pathetic excuse for a weapon. Every nerve in my body screams at me to run, but I can’t afford to be reckless. Whoever—or whatever—was trying to reach me isn’t gone. It’s waiting.

And so am I.

Because if it wants me, it’s going to have to fight for me.

I take a shaky breath and step out the door, into the night, into the unknown.