Dawn painted the sky in pale watercolors as Emma stirred. The remnants of the icy fury from seeing her obituary had crystallized into steely resolve overnight. *Progress. Control.* She began her routine.
A cool shower was the first step. She focused on the sensory details – the water pressure, the scent of the basic soap, the methodical cleansing. It was a ritual, a reclaiming of self.
`[Consistent Hygiene Protocol. Charm +1. Charm: 94]`
*Incremental. Steady.* Next, running. She pushed herself harder than yesterday, the rhythm of her feet on the pavement a counterpoint to her thoughts. Her lungs burned slightly, muscles protested, but she maintained a steady pace for a kilometer. The System acknowledged the deliberate effort:
`[Sustained Physical Exertion: Running. Strength +1. Strength: 48]`
`[Endurance Implied. Resilience Proficiency +3. Resilience: Lv.1 [28/100]]`
Breakfast was simple: reheating leftover pasta from the stream, adding a fried egg. She focused on technique – controlling the heat for a runny yolk, seasoning precisely.
`[Focused Culinary Execution: Reheating/Plating. Proficiency +8.]`
`[Culinary Arts: Lv.1 [73/100]]`
*Not level 6. Level 1, nearing proficiency. Realistic.*
Sipping tea, she checked her new phone. The stream platform notifications surprised her: **10,327 Followers.** Overnight. Comments flooded her profile: *"Where's the next stream?" "That pasta looked perfect!" "You're stunning AND can cook?"* A flicker of satisfaction warred with pragmatism. *Leverage.* But this sparse, rented box with its thin walls and shared hallway wasn't sustainable for streaming quality or privacy. *One month,* she calculated, mentally reviewing her meagre savings and projected stream income. *Build the audience, secure funds, then move. An entertainment academy... a potential shortcut to resources and reach, but later. Much later.* She shut off the phone. School awaited.
---
The hallway buzz felt different today. Whispers trailed her, sharper, more persistent. *"Is that her?" "The streamer?" "She looks... brighter?"* Emma kept her gaze forward, her expression a mask of detached composure, her **Charm (94)** a subtle, unintentional magnet. At her locker, retrieving her biology text, a familiar shadow fell across her path.
"Emma." Ethan stood there, an awkward smile plastered on his face. "You... uh... looked good in that stream." He shifted his weight. "Lunch today? My treat?"
The offer felt cheap, an attempt to capitalize on her sudden, minor notoriety. "No," she stated flatly, sidestepping him without breaking stride. *Distraction. Unnecessary complication.* She filed Ethan firmly under 'Avoid'.
Across the hall, partially hidden by a cluster of students, Rachel Madison watched. The casual dismissal of Ethan, the whispers, the undeniable *glow* Emma carried – it was gasoline on the fire of Rachel's envy. Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms. *Rising. Always rising.* Hatred, cold and vicious, solidified in her chest. *No more.*
She spun on her heel, storming into an empty girls' bathroom. Locking a stall door, she pulled out a burner phone, fingers trembling with rage, not fear. A number, memorized from whispered threats older siblings made, was dialed. It rang twice.
"Speak." A voice, gravelly and devoid of warmth.
"I have a job," Rachel hissed, her voice tight. "Target: Emma Jackson. Student, Central High."
A pause. "Details. Payment."
"Make it disappear. Permanent solution. 8 million. Cash. Half now, half on confirmation." Rachel's voice was ice. She rattled off the details she knew – Emma's address (the shabby apartment), her routine.
"Contract received. Funds verified for deposit. Expect contact." The line went dead.
Rachel leaned her forehead against the cold metal stall door, breathing hard. A tremor ran through her, part fear, part savage triumph. *This ends it.*
---
Emma sat in Biology class, utterly unaware of the lethal contract now bearing her name. The lesson was on cellular respiration, complex pathways of energy conversion. She opened her textbook, tuning out the low hum of gossip about her stream. She focused, diagramming the Kreb's cycle in her notebook, cross-referencing with the professor's notes. It was dense, demanding concentration.
`[Focused Study: Cellular Metabolism. Proficiency +12.]`
`[Academics (Biology): Lv.1 [52/100]]`
Progress was tangible, but slow. She checked her evolving status mentally:
**[ << SYSTEM STATUS >> ]**
**HOST:** Emma Jackson
**LEVEL:** 2 (Progress: 55%)
**ATTRIBUTES:**
* **Charm:** 94
* **Strength:** 48
**TALENTS:** [Unlimited Proficiency] (Active), [Unlimited Growth] (Active), [Limit Break] (Dormant)
**SKILLS:**
* **Resilience (Passive):** Lv.1 [28/100]
* **Academics (Mathematics):** Lv.2 [75/100]
* **Academics (Biology):** Lv.1 [52/100] (← Focused)
* **Academics (General):** Lv.1 [40/100]
* **Culinary Arts:** Lv.1 [73/100]
* **Hand-to-Hand Combat:** Lv.1 [80/100]
* **Cybersecurity Fundamentals:** Lv.1 [25/100]
* **Taste Appraisal:** Lv.1 [10/100]
**UNALLOCATED ATTRIBUTE POINTS:** 0
*Step by step.*
---
The afternoon buzz in the hallway was electric. Mock exam results were posted outside the main office. A crowd jostled. Emma waited calmly at the periphery until the initial rush subsided. She approached the list.
**Class 12-A Mock Exam Rankings:**
1. **Emma Jackson: 750/750**
2. Ethan Powell: 690/750
3. Rachel Madison: 555/750
...
Silence crashed down like a physical wave. Then, chaos erupted.
"**WHAT?!**" Rachel's shriek shattered the stillness. She shoved forward, face contorted in disbelief and fury, jabbing a finger at Emma's name and perfect score. "Impossible! She cheated! She *has* to have cheated!"
Her accusation ignited the crowd. Whispers became shouts.
"Full marks? Emma Jackson? No way!"
"Always near the bottom before..."
"Stole the answers, must have!"
"Someone check the cameras!"
The vitriol was palpable, a wave of suspicion directed solely at Emma. Before the mob mentality could fully coalesce, a stern voice cut through: "Miss Jackson. Principal's office. Now." Mrs. Gable stood there, her expression unreadable.
---
The principal's office smelled of old wood and polish. Principal Davies, a man with sharp eyes and a reputation for zero tolerance, steepled his fingers, studying Emma over his glasses. The perfect score sheet lay before him.
"Miss Jackson," he began, his voice low and heavy. "This result is... unprecedented. For you. For anyone in recent years, frankly. The allegations circulating are serious. Did you," his gaze sharpened, "compromise the integrity of this examination? Did you cheat?"
Emma met his gaze without flinching. The cold focus she used in fights, in streaming, settled over her. "No, Principal Davies. I did not cheat. I passed fairly. I studied." Her voice was calm, clear, devoid of defensiveness or arrogance. Just fact.
He held her gaze for a long, tense moment, searching for a flicker of guilt, a tell. He saw only unnerving stillness. He sighed, leaning back. "The proctors reported no irregularities. Your answers demonstrate understanding, not just rote copying. There is no evidence to support the allegations." He tapped the paper. "You are free to go. This result stands."
"Thank you, Principal Davies," Emma said evenly. She stood and walked out, leaving the principal staring after her, a mixture of bafflement and dawning, cautious respect on his face.
A school-wide announcement followed minutes later, echoing through the PA system: "This is Principal Davies. It has been confirmed that Emma Jackson's mock examination results were achieved fairly and without any academic misconduct. The score stands as recorded."
The stunned silence that followed in the hallways was deafening. Emma walked through it, head held high, ignoring the shocked stares, Rachel's incandescent rage visible even from a distance. Their petty school drama was background noise.
As she rounded the corner towards her next class, a new notification pulsed softly in her mind, distinct from the proficiency chimes. It felt... weightier.
`[SYSTEM NOTICE: Significant Milestone Achieved (Academic Validation Under Duress).]`
`[MISSION INTERFACE: UNLOCKED.]`
`[Initializing Mission Protocols...]`
A ghost of a smile, cold and purposeful, touched Emma's lips. *Finally.* The board was set. The real game could begin.