The blue rectangle remained above our hands while Nina waited for me to react to hers. I blinked twice, hoping anesthesia had included a polite hallucination with measurable social criticism. The number stayed at eight, which felt unnecessarily specific for something imaginary.
"Did that hurt?" Nina asked, loosening her fingers while she searched my face, "you stopped breathing normally."
"Everything hurts," I replied, keeping my eyes on her because looking through her toward floating text seemed rude, "but your hand is innocent."
She studied me for another second before accepting the answer, then settled deeper into the chair. The screen moved with my gaze instead of remaining near the bed. I looked toward the window, finding the same judgement waiting beside the morning light.
[ROMANCE LIFE SYSTEM — DORMANT PERIOD COMPLETE]
[Host survived an unplanned act of connection.]
[Initial assessment available.]
Connection sounded generous for throwing someone away from a moving car before we had ever spoken. I had not asked Nina's name, learned anything new, or performed one competent sentence before losing consciousness. The act qualified because my body moved toward another person before fear could negotiate.
"You are doing it again," Nina said, following my attention toward an empty section of wall, "should I call Ava?"
"I might be seeing something," I admitted, deciding that lying to the only awake person nearby required more energy than honesty.
"Something medical?" she asked, reaching toward the nurse button without pressing it.
"Something insulting," I replied, reading the next line while she held still, "which narrows the cause to medication or university administration."
Nina pressed the button anyway, then moved closer until her knee touched the bed frame. I wanted to tell her the screen looked harmless, but imaginary interfaces rarely came with useful safety records. Ava entered within a minute, checking my pupils while I followed her finger without difficulty.
The nurse asked whether I knew the date, my location, plus the person beside me. I answered each question correctly and gave Nina's full name last, while her expression shifted despite Ava remaining focused on the monitor.
"Visual changes can follow anesthesia or pain medication," Ava said, lowering the room lights after checking my chart, "tell us if you see flashes, lose part of your vision, or feel suddenly worse."
"What if he sees insulting university paperwork?" Nina asked, keeping her tone serious enough that Ava needed a second.
"Then I recommend closing his eyes," the nurse replied, recording the answer before she left.
The screen waited until the door closed, apparently respecting medical authority more than I did. Nina folded both arms while I tested closing my eyes against the image. Blue letters remained against the dark, removing the last ordinary explanation I wanted.
"Still there?" she asked, leaning closer as I opened my eyes.
"Yes," I replied, moving my gaze across the room while the interface followed, "but it is not blocking anything."
"What does it say?" Nina asked, choosing curiosity after confirming I could still focus.
"Romance Life System," I said, hearing the name aloud before I could improve it, "which is crueler than the confidence score."
Her mouth twitched despite the concern still remaining between her raised eyebrows. She asked what score it had given, then failed to hide her reaction when I told her eight. The laugh came out through her nose before she covered it with her wrapped hand.
"You were not supposed to enjoy that," I said, feeling an answering smile pull at my face despite the ache beneath my ribs.
"I stayed all night," she replied, lowering her hand while her eyes brightened, "so I have earned one terrible reaction."
"The system agrees with you," I said, reading as the screen expanded into several clean rows.
[KOFI DAMEIRE — LEVEL 0 | Confidence: 08/100 | Communication: 11/100]
[Empathy: 34/100 | Fitness: 27/100 | Style: 09/100]
[Life Points: 0 | Confirmed Relationships: 0]
My empathy being four times higher than confidence felt less flattering after considering what the system believed average. Fitness probably included several organs that had not recently needed surgical repair. Style at nine confirmed several long-standing private suspicions about my neglected closet.
"Is there a category for judgement?" Nina asked, watching my eyes move down invisible rows.
"Only mine," I replied, reciting the list when she waited, "though my style has been reported to the proper authorities."
She laughed properly this time, then held her side as exhaustion punished the movement. I watched her settle carefully before reading the last relationship row again. `Confirmed Relationships: 0` looked clinical rather than accusing, though my mind supplied enough commentary.
[Purpose: develop the host's ability to build and sustain chosen intimacy.]
[Restriction: this System cannot create affection, attraction, consent, obedience, or another person's decision.]
The restriction arrived before any reward, answering the worst possibilities without pretending the interface was normal. It could change my capability, perhaps my appearance, while Nina's choices remained outside it. Relief reached me before I understood how seriously I had taken the concern.
The System did not call Nina a target, heroine, reward, or route waiting for completion. It recorded only my confirmed relationships, meaning even a mutual feeling would remain absent until somebody spoke. That boundary made the interface easier to tolerate, though the name still sounded designed by a lonely marketing department.
"It says it cannot control anyone else," I told her, choosing the part she deserved to know first, "including whether they want me."
"Good," Nina said, uncrossing her arms while her shoulders lowered, "because a romance machine that controls women needs a hammer, not a user agreement."
"I would need permission before lifting the hammer," I replied, touching the bandage beneath my gown as pain pulled through my side.
"You would need both hands," she said, reaching for the water sponge after I nodded, "so postpone the revolution."
The next screen arrived while she refreshed the water, listing a single task beneath a yellow heading. I expected something involving charm or asking Nina on a date beside my surgical drain. Instead, the instruction aimed directly at the habit I had used since waking.
[COURAGE QUEST: SAY WHAT YOU NEED]
[Tell Nina one immediate need instead of claiming you are fine.]
[Her response does not determine completion.]
[Reward: Level 1 | +2 Communication | 60 Life Points]
The final clarification mattered more than the reward because failure could not be assigned to her answer. I only had to name something real, then accept whatever she chose. That sounded simple until I tried finding a need I could expose without turning it into a joke.
Water was already handled, while pain belonged to the nurse rather than Nina. My parents needed a call, but asking her to remain during that conversation would make the request feel borrowed. The honest answer sat inside the visitor clock mounted above her head.
Visiting hours resumed at ten, though the night nurse had apparently ignored the official start. Nina planned to shower after speaking with the surgeon, then return with clothes. I wanted proof that return meant more than the guilt of one terrible night.
"The surgeon may take another hour," Nina said, reading a message from the nurses' station after her phone buzzed, "so I can leave now, shower, then come back before lunch."
"All right," I replied automatically, feeling the quest remain beside her shoulder.
She stood, folding the blanket before sliding it onto the empty chair. The easy response had protected me from hearing no, though it also allowed her to leave without knowing I preferred the opposite. I watched Nina reach beneath the visitor chair for her waiting bag.
"Wait," I said, forcing the word out before preparation could become another hiding place.
"What happened?" she asked, straightening as the bag strap slipped from her shoulder.
"I need you to stay until the surgeon comes," I told her, keeping the request plain while my pulse changed on the monitor, "after that, go shower or sleep somewhere kind."
Nina did not answer immediately, which made every defensive explanation line up behind my teeth. I kept them there because the screen had not asked me to bargain. Her choice needed enough room to exist without also managing my possible embarrassment.
"I can stay through visiting hours," she said, placing her bag back beneath the chair, "then my sister is bringing clothes plus threatening to drag me home."
"That sounds reasonable," I replied, unable to stop relief from reaching my voice.
"You could look happier," she said, sitting with a slow smile as she pulled the blanket back across her lap, "considering you made me unpack emotionally."
"My face has limited range after surgery," I told her, letting my hand rest near hers without requesting contact again.
The quest completed only after Nina chose to stay, though the wording highlighted that her answer had not caused the result. I had named the need before knowing whether it would be met. The difference seemed small until I compared it with every invitation I had avoided.
[COURAGE QUEST COMPLETE]
[Level increased: 0 → 1 | Communication: 11 → 13]
[Life Points: 0 → 60]
No warmth entered my chest, while no sudden confidence rearranged my personality. The numbers changed because I had done one difficult thing, recording rather than replacing it. Nina remained inside the uncomfortable chair because she had freely chosen to stay.
The reward did not make the next sentence easier or provide a better answer for her. It only left evidence that asking had changed something inside me before I received reassurance. I could use that evidence later, provided I stopped expecting numbers to perform the uncomfortable work.
She reopened my sent essay on her phone while I tried understanding the interface. Her eyes paused on the title page, then moved toward my full name. Focused curiosity replaced her earlier amusement before she finally locked the screen.
"Kofi," Nina said, resting the phone against her knee as she watched me, "you knew my name before the accident."
"We share a lecture," I replied, already hearing the weakness inside the answer.
"Two hundred people share that lecture," she said, leaning forward while the blanket slid from one knee, "so why did you know mine?"