Chapter Six: He Who Sleeps While Others Pray
Zeke stood in the middle of the grand, marble-floored foyer of his new mansion, the silence so profound it felt like a physical presence. The scent of polished stone and new leather hung in the air.
"Zero?" he said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. His head tilted, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features as the strange notification lingered in his mind's eye.
{Not all missions need to be written in the mission tab, you know. At the end of the day, the premise of a lottery is to do something to be gifted, no?}
{You either buy a ticket or pull a lever—and that's only after you've bought the ticket. So, other than the random gifts, you can also get rewards from hidden achievements, triggered missions… like our friend the 'No Fap Challenge.' Think of it as the universe's way of saying 'congratulations on not being a total degenerate for seven days. Here's a gold star.'}
Zero's explanation carried the patient, condescending tone of someone explaining basic object permanence to a skeptical cat.
"That's not even what I asked you," Zeke's voice was laced with exasperation. He waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away Zero's tangent. "What is the trait? And while we're at it, what are traits? Are they like abilities? Are they stickers? Do I get a collector's album?"
{Oh. Right. I forgot, you're dumb. The trait you just got, 'Quantum Disentanglement,' is pretty straightforward. It means you cannot be trapped or sealed. Spatial locks? Magical bindings? Conceptual prisons? They'll have about as much effect as a polite suggestion. So, yeah, congratulations. One of your theoretical weaknesses has been neatly snipped away.}
{As for traits in general…} Zero's voice took on the energetic lilt of a professor who'd finally been asked about his dissertation. {By the established mechanics of this world, they're often granted by the Towers. Rewards for clearing floors, passing impromptu trials, or pulling off insane achievements. They're permanent, passive enhancements—a gift that keeps on giving. Think of a trait that lets you breathe underwater, or generate dragon wings. Flashy? Absolutely. Useful? Immensely. It's like the universe is handing out cheat codes, but only to people who are already winning.}
"Huh." Zeke processed this, his gaze drifting to a massive, abstract painting on the wall that probably cost more than his old life. "So, I got a 'get out of jail free' card for… achieving a semi-functional social life? By talking to three guys for an hour?" A slow, incredulous smirk spread across his face. "The bar is in hell. I love it here."
{Show more reaction!} Zero's digital voice buzzed with frustrated disbelief. {This is cosmic power! Conceptual immunity! You just shrugged off a potential narrative death flag like it's a minor weather update!}
"Did I ever tell you I love Juice WRLD?" Zeke said aloud, his tone shifting into sudden, profound melancholy. He brought his hands to his chin, striking a pose of deep contemplation, his dark eyes growing distant and wistful. "But he's dead. So I can't tell him. It's a tragedy. A real… what's the word? Bummer."
{What is wrong with you?} Zero asked, sarcastic concern dripping from every syllable. {I am actively researching digital therapy modules for chronically unserious individuals.}
"The song said 'tell me you love me,'" Zeke continued, ignoring him, his voice a dramatic murmur. "I can't tell him I love him 'cause he's dead. Same as me, too." He sighed, the weight of centuries of unexpressed fanmail seeming to bow his immortal shoulders for a moment.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the philosophical haze vanished. His stomach let out a loud, cavernous growl that echoed off the marble.
"Right. What's for dinner?" He pivoted and strode toward the kitchen, a space so sleek and stainless it looked like a laboratory for food.
{I don't eat. And if you'd opened your eyes for more than two seconds, you'd see there are premium provisions in the Fridge. Cook whatever pleases your newly-unsealable majesty.}
Zeke glanced at the Fridge, he walked towards it and opened it. There he saw the array of pristine vegetables and artisanal meats. It looked like work. "I know you don't eat, heh. And I can't be bothered to cook. Or the fact that I don't remember how to cook or if I even knew how to cook, but let's ignore that. It's a mortal chore. Zero, order me… everything. The most expensive 'everything' from the place with the highest rating that delivers to ridiculously oversized mansions. Wake me up when it gets here."
Without waiting for a reply, he was gone, bounding up the sweeping staircase with the effortless, energy-conserving grace of a lazy predator. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps.
{You are a sentient trash can with good hair,}
"That's rich, coming from an Artificial being"
Zeke countered.
Upon reaching his bedroom—a room the size of his entire old apartment—Zeke didn't so much get into bed as perform a trust fall into its center. The king-sized monstrosity accepted him with a soft whump, its cloud-like embrace and silken Egyptian cotton sheets a sensory paradise. He sank into the memory foam, and within seconds, his breathing evened out. Consciousness slipped away like sand through a sieve.
It was another trait, he would realize later, that had come bundled with his immortality and heightened by the supernatural motor control from Messi's skills: complete, on-demand mastery of his own biology. Every muscle fiber, every nerve, every heartbeat obeyed his conscious will with the precision of a world-class instrument. Sleeping on command was just the most obvious perk—the ability to find instant refuge in nothingness whenever the world became too loud, too boring, or simply too much.
But Zeke, in his glorious, airheaded way, hadn't yet noticed the change. He just thought he was really, really good at naps.
Maybe because introverts can sleep on demand anyway, finding refuge in the quiet darkness of their own minds whenever the world became too overwhelming.