However, the very next second, he took a bite of the fruit.
"Wah—!!! That's disgusting."
Eric made a face.
"It literally tastes like shit. Not that I've ever eaten shit, but I imagine this is exactly what it would taste like."
The system chose not to comment.
After the bite, Eric felt his consciousness slipping away. He wanted to finish the fruit as fast as possible, just to end the culinary torture, but—
The next instant, his mind went BOOM, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Two hours passed, and Eric was still lying there.
But inside his body, the sensation of light began to stabilize.
It was as if every single cell had accepted a new rule of the universe without protest.
The system concluded its explanation.
>[Current status: Operator ready]<
Eric turned his head toward the window, where the Queens sunlight streamed in as if nothing had changed.
"Well," he said. "Let's make it worth it."
"Before I upload anything…" he added, resting his elbows on the table. "There's something I need to know."
He sighed.
"Money."
Administrative silence.
"Because let's be honest," he continued. "YouTube or any platform isn't going to pay me for content this sensitive. That's the best-case scenario. Worst case? Men in expensive suits knocking on my door."
>[Concern registered.
Level: unnecessary.]<
Eric raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, sure. Unnecessary. I feel much better now."
>[Autonomous monetization: active]<
The information flowed like pure accounting.
> [No platform will issue direct payments.
• Content classified as highly sensitive.
• Direct financial traceability avoided.]<
Eric clicked his tongue.
"Knew it."
The system continued without pause.
> [The operator will receive full compensation.]<
"Uh-huh… here comes the fine print."
> [Method: Multilevel ghost accounts]<
Eric blinked.
"Accounts what?"
> [Untraceable financial accounts.
• Distributed across multiple jurisdictions.
• No direct relation between them.
• Impossible to link to the operator or the channel.]<
The old laptop in front of him powered on by itself. It didn't physically move, but Eric felt something configuring autonomously.
> [Income generated through:
• Views
• Emotional engagement
• Audience shock and surprise levels]<
"Wait…" Eric said slowly. "Are you telling me I don't just get paid for views… but for reactions?"
> [Correct.]<
He leaned back in his chair.
"That's… disturbingly efficient."
> [Funds will be automatically transferred to accounts accessible to the operator through everyday means]<
> [• Cards
• Bank transfers
• Indirect cash.]<
"Indirect?"
> ['Statistical luck' events
• Unexpected income
• Legitimate opportunities
• Profits justifiable to third parties]<
Eric burst out laughing.
"So I won't be rich. I'll just be… absurdly lucky."
>[Acceptable definition.]<
Eric ran a hand through his hair, staring at the screen as if it might start blinking nervously.
"So, to summarize…" he said. "I upload content that emotionally fractures the timeline of millions of people. The government looks the other way. And money shows up as if the universe itself decided to sponsor me."
> [Extremely accurate summary]<
Eric fell silent for a few seconds.
He wasn't scared.
That was the troubling part.
"And taxes?" he asked finally, almost on reflex.
Pause.
> [The system optimizes tax burden within legal parameters and donates exclusively to certified charitable foundations]<
"…I kind of hate you," Eric muttered.
He gently closed the laptop without uploading anything yet.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the city.
Normal people. Normal lives. Completely unaware that their future was more chaotic than a zombie movie.
Especially with the Pentagon ready to drop bombs the moment it seemed remotely justified.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Then let's begin… carefully."
The system marked the final state:
> [Monetization established.
Operator protected.
Audience still unaware.]<
The "Upload first video" button remained waiting.
Eric wasn't in a rush.
He still needed to understand the functions better.
His name was Eric Valerian.
Not because the surname was famous or ancient.
It simply sounded… right.
Like someone who could fade into the background even as the world began to bend around him.
Queens did not help with staying unnoticed.
The building where he lived was one of those old blocks that seemed to stand more out of habit than engineering.
Graffiti at the entrance, a mailbox that had been broken for years, and an elevator that only worked when it was in a good mood.
Today, it wasn't.
"Perfect," Eric muttered, adjusting his backpack with his new treasure inside, the laptop. "Free cardio."
He took the stairs and walked two blocks to his parents' building.
In the same condition as his own.
He climbed the stairs two at a time, dodging a suspicious stain on the third floor and nodding at the neighbor on the fourth, who always looked at him as if she were convinced that one day she would fully claim him as her own.
By the time he reached the sixth floor, he heard laughter before he even knocked.
"No! That's not how you do it!" a child's voice shouted with absolute authority.
Eric smiled without meaning to.
He opened the door.
"Inspection visit," he announced.
The apartment wasn't big, but it was alive.
Family photos on the walls, furniture that had survived far too many years, and a dining table that was never fully clear because there was always something "important" sitting on it.
"ERIC!" his mother shouted from the kitchen. "Wash your hands, don't ask why, and don't touch anything."
"Love you too, Mom."
His father looked up from the couch, remote in hand.
"Survive Queens today?"
"Barely," Eric replied. "There was a weird guy in my building staring at me."
"And that makes you special?"
"No. It makes me a resident."
Then something small and fast collided with his legs.
"Brother! Brother! Brother!"
Susana, his little sister, five years of concentrated energy and messy hair, latched onto him like he'd returned from a war.
"Hey, earthquake," Eric said, lifting her up. "How many times have I told you not to ram into me without warning?"
"Because if I warn you, you run away!"
"That's advanced strategy," he replied. "I'm concerned you're only five."
Susana grabbed his face with both hands, examining him with scientific seriousness.
"Did you bring something?"
"I brought love, exhaustion, and mild existential trauma."
She frowned.
"Can you eat that?"
"No. But love helps you digest vegetables."
"Then I don't want it."
Eric laughed and set her down. Susana ran to the table, where a half-finished drawing lay.
"Look!" she said proudly. "It's our family."
Eric leaned in.
Stick figures. Messy colors. A version of him with an absurdly long cape.
"And this?"
"That's you," she said. "Because you always save me when I have nightmares."
Eric froze for half a second longer than necessary, feeling his big-brother pride swell as he stared at his stick-figure self drawn like Superman.
"Ah," he said, clearing his throat. "Makes sense. Very practical cape."
From the kitchen, his mother shouted:
"Susana, stop bothering your brother!"
"I'm not!"
The girl darted off, leaving Eric standing in the middle of the apartment.
He looked around.
This place.
This noise.
This small, honest chaos.
Queens could be dangerous. The world could turn strange overnight. He could become some new existential anomaly.
But here… here, everything was still real.
And he would fight to keep it that way.
His father lowered the TV volume.
"Everything okay, son?"
Eric nodded.
"Yeah," he said honestly. "Just… tired."
"That's fixed with food," his mother replied. "And not thinking too much."
Eric smiled.
If only she knew.
Susana came running back and took his hand.
"Eric."
"Yeah?"
"When I grow up, I want to be strong like you."
Eric crouched to her height.
"Then you're already doing great," he said. "Because the hardest part.… is protecting the people you love."
Susana didn't fully understand.
But she smiled.
And for now, that was enough.