Chapter 2 The first proof

POV: First Person (Samuel Reed)

"Say that again," I whispered, glancing at the door to make sure Jake hadn't come back in.

"I can convert genuine fear, shock, or humiliation into Fear Points, as long as you are the direct cause of it. Points can be exchanged for currency, skill enhancement, or physical improvement. I already explained this once." The system replied once again.

"You didn't explain it. You said a sentence and expected me to accept it." I said raising an eyebrow.

"Would proof help more than explanation." It pinged.

I laughed, and it hurt my ribs enough that I regretted it immediately. A voice in my head was offering to demonstrate something that sounded like it belonged in one of the mobile games Jake played during slow afternoons at the shop, except this wasn't a game. Ethan's text was still glowing on my phone screen, threatening to bulldoze the only thing my father left behind.

"Fine," I said. "Prove it."

"You'll need a subject nearby. Someone you can genuinely unsettle." It said in a calm robotic voice.

I looked around the hospital room like that was going to help. My mother was down the hall getting coffee. Jake was outside on a call. The only other person around was a nurse who'd already come in twice to check my vitals.

"He isn't the only option. A billing coordinator is scheduled to visit you within the hour regarding your hospital balance. Financial pressure tends to produce strong reactions." The system said.

That got my attention.

Twenty minutes later a woman in a gray blazer knocked on the door frame, holding a tablet and wearing the kind of tight, practiced smile people use right before they deliver bad news for a living.

"Mr. Reed? I'm Denise, from billing. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure." I answered with a nod.

She sat down and started reading off numbers, the ambulance, the CT scan, the overnight stay, until the total landed somewhere past eleven thousand dollars.

"Given your lack of insurance coverage," she said, not quite meeting my eyes, "we'll need a payment plan established before discharge, or a deposit today."

"I don't have eleven thousand dollars." I blurted.

She sighed like I'd said something tiresome she'd heard a hundred times that week. "Honestly, if people planned better financially, we wouldn't have to keep having these conversations. Hospitals aren't charities, Mr. Reed."

Something in me went still. I thought about Ethan slapping that notice over my father's photo, about the two thousand dollars I didn't have, about a woman sitting across from a man who'd just been hit by a car telling him his near death experience was a budgeting failure.

"Ask her what happens to people who can't pay." The system suggested.

"What happens to people who can't pay, Denise?" I asked, letting my voice drop lower, letting the silence stretch a second too long. "Not hypothetically. What actually happens to them?". I continued.

The practiced smile cracked. "There are collections processes. It can affect your credit. In some cases liens can be placed on property."

"Liens," I repeated. "On a garage. On the only thing a man has left of his father." I said with a bitter smile.

"I'm not saying that will definitely happen." She stuttered.

"You're saying it could." I stared at her coldly.

She swallowed, and for the first time she looked less like someone reciting policy and more like someone realizing exactly how that policy sounded out loud.

"fear generated

target, denise carter

intensity, high

fear points, plus seven hundred and forty

current balance, seven hundred and forty". Came the chime in my head.

The numbers settled into my mind clean and simple, nothing dramatic about the way they arrived, which somehow made them worse.

"I'll set something up," I said quietly. "Thank you, Denise."

She left fast after that, tablet clutched to her chest.

I sat there staring at my hands, waiting for the voice to explain itself.

"You seem uncomfortable." The voice came again.

"I just made a woman feel like she cornered the wrong patient." I replied biting my lower lip.

"She dismissed real suffering as poor planning less than a minute before that. You reacted. The system only measured it." The system chimed as if to comfort me.

I didn't have a response to that. It didn't make me feel better exactly, but it made the weight in my chest a little easier to carry.

Would you like to see your current balance and what it converts to." It continued.

"Show me." I responded eagerly.

"seven hundred and forty points converts to roughly three hundred and seventy dollars at your current host level. exchange rate improves with continued use." It chimed.

Three hundred and seventy dollars. Not the garage. Not even close. But it was something, and something was more than I'd had that morning. I thought to myself.

"new function unlocked

emotion scan

range, immediate vicinity

use, detect genuine emotional states in nearby subjects". Came another chime.

"What does that mean exactly?" I asked,curious.

"It means you'll start noticing things you couldn't notice before. Fear. Deception. Discomfort people try to hide. Consider it a side effect of hosting me." Came the robotic reply.

Jake came back in a few minutes later, tossing his phone onto the empty chair and complaining about traffic. My mother returned not long after with three coffees, insisting I drink mine even though the doctor said to avoid caffeine.

I was discharged the next morning. Jake drove me home, windows down despite the cold since his AC had been broken for months.

"You've been quiet," he said at a red light.

"Just tired." I replied with a lazy shrug.

"You keep saying that." He persisted.

"Because it keeps being true." I said with a final tone.

He let it go, which was one of the things I appreciated about Jake even when it meant he noticed more than he said out loud

.

When we pulled up outside my apartment, I noticed a dark sedan parked across the street, windows tinted darker than necessary, engine off, nose pointed directly at my building instead of angled for easy parking like every other car on the block.

"You expecting someone?" Jake asked, following my gaze.

"No." I said.

"Probably nothing." He muttered.

He was probably right. I told myself that walking up to my door, told myself again while unlocking it, and one more time as I glanced back before stepping inside.

Upstairs, I dropped my bag by the door and crossed straight to the window, pulling the blinds apart enough to look down at the street.

The sedan was gone.

No taillights disappearing around a corner, no sound of an engine pulling away. It had simply stopped being there, like it had never existed at all, and something about that unsettled me more than the car itself ever had.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out expecting Jake, or my mother, or maybe another threat from Ethan counting down the hours until Friday. Instead the screen showed a number with no name attached, no area code I recognized, and a single message waiting underneath it.

"welcome, host. you are not the first. try not to become the last."