George rose from the ground and started walking
George kept walking.
Not because he had a plan. Not because the city welcomed him. But because standing still felt too much like giving up.
The scarf brushed his chin with every step—a thin, borrowed comfort.
The buildings towered overhead like gods that had forgotten their own names. Everything was gray again.
Of course it was.
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. What now, therapist? Fix the world with a heartbeat and a flower?
He snorted softly.
"Yeah," he muttered
"Just smile at the psychic ghosts and hand out scented scarves. Perfect."
A delivery drone zipped past No reaction Even the damn machines ignored him like he was bad signal
Maybe he was
His boots struck uneven pavement— one step at a time, like penance.
He didn't know where he was going. Just that staying still would mean admitting it: he was out of his depth.
He glanced down. That faint green leaf from earlier had clung to his glove like a whisper. The tiniest pulse of color.
His heart said hope. His brain said mold.
Typical.
He passed a storefront with cracked glass. A cafe, maybe. The logo was peeled halfway off. Inside, a woman laughed—sharp, real, alive.
He paused.
It wasn't the sound that stopped him. It was that her laugh had… tone.
Not warm but it was close.
He peeked in through the door. A chime rang out—soft, welcoming. He flinched.
Inside, the place was cluttered. Cozy. Smelled like cinnamon and old cushions. And at the counter, an old man waved him in like they were friends from some past life.
"Welcome, stranger! You look like a man who forgot his breakfast and his purpose."
George blinked. Then… cracked the barest smile.
"Maybe just the purpose."
The old man laughed. "One's enough."
George sat. Let himself exist. Just for a minute.
In his head, the loop returned.
You're not a real therapist. You're not even a real person here. You're a placeholder in someone else's life.
But the tea was hot.
The chair creaked like it missed being used.
And the old man didn't ask questions he couldn't answer.
Through the window he saw the vine from earlier had stretched upward. A new bud had formed—small, green, alive.
[RECORD SPREAD: 3.1%]
George sipped his tea and let the warmth settle in his chest like a heartbeat.
"Guess I'll start here," he murmured.
"Start what?" the old man asked.
George looked out at the city.
"My own version of this life."
---
The city was still gray.
And not the cool, brooding, cyberpunk kind of gray George had hoped for.
No.
This was tax form gray. Hotel carpet gray. The kind of gray that made your soul sigh and ask for a refund.
George trudged through Nivalis with a scarf around his neck and dread in his stomach, wondering—not for the first time—if he'd actually died and ended up in the world's most aggressively neutral afterlife.
The mansion greeted him like a passive-aggressive host.
Still silent. Still grand. Still far too clean for a place without visible cleaning staff.
He gave the front door a pat on the frame as he passed it, just to feel something. No reaction. Rude.
The flower on his desk was still there. Red. Vivid. Mocking him with its stability.
"Of course you're fine," he muttered. "Meanwhile, I'm running on two hours of sleep, 1.5 existential crises, and zero breakfast."
The system shimmered awake.
> [MERGE FUNCTION: AVAILABLE]
Source A: Serene Beat
Source B: Red Bloom
"Alright," he sighed, rolling up his sleeves like someone about to attempt IKEA furniture assembly.
"Perfect. A psychic heartbeat and a sentient houseplant. All I need now is a talking toaster and we've got a sitcom."
He touched the bloom with one hand and let Serene Beat rise with the other.
The merge began.
> [Host Record Transferring…]
[Merging Essence…]
He immediately regretted everything.
It felt like someone had cracked open his brain and scooped out a polite portion of mental stability with a melon baller.
"Yup. There it goes. That was my ability to multitask. Oh, and there goes the urge to reply to texts."
The flower shimmered—gently, smugly.
Then the aura kicked in.
---
The entire room… exhaled.
Not metaphorically. Like, it really exhaled.
Tension vanished. Thoughts slowed. The system's menu lights dimmed themselves out of courtesy.
George blinked.
> [NEW RECORD: STILLBLOOM VEIL]
Aura Radius: 2.0 meters
Effect: Mild-to-moderate emotional sedation.
Warning: Side effects may include spontaneous sighing, therapeutic realizations, and craving hot tea.
He flopped backwards onto the couch like a puppet whose strings had just filed for unemployment.
"Cool," he mumbled. "I turned a flower into a built-in therapy diffuser and sacrificed my sanity to do it. Totally normal day."
He raised a finger weakly toward the system menu.
"Hey, next time, remind me I'm not an arcane engineer. I'm just a guy who once got nervous asking for extra ketchup."
The system did not respond.
The flower pulsed peacefully in the corner, radiating emotional stability like an overachieving scented candle.
George let his head roll to the side.
Everything felt quiet. Too quiet.
He realized his thoughts weren't racing anymore.
Which would've been nice—if he still had the energy to think at all.
Suddenly george get the feeling that he could perceive everything around him through the flower
But suddenly he felt like his head spinning
George sighed.
"Sure. Go ahead. Put me in mystical time-out. I'll just be here… becoming a piece of office furniture."
And then, finally, his brain hit the off switch.
He slumped into unconsciousness with the grace of a man who'd just donated a third of his soul to a flower, and knew full well he wouldn't get store credit.
---
Meanwhile, the flower stood proudly on the desk.
Still Blooming Vaguely judging him
Its aura spread through the office, easing every trace of psychic friction.
No spells. No commands.
Just George's nervous system turned into an ambient diffuser for good vibes.
George woke up and looked around—still in his office. His eyes fell on the flower resting on the table.
He remembered everything that had transpired.
As he moved closer, George felt it clearly: his Record had fully merged with the flower.
He could now perceive through it—sense its essence—and even alter its soul, or something deeper within.
Now george can transfer anything to the flowers soul space without it even knowing
He watched as the transfer of his Record intensified, the connection deepening. His Record was spreading faster now, expanding outward with increasing momentum.
The flower was just proof of concept.
Now George knew what full assimilation felt like—what it meant.
It wasn't about the flower. It was never about the flower. It was about the threshold.
Once his Record reached full saturation in something—anything—it became more than a connection. It became ownership. Not of the object. Not of the body. Of the soul-space.
That hidden, intangible core.
He could touch it. Shape it. Walk through its memories like a hallway. Whisper thoughts. Lock doors. Open ones the host had forgotten even existed.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, mind racing far ahead of his body.
If he could do that to a flower…
Could he do it to a person?
He didn't mean puppetry. This wasn't mind control. It was deeper. Quieter. More… permanent. Change someone from the inside, not with force—but by rewriting the structure their mind stood on.
Their regrets. Their beliefs. Their fears.
He could make someone forget a grudge that defined them. Undo years of guilt. Remove loyalty. Or implant it. Not with words. Just by being patient enough. Just by letting his Record sink in, slow and silent like dye in water.
They'd never know it wasn't them.
His hand twitched slightly at the thought.
But it wasn't easy. A full assimilation took time. Constant proximity. Subtle influence. Repeated exposure. The person would have to let their guard down—let him in gradually.
But once he was in…
They were his.
The weight of that wasn't lost on him. It should've terrified him. Instead, it felt… oddly comfortable.
He stood and stretched. The Record in the room responded, faintly rippling outward, brushing against objects like waves on sand.
He grinned.
He didn't need brute force. He had something better:
Inevitability.