The hospital smelled of medicine and cold metal.Jason sat on the hard chair, his fingers shaking as the doctor flipped through the report. The doctor’s glasses reflected the white light above them. Then came the words that broke the air —“You have sixty days to live, Jason.”For a moment, Jason didn’t breathe. The words hung in the room like a death bell.“Sixty… days?” he whispered, voice dry as dust.“I’m sorry,” the doctor said softly. “It’s a rare heart condition. The damage is severe. We can’t reverse it now.”Jason’s world cracked. He took the paper with both hands, but it trembled so hard it almost tore.Outside, the evening sky was gray and heavy. People rushed past with coffee and laughter. None of them knew the boy walking out of the hospital had just been told he was dying.Jason was twenty-two. An orphan since he was seven. No parents, no siblings, no one to call home. He had grown up in an orphanage that smelled of old soup and wet floors. The only thing he ever kept fr

The morning sun crept through the cracked window, painting Jason’s small room in weak light.He hadn’t slept. His eyes were red, his thoughts heavy.Stephanie’s message still sat open on his phone.Victor’s threat below it.And the system’s warning glowed faintly — Choice impacts fate.Jason took a deep breath.The air felt thin, as if the world itself was holding its breath.He looked at the silver cross hanging on his chest. “If hope fuels growth,” he whispered, “then I can’t choose hate.”He deleted Victor’s message.Then he typed back to Stephanie.> Jason: I don’t hate you. But I can’t trust you yet. Not anymore.He hit send, placed the phone face down, and stared at the wall.For a moment, silence filled the room — the heavy kind that carries pain.Then the screen on the wall blinked alive again.> System Notice: Decision logged. Integrity confirmed. +2 lifespan days. Total: 67 days.Jason smiled faintly. “So honesty really matters…”---He got up, dressed in his worn grey hoodi

Morning came, but the sky stayed dark. Jason hadn’t slept. He sat on the rooftop of the old hostel, soaked to the bone, staring at the glowing city that never cared he existed. Victor’s words replayed in his mind over and over like poison on repeat. > “Your mother always said your eyes looked just like mine.” It didn’t make sense. How could Victor know anything about his parents when Jason had been told they died when he was just three? He tried to remember their faces, but all he saw were silhouettes behind smoke — flashes of gentle laughter, the smell of old perfume, and then nothing. Just cold emptiness. His chest ached. And deep inside that ache, the screen pulsed awake again. > System Log: Warning – Emotional stability below threshold. Processing trauma response. Task queue recalibrated. Jason wiped his wet face, muttering, “What now?” The holographic text formed slowly, almost softly, like the screen itself pitied him. > New task: “Transform loss i

The morning after the storm, the city smelled of wet dust and diesel. Jason crossed the empty street with a cheap umbrella and the weight of the holographic cross pressing against his chest. The screen had flashed its cruel reminder at dawn: > TASK: Amass and spend $500 000 in meaningful aid within five days. REWARD: +15 days of life. PENALTY: Emotional erosion — Stage 2. Five days. A number so small it felt like an insult. He rented a desk in a shared workspace that still hummed from the previous night’s power cut. The ceiling dripped. His laptop fan wheezed. He named his page The Orphan Horizon Project—one sentence of code, a blank donate button, and a mission that sounded impossible. By noon he had called everyone he’d ever met—former co-workers, small charities, classmates who barely remembered him. Most answered with sympathy, none with help. Then a stranger’s voice came from behind him, low and confident. “Maybe what you need is presentation.” Jason looked up. A

The night outside Jason’s window was still, almost too still. The city’s pulse, the one that usually roared with sirens and laughter, felt muted—like the world itself was holding its breath for him. Malik’s words wouldn’t leave his head. Victor is your father. The phrase looped again and again until it lost all meaning and then came back sharper, more painful. He sat there in silence, gripping the cross that had started everything. It felt heavier now—as if the metal had absorbed his shame. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to destroy every wall that kept the truth hidden all these years. But the only sound in the room was the slow beeping of the holographic screen and Stephanie’s uneven breathing beside him. Her body was getting weaker. The extensions she had gained by sharing his tasks were fading. Her skin had gone pale, lips cracked, hands trembling even when she tried to smile at him. “Jason…” she whispered. “You’re shaking again.” “I’m fine.” “You haven’t eaten