The last of the breakfast plates were cleared, the reality of a fifty-million-dollar purchase settling over the table like a fine, bewildering dust. The initial, hilarious shock had quickly given way to a low, buzzing hum of collective anxiety. Cathy, ever the pragmatist and the most grounded person in the room, began wiping the table with a cloth, her movements slow, thoughtful, and weighted with maternal concern.
She stopped and looked at me, her brow furrowed not with doubt about the money—she'd clearly accepted that—but with worry about the logistics. "Son," she began, her voice soft but firm, the perfect expression of concern. "A purchase like this… it's not like buying a new game console or even a family car. There are contracts, inspections, liabilities… a thousand things that can go wrong if the paperwork isn't perfect." She came over and placed a warm, firm hand on my shoulder. "You should talk to Kate."
I looked up at her, mentally sorting through the available family assets. "Aunt Kate? The lawyer?"
"Yes," Cathy confirmed, nodding decisively. "She's a lawyer. A good one. She can look over everything, make sure you're not getting tricked by some corporate shyster, make sure all the… the everything is done right. The paperwork is her battlefield." She squeezed my shoulder. "It's better to be safe. I'll call her later, tell her to meet you. She'll help."
The sense of pragmatic relief was immediate and profound. She wasn't trying to stop me; she was mobilizing the family's resources to protect me. To protect us. I placed my hand over hers, holding it warmly. "That's a great idea, Mom. Thank you. Yeah, please, set it up. I need the legal cheat codes for this stage."
It was a simple exchange, but it solidified us as a unit. My ambition was now their collective project. My risks were their shared concerns. And they would use their own specialized strengths—Vera's muscle, Nadia's authority, Cathy's practicality, and now Kate's legal mind—to shore up my weaknesses in the real world. My family wasn't just a duty; they were my guild.
With the business of the morning concluded, and the terrifying concept of a $50 million debt successfully outsourced to a professional lawyer, I retreated to my room. The door clicked shut, muting the comfortable sounds of the apartment—the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of conversation—into a manageable background hum.
The upcoming stream with Millie was looming, and despite the "Superstar Singer" and "Charming Voice" skills humming in my DNA like a perfectly tuned engine, a knot of nervous energy was tightening in my gut. This wasn't about having the skill; it was about the performance of cool.
This wasn't just another performance piece. It was a debut. It was the official unveiling of "Sael VT," the artist. And I was doing it alongside Millie, a girl who was not only stunningly attractive but whose entire vibe was effortless, cool, and intimidatingly authentic. I couldn't just be technically perfect; I had to be cool. I had to own the stage, virtual or otherwise. My humble side understood the stakes; my perceptive side understood the necessary aesthetics.
"Sunday, initiate VR practice space. Load the tracks for 'Glimpse of Us' and the Vivaldi piece. Simulate a live stream environment with a projected audience of fifty thousand."
The mundane reality of my bedroom dissolved instantly, replaced by a stunning, neon-lit, virtual concert stage. Lights swirled in the digital darkness, casting hyper-realistic shadows. A majestic grand piano materialized in front of me, its black lacquer gleaming. In my peripheral vision, holographic numbers ticked upward, simulating a chaotic live viewer count, complete with a constant, silent stream of chat emojis.
I sat at the piano. My fingers, guided by the perfect neurological pathways of the skill, found the keys immediately. I didn't need sheet music; the entirety of 'Glimpse of Us' was etched into my soul. I began to play, and my voice joined the melody. It was flawless. The tone, the pitch, the emotion—it was all there, a perfect replication of Joji's raw, heartbreaking performance.
But I stopped, the synthetic music cutting off abruptly. "Again," I muttered, pulling my hands from the keys. "More feeling on the second chorus. Pull back on the vibrato. Make it rawer. It sounds too clean."
I ran through it again. And again. I wasn't learning the song; I was becoming the song. I was drilling the performance into my muscle memory until it was as natural as breathing, until the nerves couldn't possibly interfere with the delivery. I switched to Vivaldi's 'Spring,' my fingers flying across the keys with impossible speed and precision, the complicated notes rendered with casual ease. I practiced my stage banter, my charming smile, the exact moment I'd look to my side to simulate looking at Millie during the collab. This was the work. This was the unglamorous, relentless grind that had to happen behind the cheat codes. I would not be caught lacking.
After what felt like both an instant and an eternity, I issued the command to exit the system. The quiet, scent-neutral reality of my mundane bedroom was a pleasant shock to the senses. "Sunday, performance analysis."
"[Vocal performance: 100% accuracy, 99.8% emotional resonance score. Piano technique: 100% accuracy. Projected audience retention based on performance metrics: 99.9%. Your performance is statistically indistinguishable from the top 0.01% of professional musicians globally. You have mastered the material, Sir.]"
I let out a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Thanks, Sunday. But mastery isn't not making mistakes. It's knowing you won't."
"A nuanced perspective, Master. However, the skills you purchased guarantee you will not make mistakes. Your dedication to practice is commendable, but physiologically and neurologically, you are incapable of 'failing' in this endeavor."
I chuckled dryly, acknowledging the factual truth of my AI. "Yeah, well. Tell that to my stomach." The pressure was still there, a self-imposed drive to be more than just a product of the system. I needed to feel the performance, not just execute the code.
I stood up, my legs slightly stiff from sitting at the virtual piano, and headed for the door. I needed cold water. As I walked down the short hall toward the kitchen, Emily's bedroom door cracked open. She peered out, her blonde hair still an absolute mess from her couch-nap, her eyes slightly puffy.
"Hey," she said, her voice quiet.
"Hey, Em. Just getting some water. Go back to sleep."
She didn't move. Instead, she opened the door a little wider, letting the faint, sweet scent of her room drift into the hall. "Can you… come in here for a sec? I wanna talk to you about something."
Her tone was different. It wasn't her usual lazy teasing or casual affection. There was a clear note of seriousness, a sudden hint of vulnerability that sliced through my thoughts about music and finance. My big brother instincts kicked in, instantly overriding my career concerns.
"Sure," I said, my own internal monologue fading away. "What's up?"
I stepped into her room, the door closing softly and securely behind me.