Ethan Reed's fingers trembled around the paper daisies he clutched, the glue still sticky from some forgotten, desperate art project. Sweat beaded at his brow under the harsh auditorium lights, clinging to his temples. Graduation day should have felt like a triumph, a final, victorious hurrah. Instead, he felt like prey, spotlighted and exposed, surrounded by the predatory whispers of his peers.
He took a shaky breath, the scent of recycled paper and cheap adhesive filling his nostrils. Lisa once said daisies were her favorite, he reminded himself, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of anxiety. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the room. He forced the words out, his voice cracking like a dried twig underfoot. "Lisa… I know this is random, but… I like you. A lot."
Silence descended, thick and suffocating, spreading like a dark stain across the hushed auditorium. His pulse roared in his ears, a frantic ocean. He searched her face, desperate for any flicker of warmth, any hint of reciprocation, but found only polite discomfort. She looked away, her voice soft, almost apologetic, yet each word landed like a physical blow. "Ethan… I'm sorry. I don't feel the same."
The floor seemed to vanish beneath him. His throat tightened, a knot of shame and despair. The daisies, a pathetic offering, slipped from his shaking hands, petals fluttering to the polished stage floor like discarded confetti at the world's most miserable party. Whispers and giggles rippled through the crowd, a wildfire of mockery.
"Aw man… brutal," someone snickered from the back.
"Dude, that's tough," another voice chimed in, laced with barely concealed amusement.
Lisa turned and walked away, offering him a strained, polite smile – the kind people give when they pity you, when they look through you rather than at you. Heat scorched Ethan's face, a fiery blush of humiliation. His stomach twisted into a knot, and with a brittle, broken voice, he mumbled, "Friends… yeah, friends." The words tasted like ash.
Shame crawled over him like a suffocating blanket, heavy and suffocating. He turned, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, stumbling off the stage, the hum of pity and laughter clinging to him like static, a grim symphony of his failure.
Outside, the late afternoon sun pounded the pavement, a harsh reminder of a world that continued indifferent to his suffering. His cap and gown, once symbols of achievement and freedom, now felt like a straitjacket, binding him in his misery. Every step toward home was a torturous replay of the last few minutes: the awkward confession, the limp, rejected bouquet, the final, crushing blow of rejection.
His vision blurred, a haze of unshed tears. He rubbed his eyes roughly, but the sting remained, a constant, irritating reminder. Broke, invisible, spineless. He hated himself, a deep, festering loathing that had become an unwelcome companion.
His bedroom was a familiar disaster zone, a monument to his apathy: piles of discarded clothes on the floor, empty wrappers of junk food, old textbooks he'd never opened, and his cracked phone screen lighting up with… nothing. No texts. No calls. Nothing. A barren wasteland of social interaction.
He collapsed onto the bed, his body heavy with the exhaustion of emotional defeat and self-loathing. For a moment, the room was silent, save for the ragged sound of his own breathing.
Then came a faint chime – light, mechanical, unfamiliar, yet strangely resonant in the oppressive quiet. His eyes shot open, snapping to attention. Above his cluttered desk, shimmering light began to gather, coalescing, swirling into a floating translucent panel, almost ethereal in its glow.
"System activated," a calm, vaguely amused voice announced, resonating from no discernible source. "Harem Overlord System ready."
Ethan's mouth fell open, a gasp caught in his throat. His heart thudded painfully, a frantic bird trapped in his chest. He shoved the blankets aside, nearly toppling off the bed in his haste. "What the hell?" he croaked, his voice barely a whisper.
The glowing panel displayed a series of stark, unforgiving stats:
Charisma: F
Strength: E–
Intelligence: D–
Confidence: F
Luck: F+
Points: 0
Credits: $0
Ethan blinked, his eyes darting over the numbers. Everything was abysmal. All Fs. Even confidence. His confidence was so low, so utterly non-existent, that even a mysterious system felt compelled to grade it.
A hollow, mirthless laugh escaped his lips, tinged with bitter irony. "Couldn't have scored any lower, huh? Perfect," he mumbled, his voice cracked with raw bitterness.
The system responded in its even, almost detached tone, as if speaking to a particularly dim-witted student. "User: Ethan Reed. All attributes recorded. To improve: complete tasks to earn points. Redeem points for stat upgrades, coaching modules, or cash credits."
Lines of examples scrolled across the panel, appearing and disappearing with fluid grace:
Compliment a stranger → 10 points
Save $5 → 20 points
Talk to a barista → 15 points
Then, bold, unmissable text appeared at the center of the screen, throbbing with an inner light:
Task Assigned
Compliment a stranger
Deadline: 24 hours
Reward: 10 points
Ethan stared, dumbfounded, his brain struggling to process the absurdity of it all. "Compliment… a stranger?" His laugh was sharp, brittle, and entirely without humor. "You've got to be kidding me."
The system paused, as if granting him a moment to process the sheer ludicrousness of the situation. Then it spoke again, its voice smooth and utterly unbothered by his disbelief. "Good luck, Overlord."
Overlord. The word sounded ridiculous, preposterous. Him? An Overlord? He could barely navigate high school without embarrassing himself, let alone… whatever this was. A surge of indignation, hot and fleeting, briefly overshadowed his despair.
His gaze drifted to the crumpled paper daisies on the floor – their petals wilted, their vibrant colors faded, a pathetic, crumpled reminder of his recent, spectacular failure. The sting of rejection still burned, a dull ache in his chest, but beneath it, something else stirred. Defiance. Curiosity. A strange, stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished.
Ethan exhaled slowly, a long, drawn-out sigh that carried the weight of his misery and a flicker of something new. The corner of his mouth twitched, twisting into a crooked, bitter smile.
"Yeah… Overlord," he whispered, the word a challenge, a promise. His eyes, though still red-rimmed and weary, gleamed with the faintest hint of something unfamiliar, something he hadn't felt in a very long time.
Hope.