Home.
The door clicked shut, sealing me in with the silence and the SSD on my dresser. Yuri's number was a fact in my phone. A key item. But key items were pointless if they didn't lead to the next level.
I could text her. Plan a date. Go through the motions. Waste an evening making awkward conversations while my brain screamed about the real prize: the Skills. The actual powers DES had dangled in front of me.
A nasty, itchy feeling crawled under my skin. Impatience. I'd spent my whole life waiting, waiting for a break, for a chance, for someone to see me. Now that I could finally take things, waiting felt like a sin.
"DES."
The HUD blinked to life in the center of my vision, which meant it was listening.
"To unlock the Skill Arsenal, I need a Certificate first. Right?"
DES gave a single, sharp blink.
"Culinary Arts. What's the fastest way to unlock it?"
Words assembled themself with sterile efficiency:
> Certificate Path: "Culinary Arts (Professional)."
Unlock Requirement: Host and successfully execute a meal for a compatible social target. Skill must be demonstrated, not theoretical.
Objective: Create a memorable, positive experience centered on user-provided sustenance.
I stared at the text. "Let me guess. Cooking for my mom doesn't qualify."
The HUD remained motionless. Blank.
Of course it doesn't.
My eyes went back to my phone. To Yuri's contact. A solution, not a person.
"Call or text?" I muttered.
DES didn't give me options. It gave a prediction:
> System Analysis:
Text: Allows target time to construct persona. High chance of hesitation or delay.
Call: Establishes immediate vocal connection. Higher intimacy yield. Enables real-time emotional assessment. Recommended.
Call it is.
I hit the call button, and let it ring. A burst of angry Japanese exploded in my ear a second later—two women, yelling. A door slammed, hard footsteps followed.
Then she answered, voice tight. "...five minutes, Mom! God!" A beat, then into the phone, sharp: "Yuri speaking."
"Hey." I replied calmly.
"Who is this?" The anger was still there, hot and ready, like a landmine.
I kept my voice neutral, factual. A non-threat. "The guy from the store. Bought the bottled water."
Silence. Then the fight drained from her voice, replaced by a flustered rush. "Oh. H-hi."
DES painted a quick tag in my vision:
> Target Emotional State: Agitated.
Primary Stressor: Familial Conflict.
Opportunity: Offer alternative emotional outlet / distraction.
Wait. It can track that through a phone call?
A cold little thrill shot through me. It wasn't just reading thoughts. It was analyzing tone, cadence, word choice—building a psychological profile from audio alone. The system's reach was longer, and quieter, than I'd realized.
Got it. She was pissed. At her mom.
This wasn't bad luck; it was an opening.
"Sounds like you're having a day," I said, keeping my voice calm. A flat stone in her choppy water.
"It's not… you didn't… It's just... family." A tired sigh leaked through the speaker, full of old frustration.
DES flashed a brief, confirming tag in my vision:
> Analysis: Target is engaged, venting. Vulnerability is accessible.
Recommendation: Maintain current trajectory. Provide levity.
Good. Exhaustion is softer than anger. Easier to mold.
"Rough one with your mom, huh?" I said, leaning into the commiseration. "Caught the tail end. Sounded familiar."
A dry, humorless laugh crackled through the phone.. "She's a lot. Sometimes I just want to…"
"Mail her to Siberia?" I offered, my tone light. "I've got the forms for mine filled out. Just need a stamp. And a willing postal worker who ignores screams."
A beat of silence, then she giggled lightly over the phone. The sound was surprised, real. "Yeah. That."
DES lit up again with a clean decisive update:
> Target State: Agitation → Amusement.
Receptivity rising
That was my cue. The path was clear.
"But at the end of the day," I said, letting my voice soften just enough to sound like I gave a damn, "she's your mom. You'd probably miss the chaos if she was gone."
She let out a soft, almost reluctant sigh. "...True."
"Hey, if you change your mind about the postal service," I said, the words casual, tossed out like an afterthought, "I know a place. We could… brainstorm better ideas. Over dinner. Tomorrow."
Another pause. I could hear her breathing, the quiet staticky hush of the phone. Then her voice shifted, turning playful: "Are you asking me out on a date, water guy?"
"I am."
She went silent again. I could picture her there, blinking, the playful mask slipping into real surprise.
I didn't let her think. Thinking leads to 'no.'
"I'll text you my address," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet. "Tomorrow. 7 PM."
A shorter pause. Then she took a breath, as if making a decision. "Yeah. I'll… be there."
In the background, the Japanese argument reignited, louder, sharper—a woman's voice barking orders.
Yuri's tone iced over, moving away from the mic. "I said I'll do it! Ugh, you're impossible!"
A shuffle, then she was back, voice dropping to a hushed, hurried whisper. "I have to go."
"Figured." My reply was dry, unsurprised.
"Wait," she said, quick, like she was grabbing my sleeve through the phone. "I didn't get your name."
"Terrence. Terrence Holt."
"Terrence," she repeated, like she was trying the name out. "Okay. Bye, Terrence."
Click. The line went dead.
I put the phone down. The quiet rushed back in.
Interesting.
DES had read her mood through her voice—the stress, the shift to amusement. It was a useful metric, but no thoughts. The deep, silent data—the true leverage—required a visual link: I had to be looking at her, or be around her physically.
A rule. A limitation.
Good to know.
I looked at the blank screen of my phone. Tomorrow wasn't a date, it was a culinary practical exam. A step toward a Certificate. A key to the Skill Arsenal.
The impatience was still there, but it had a shape now.
A direction.
I wasn't just waiting for power anymore.
I was setting the table for it.
---
To be continued...