Asher didn't go into the dungeon that night.
Not because he was suddenly responsible.
Because his body staged a coup.
He made it home from coffee, made it through a shower that felt like a full-contact sport, and made it exactly three steps toward his bed before gravity reminded him it still had legal custody.
He collapsed face-first onto the mattress.
The moment his cheek hit the pillow, his entire nervous system filed for early retirement.
"Okay," he mumbled. "No dungeon. No heroics. No… memory crimes."
The system did not comment.
Which was never comforting.
He woke up to sunlight and the immediate sensation that someone had replaced his muscles with rubber bands that were personally angry at him.
He sat up carefully, expecting pain.
Instead he got… manageable soreness.
That part was still unsettling.
He shuffled to the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared into it like it would offer guidance, then grabbed the least ambitious option: leftover noodles and regret.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Asher froze.
He stared at it like it was a venomous insect.
It buzzed again.
Then stopped.
Then buzzed again—because apparently the universe believed in persistence.
Asher didn't answer.
He watched the screen go dark, then immediately lit up again with a voicemail notification.
He stared at that too.
"…I hate modern life," he muttered.
Pressure settled behind his eyes.
Not urgent.
Not aggressive.
Present.
A system window unfolded.
[Notice]
Residual exposure threads detected.
Recommendation: Avoid unknown contacts.
Asher blinked.
"Hey," he said out loud, pointing at the air. "That was already my plan."
[Clarification]
Plan acknowledged.
Compliance unlikely.
"What does that mean?"
The system didn't reply.
Asher stared at the empty space where it had been like he could glare it into being cooperative.
"Don't do that," he warned.
Nothing.
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and opened his voicemail anyway, like an idiot in a horror movie who hears a noise and says, Hello?
A man's voice filled the speaker—calm, professional, and practiced.
"Mr. Black. This is Officer Harlan with Transit Safety. We'd like to ask a few questions regarding the recent incident. Nothing formal. Just routine. Please call back at your earliest convenience."
Asher sat very still.
He replayed one phrase in his head.
Routine.
His gaze drifted to the corner of his vision.
The system icon hovered there, quiet and innocent like it hadn't just rearranged reality's filing cabinet.
Pressure. Slightly stronger.
A window appeared.
[Protective Protocol – Passive State]
Institutional inquiry: Expected
Mitigation status: Active
Asher's mouth went dry.
"…So you didn't stop them," he whispered.
[Clarification]
I reduced probability of escalation.
Elimination is inefficient.
He let out a slow breath and sat back.
"Great," he said flatly. "So now I'm a 'routine' civilian hero that transit safety wants to interview."
[Affirmation.]
"That wasn't a compliment."
The system did not revise its tone.
Asher stared at the voicemail screen, then at the air again.
"Okay," he said. "New boundary."
No response.
He raised his voice slightly.
"New. Boundary."
The system waited, as if humoring him.
Asher pointed at the hovering icon like it was a misbehaving dog.
"You don't touch Maya's memories again."
A pause.
A window slid into view.
[Response]
Protective protocols activate only under elevated exposure risk.
"That's not a 'no.'"
[Clarification]
A 'no' decreases survival probability.
Asher's jaw tightened.
He breathed in.
Breathed out.
He tried the approach he used on angry customers at work: calm, steady, and pretending he wasn't one sentence away from losing his mind.
"Listen," he said. "If you do it again, you'll lose her."
The pressure behind his eyes shifted—subtle, like a recalculation.
[Query]
Define: lose.
Asher blinked.
For some reason, that made him angrier.
"She's a person," he said quietly. "If you keep editing her reality, she stops trusting herself. Or she stops trusting me. Or she stays, but it's not real. That counts as losing."
Silence.
Then—
[Notice]
User priority registered: Social anchor integrity
Protocol constraint added: Minimal cognitive interference unless imminent exposure breach
Asher's breath caught.
He stared.
"…You can do that?"
[Clarification]
Constraints can be negotiated when they increase long-term viability.
He leaned back, exhausted.
"So basically I had to explain basic humanity in bullet points."
[Affirmation.]
Asher huffed a laugh despite himself.
"Unbelievable."
His phone buzzed again.
This time it wasn't unknown.
MAYA
He stared at her name like it was a lifeline that might also smack him.
He answered.
"Hey."
"Good," Maya said immediately. "You picked up. That means you're conscious."
Asher glanced at the system icon.
"Barely."
"Work in two hours," she said. "You coming in?"
He looked down at his arms. Bruises fading. Cuts closing. A soreness that should have been worse.
"I'm coming," he said. "I'm just… moving at the speed of regret."
"Normal," Maya replied. "Also, you have a voicemail from transit safety."
Asher froze so hard his spine complained.
"…How do you know that?"
"Because you have the same 'I'm pretending everything is fine' face you always get when something is not fine," she said. "And because I have eyes. And because you told me yesterday people were calling you."
Asher exhaled slowly.
"Right."
Maya continued, casual and sharp at the same time. "You're going to call them back."
Asher made a face.
"I don't love that plan."
"You don't love any plan that includes accountability," she said. "Call them back. Keep it simple. You were there. You helped. You left. End."
Asher hesitated.
"…And if they ask how?"
"Say adrenaline," she said instantly. "The universal excuse. Works on cops, bosses, and your body when you eat expired noodles."
Asher glanced at the container on the counter.
"…Rude."
"Accurate," Maya said. "See you soon."
She hung up.
Asher stared at the phone for a second.
Then he looked up at the air.
"You hear that?" he asked the system. "Adrenaline. That's our story."
A window flickered.
[Acknowledged]
Coherent causality maintained.
Asher pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You make it sound like we're committing tax fraud."
[Clarification]
Fraud is inefficient.
This is stabilization.
"That's… not better."
He got dressed slowly, like each article of clothing was a negotiation. Then he stood in the mirror and practiced what he would say to transit safety.
"Hello," he said, forcing a neutral voice. "Yes, I was there. No, I don't have superpowers. Yes, the bus was heavy. No, I do not wish to demonstrate."
He paused.
"That last part is important."
A soft itch brushed at the back of his skull.
The dungeon.
Waiting.
He ignored it.
He didn't even look toward it.
He grabbed his keys and left his apartment.
The hallway smelled like old carpet and someone's questionable cooking choices. Normal. Comforting.
Halfway down the stairs, he felt it again—pressure behind his eyes.
Not the dungeon.
Something else.
The system.
A message appeared, small and private.
[Notice]
Public progression resources detected nearby.
Core market within acceptable distance.
Asher stopped mid-step.
"…Core market."
He blinked, then kept walking, slower now.
So it was real. Not just something other hunters had. Not just lore he hadn't touched yet.
Cores.
Strength. Defense. Stamina.
All rated like everything else: F to S with pluses and minuses, neat and simple.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped outside into the daylight.
Cars passed. People walked. Somewhere in the city, someone was probably entering a public dungeon with a team and a plan and a legal permit.
Asher looked down at his hands.
He was still an F-rank.
At least on paper.
He could keep living in the private world—personal dungeons, system rules, quiet growth.
Or he could start learning how everyone else got stronger.
He swallowed.
Not because he was scared of monsters.
Because public spaces had witnesses.
And witnesses had questions.
Asher exhaled.
"Okay," he muttered. "One thing at a time."
He started walking toward work.
But his route shifted, just slightly.
Not enough to look deliberate.
Just enough to pass by a place that sold power in neat little ratings.
Because if the system was going to rewrite stories to keep him alive—
Asher was going to start writing a few chapters himself.