Jake did not sleep.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he didn't trust himself to.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of the house. Flo's breathing upstairs was steady. Kale had returned sometime past midnight, boots quiet against the floor, her presence sharp even at rest.
The system did not speak.
That bothered him more than if it had.
"Still there?" Jake asked softly.
Yes.
No embellishment.
No commentary.
Just confirmation.
Jake exhaled. "You said you're waiting on authorization."
Correct.
"And you won't explain anything until then."
Correction: I will not initiate instruction. Clarification remains permissible.
Jake turned onto his side, facing the faint glow of dawn creeping through the curtains. "Then clarify this. Why me?"
A pause.
Longer than before.
Because infinite outcome success without governing architecture destabilizes causality.
Jake frowned. "You're saying I break things."
Affirmative.
That earned a dry chuckle. "Yeah. People keep saying that."
Observation: They underestimate the scale.
The humor drained from him.
"What happens if I keep going without you?"
The response came faster this time.
Eventual isolation. Structural rejection. Self-erasure.
Jake went still.
"…Say that again."
Power without limitation attracts correction. Correction escalates. Survival probability decreases asymptotically.
He stared at the wall, jaw tightening.
"So I was right," he murmured. "Every time I succeed… it costs more."
Yes.
Silence stretched.
He thought of Flo coughing on the floor, gasping for air. Kale's expression when she sealed his mana without asking. The Queen's calm eyes when she looked at him—not as a hero, not as a threat, but as a variable that hadn't detonated yet.
"You're not here to make me stronger," Jake said quietly.
Correct.
"You're here to stop me from destroying myself."
Correction: To allow continued existence within acceptable parameters.
Jake snorted softly. "You systems really know how to sell things."
Another pause.
Humor acknowledged.
He rolled onto his back again.
"Let me guess," he said. "You already have something built."
Yes.
"And it's complicated."
Yes.
"And you're not telling me."
Correct.
Jake laughed quietly.
Not because it was funny.
Because it made sense.
Outside, the city began to stir. Somewhere, a cart rattled over stone. A door opened. Life continued.
Jake closed his eyes.
"Fine," he said. "Stay quiet. Watch. Learn me."
Directive accepted.
"And when I say the word," Jake continued, voice steady, "you explain everything."
Confirmation requested: Consent deferred.
"Yes," Jake said. "Deferred."
Something shifted.
Not pressure.
Not sound.
Perspective.
The darkness behind his closed eyes softened, as if depth had been added where there had been none before. Jake frowned and opened them again.
The ceiling was still there.
The room unchanged.
And yet—
Someone was sitting at the edge of his perception.
Not inside his skull.
Not outside his body.
Between.
Jake's breath caught—not in fear, but surprise.
"…That's new," he said.
She did not appear all at once.
At first, she was only an outline—light folded into a human suggestion. No weight. No shadow. Just presence given shape.
Then details settled.
She looked young, but ageless in the way mountains were ageless. Dark hair fell past her shoulders, not moving unless she chose it to. Her eyes were calm—too calm—like still water that hid impossible depth beneath.
She smiled.
Not wide.
Not forced.
Polite. Warm.
"Hello, Jake," she said.
Her voice was not mechanical.
It wasn't cold.
It wasn't distant.
It was gentle.
Jake sat up slowly, heart pounding once before steadying.
"…So you can do that."
"Yes," she replied. "It became appropriate."
"You said you wouldn't initiate instruction."
"I haven't," she said smoothly. "This is adaptation. Not instruction."
Jake studied her carefully.
She wore no armor. No symbols. No authority written into her form.
If anything, she looked deliberately unremarkable.
"You look human," he said.
She tilted her head slightly. "This form is based on your comfort parameters."
Jake huffed. "I don't know if that's flattering or concerning."
Her smile softened. "Both may be true."
He leaned back against the headboard, arms folding loosely. "So what do I call you?"
"I do not require a name," she said.
"That wasn't the question."
Another pause—but this one felt… thoughtful.
"You may choose one," she said.
Jake considered her for a moment.
Not as a system.
Not as a tool.
But as something that had waited patiently while the world tried to break him.
"…We'll get to that," he said. "For now—just answer me this."
"Yes?"
"You're not here to control me."
"No," she said without hesitation.
"You're not here to leash me."
"No."
"You're not here to replace my choices."
Her eyes met his.
"Never."
Jake exhaled slowly.
"Then you can stay."
She inclined her head slightly.
"I already am."
The sun finally crested the horizon, light spilling into the room.
For the first time since his death, Jake felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not power.
Not pressure.
Stability.
And somewhere deep inside, something ancient and careful began to prepare—
Not to command.
But to teach.
When he was ready.