Marcus's gaze collided with hers for one brief, electric mont before he deliberately looked away, eyelashes fluttering rapidly in an attempt to mask the churning complexity of emotions beneath the surface. When he spoke again, his voice erged low and controlled, but threaded with an undeniable persistence: "I'm going to help you."
"I said no!" Elena's refusal ca out sharp as breaking ice, each syllable crystalline and uncompromising.
But this ti, Marcus behaved as though he hadn't heard her at all. Without further hesitation or debate, he rose to his feet and closed the distance to the bedside. He leaned down, carefully sliding one arm beneath the curve of her knees while his other hand found stable purchase supporting her back. With one smooth application of force, he lifted her slight body into his arms.
The weight was shockingly minimal—like holding a feather with all its warmth stolen away, leaving only fragile structure behind. Her legs especially felt wrong through the thin fabric barrier. Where his fingertips made contact with her skin, the temperature was alarmingly, unnaturally cold.
In the precise instant Marcus lifted her from the wheelchair, sothing happened that he didn't notice. On Elena's left hand—the one hanging loose at her side—the seemingly decorative diamond ring on her fourth finger concealed a secret chanism. From the ring's interior band, an impossibly thin silver needle erged with absolute silence, its tip glinting with cold nace in the dim light.
The needle's trajectory aligned perfectly with the exposed muscle of Marcus's forearm. One swift motion was all it would take—a single puncture to deliver the paralytic agent hidden in the hollow shaft. One movent to render him helpless.
But her hand hesitated. The pause lasted perhaps a fraction of a second, barely perceptible.
And Marcus's movents were surprisingly, devastatingly fast. Almost in the sa fluid motion that brought her into his arms, he was already lowering her gently toward the center of the mattress, placing her down with extraordinary care.
His hands moved with quick efficiency, extracting the portion of blanket trapped beneath her weight, smoothing out the wrinkles, arranging everything with the ticulous attention one might give to handling priceless, irreplaceable artifacts.
From the initial lift to the final placent, blanket properly arranged over her—the entire sequence consud perhaps five seconds total.
The mont he'd completed the task, Marcus imdiately retreated. He backed away with deliberate precision and settled himself properly into the armchair positioned near the bed, maintaining what could objectively be called a "safe distance" between them.
The instant his weight settled into the chair, the translucent screen in his mind blazed to life with almost aggressive enthusiasm:
[Ding! Congratulations, Host! You have successfully unlocked the core romance strategy chanics! You have now received detailed instructions regarding the specific thodology for acquiring "Positive Value" points!]
Marcus's entire deanor shifted, shoulders straightening as excitent surged through him. "What is it? Tell imdiately!" His internal voice practically vibrated with hope. Had the answer finally, finally presented itself?
[System (Fortune): "Through physical contact with the target's epidermis or derivative biological tissues—including but not limited to hair follicles—you may acquire corresponding 'Positive Value' points based on the assessed quality of said contact!"]
Skin contact. Or even just touching her hair. That was it?
Joy flared bright and hot in Marcus's chest, and he barely managed to suppress the urge to laugh out loud in triumph. "I just carried her in my arms—I definitely made direct skin contact with her legs. I must have earned a significant number of points, right?"
He could practically hear it already—the satisfying clink of gold coins dropping into his taphorical account. Maybe this romance mission wouldn't be nearly as impossible as he'd initially feared. Maybe—
He rubbed his palms together eagerly, anticipating the arrival of his first substantial earnings.
[Fortune: "Please stand by. Currently calculating nurical fluctuation values generated by the recent physical contact event... Processing data..."]
Several seconds elapsed in tense silence.
Then, eye-searing red text materialized across the floating screen like a bucket of ice water dumped directly over his head:
[Romance Target: Elena Nightshade]
['Positive Value' Target Quota Required: 10,000 points]
[Current Accumulated 'Positive Value': -10 points]
Marcus: "..."
The smile that had been spreading across his face froze solid, then shattered. His eyes went wide as dinner plates, staring at that bright, accusatory red "-10" like it had personally insulted his mother. He felt as though he'd been struck by lightning—charred crispy on the outside, raw and bleeding on the inside.
Touching her had resulted in negative points?! A deduction?!
Marcus stared at that glaring red "-10" floating in his mind's eye, feeling a naless fury surge up from his gut and flood his brain. But there was nowhere to direct it, no outlet for the rage, so he could only clench his jaw and listen through gritted teeth as the system attempted to "justify" this absolute bullshit.
[Fortune: "Host, please engage in calm, rational analysis. The chanics function as follows: When physical contact occurs while the target is fully conscious AND harbors negative emotions toward you, the contact will be automatically classified as 'harassnt' or 'unwanted intrusion,' resulting in point penalties. You can only successfully increase 'Positive Value' through contact initiated when the target is either unconscious OR does not experience aversion to your touch."]
"So you're telling ," Marcus thought with barely controlled fury, "that I have to wait until she's in a good mood before I'm allowed to touch her? Are you serious right now?"
This was the most ridiculous rule structure he'd ever encountered in his life.
The system responded with what could only be described as patient awkwardness:
[In essence... yes. Following tonight's events—the Original Owner's behavior pattern—Miss Elena Nightshade's initial favorability rating toward you has crashed to extrely low levels. Her hatred index is, quite literally, off the charts. Your recent action of touching the skin of her thigh was perceived by her consciousness as deeply, viscerally repulsive. Therefore, the system classified it as intensely negative contact, resulting in the 10-point deduction. From both an emotional and logical standpoint, this judgnt is sound and consistent with established paraters.]
Marcus's fingers moved restlessly, rubbing against each other in agitated patterns as his brows drew together in a sharp frown. He nodded. Then shook his head. Then suddenly latched onto a critical point in this absurd explanation:
"Wait just a damn minute! The Original Owner was the piece of human garbage who beat her and verbally abused her—why the hell am I being forced to shoulder the consequences of his actions? This initial configuration is monuntally unfair!"
[Fortune emitted several dry, electronic approximations of embarrassed laughter: "Ahem... yes, well... you see, the system recognizes only the designated bound host identity marker. It does not differentiate between soul origins or consciousness transfers. Therefore, Host, your current primary objective must be to systematically eliminate the negative impact generated by inheriting this... shall we say... 'black pot' of consequences."]
The system paused briefly, then offered what could only be described as a sowhat sleazy suggestion:
["Therefore, according to established chanics, the most strategically sound approach would be to wait until she achieves sleep state, and then... discreetly make contact. Much safer that way."]
Three seconds later, the glowing screen dissolved from his consciousness entirely, and Marcus's vision snapped back to physical reality—which was currently shrouded in darkness.
At so point during his internal system conversation, soone had turned off the bedroom lights. He blinked several tis, allowing his eyes to adjust, and slowly the room's contents beca visible again through the assistance of moonlight.
Pale, cold illumination slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows like transparent gauze curtains, painting half of Elena's slender form in silver-white radiance. The light wrapped her in sothing that resembled a hazy, fragile halo—ethereal and heartbreakingly delicate.
She hadn't laid down to sleep. Instead, she remained half-sitting, spine pressed rigid against the headboard, every muscle in her small fra wound tight with defensive tension and barely restrained hostility.
Her eyes caught the moonlight and reflected it back with an almost supernatural glow, luminous in the shadows. She looked like a wounded animal driven into a corner—wary, watchful, unblinking. Those eyes remained locked on him with laser focus, filled to the brim with bitter resentnt and smoldering, unresolved hatred.
Marcus swallowed quietly, his throat working.
He understood sothing fundantal about human emotion: feelings were like carefully constructed levees along a riverbank. Building them required painstaking effort—every brick placed with precision, every seal checked for weaknesses, constant maintenance and vigilant care.
But destroying them? That typically required only one devastating blow.
The taphorical "hamr" that the Original Owner had swung just a few hours ago had already obliterated the fragile, artificial "emotional dam" that had existed between them—three months of carefully constructed lies reduced to rubble and debris in monts. What Marcus faced now was the wreckage, the ruins. He would have to start construction again from absolute zero, building on unstable ground saturated with distrust.
The early autumn night carried a distinct chill in the air. Marcus made his decision and stopped hesitating. He rose from the chair and moved carefully through the darkness toward the bedside.
His movent triggered an imdiate reaction from Elena. Her entire body went rigid, a barely perceptible shudder running through her small fra. She looked like a young bird backed into a corner, feathers bristling, ready to fight or flee despite having no real weapons.
If her legs had been functional, Marcus knew with absolute certainty that she would have already launched herself off the bed and bolted for the door. But she couldn't. That option was stolen from her. So instead, she could only wrap both hands around the cotton quilt pulled up to her chest, clutching the fabric with white-knuckled desperation, cocooning herself tighter as if the blanket could serve as armor.
She turned her face away sharply, that delicate chin disappearing into shadow. When she spoke, her voice erged cold but threaded through with an unmistakable tremor: "Don't. Co. Closer."
Marcus blinked calmly. But instead of advancing further into her personal space, he simply extended one hand toward the bed with clear, unthreatening purpose. His fingers closed around the corner of the spare blanket that lay folded nearby, and he gave it a gentle tug downward.
"Wife..." He attempted to use the term of endearnt to bridge even a fraction of the vast distance yawning between them.
"Don't call that!" Elena's head whipped back around with startling speed. In the moonlight's cold illumination, her face looked dark enough to drip water, every feature set in lines of absolute finality. Her tone left zero room for negotiation.
Marcus exhaled slowly through his nose, an internal sigh that never reached his lips. He understood, with perfect clarity, that any attempt at sweet words or tender phrases right now would be like pouring gasoline on an open fla. It would only make everything infinitely worse.
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