Chapter 7: The Call
537 Words
Hush blinked out of existence mid-game.
(That new holographic racing game was so gloriously pixelated…)
Samantha felt the system’s presence vanish like a popped soap bubble. Relief washed over her. Kind as Hush seemed, its cosmic power hummed beneath every interaction—a sleeping dragon best left undisturbed.
6:03 AM | The Ritual
Dawn bled peach-gold across the desk as Samantha:
Opened the dog-eared literature textbook
Created a color-coded annotation system:
» Pink: Classic poems (mandatory recitation)
» Blue: Historical context (essay ammunition)
Stacked math problem sets—her Achilles’ heel. Brute-force drilling wasn’t working. Where was the pattern?
Smoothed the English primer’s cover. Her sanctuary. h****n hadn’t stolen these words:
"Liberty."
"Resilience."
"Asylum."
Last life, this fluency saved her in the drug den’s hierarchy. Fluent whispers to Colombian suppliers earned scraps of trust—and brief escapes from the lockup. Until the needle drowned that advantage too.
Stop.
She pressed palms to temples.
The past is ash.
Only forward.
11:17 AM | Time Warp
Five hours dissolved.
Samantha surfaced from quadratic equations, blinking at the clock. Time blindness—the scholar’s curse.
Midnight oil burned? Worth it.
5:02 AM Next Day | Body Scan
She woke with military precision. Sun still beneath the horizon.
Muscle assessment:
Quadriceps: Slight stiffness (yesterday’s run + heavy lifting)
Core: Fatigue rating 2/10
Overall: 93% operational capacity
Impossible. By rights, she should be immobilized.
*"Rise and grind, host-ling! PSA: That lifespan buffer isn’t just for breathing! Hit 365-day stash, unlock the System Emporium!"* A pixelated catalog flickered:
text
[ SHOWROOM HIGHLIGHTS ]
» Pain-B-Gone Pill (5 days)
» Eidetic Memory Tonic (7 days)
» Muay Thai Mastery Injector (30 days)
"That soreness? One pill and—"
"This isn’t pain," Samantha cut in softly. "It’s… proof I’m alive."
Hush’s interface glitched. Since when do hosts REFUSE painkillers?!
7:30 AM | Fueling the Machine
Golden millet* steamed in a bowl. Two boiled eggs.
Strategic nutrition:
Post-h****n gut microbiome: Fragile
Lactose intolerance: Probable (per yesterday’s milk carton)
Recovery phase: Gentle carbs → Protein infusion
As she ate, vocabulary flashcards fanned across the table.
9:00 AM | Payphone Gambit
The convenience store’s payphone smelled of stale tobacco and desperation. Samantha fed coins into the slot.
Muscle memory took over:
Fingers dialed the number she’d carved into her soul at age eight—when a stolen 10-yuan note bought three minutes of her mother’s voice.
Click. Hum.
"Who’s wasting my time?!" Her father’s gravel-on-glass bark.
Samantha’s throat sealed. That single syllable—Dad—crumbled to ash on her tongue.
"Done with junior high," she stated flatly. "School wants me for high school."
"High school?!" Mocking laughter shredded the line. "Thought you’d ace City First High? Big talk for useless flesh! Get to the factory. Your mother’s got a spot—"
"I failed." The lie flowed like silk. "But the school demands repayment. All those prize monies… unless I stay."
Silence. Then: "Bullshit! Schools don’t claw back cash!"
"They showed me a contract. Your signature." She paused. "Should we call the police? Verify it?"
A beat. Two. She heard his breathing hitch—the sound of a man rifling through mental files. Did I sign something drunk? At parent-teacher night?
- Writer
