Act 1: Level Up: The Dating System – Act I: Tutorial Level – Lonely in the City
Chapter 1: Single Player Mode
I wake up to the blaring alarm on my phone, groaning as I slap it off. Morning in New York City greets me with faint sirens and the dull roar of early traffic outside my apartment window. Another day, another attempt at not being single. Before even rolling out of bed, I grab my phone and open Spark (the dating app currently draining my soul) to check for overnight miracles.
One new notification: "You have 1 new like!" it proclaims. My heart does a little hopeful flutter. I swipe to see who liked me, already envisioning a witty opener. But the app just teases me—it's a blurred photo behind a paywall. They want me to subscribe to reveal who liked me. "Of course," I mutter. It's like a slot machine dangling a possible jackpot if I just pour in more coins. Nope. Not falling for that again.
Instead, I flip to my matches (or lack thereof). There's exactly one match in the queue, from over a week ago. Bianca, 19. We chatted a bit about our favorite Brooklyn pizza spots, and then… she vanished. Last message from me ("So, do you prefer thin crust or deep dish?") has been sitting there embarrassingly unanswered for four days. I actually scroll up in our chat history, wondering if I said something wrong. It's a short scroll. Bianca: "Thin crust for life, fight me 😜" she had written on Tuesday. Me: "Haha, them's fightin' words. Deep dish is basically a casserole 😂," I joked back. And... nothing. My witty reply sits there, tragic and alone, seen but ignored. I sigh and close the chat.
Time to face the daily swipe grind. I start scrolling through profiles: yoga enthusiast, loves travel, 5'9" if that matters. "It matters," I chuckle darkly—at 6'2", my height is one of the few advantages I thought would help in online dating. Apparently not enough. I swipe right on a brunette with a warm smile and a corgi in her photo. She's cute and seems to have actually written a bio (a rarity). Match? Nope. The profile disappears into the ether like all the rest, without so much as a "It's a match!" screen.
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. This one has only one photo (a blurry group shot) and a bio that just says "Living life :)". Probably a bot or someone who never logs in, but I still tap like—my standards for swiping right have dropped to nearly zero lately. It's a numbers game, right? You miss 100% of the shots you don't take and all that. Well, I've been taking shots like a drunken freshman, and my success rate is… not great.
I pause my thumb and rub my eyes, remembering some depressing stats I saw on a dating forum. Apparently the average match rate for men on apps like this is around 0.6% – roughly one match for every 140 swipes. 0.6%! I'm basically playing a lottery every time I swipe. And in a city as huge and competitive as NYC, where single guys in our age range actually outnumber single girls (about 742,400 men vs 729,500 women), the odds feel even more stacked against me. To top it off, apps like Tinder are ~75% male. It's a brutal funnel: a sea of dudes all vying for the attention of comparatively fewer women. No wonder most of my messages get ignored; one study said something like 71% of guys' initial messages go unanswered. Honestly, that number feels low on weeks like this.
I toss the phone down on my blanket and stare at the ceiling. Is it me? I wonder. I mean, objectively, I'm not a bad catch on paper. I'm tall, reasonably fit (thanks, high metabolism and occasional push-ups), and I've been told I have a nice smile — though usually by older relatives, so maybe that doesn't count. I have a steady if unglamorous job doing IT support for a finance company. I shower daily. I can hold a conversation (when a rare conversation happens). So why do I feel practically invisible to the entire dating world?
My stomach growls, dragging me out of my pity spiral. I get up and shuffle to the kitchenette to make my usual breakfast: instant oatmeal with a side of existential dread. As I wait for the water to boil, I thumb through Spark again, reviewing my own profile this time. Six photos: one of me at a friend's barbecue (solo, holding a soda—basically an awkward yearbook photo with a ketchup stain lurking off-frame), one at Coney Island last summer (I'm squinting so hard you'd think I was glaring), a couple of me hiking and playing guitar (trying to look adventurous and artsy, respectively), and yes, one obligatory mirror selfie at the gym (I thought it showed off my shoulders, but now it just screams "I lift, bro"). Bio: "Johnathon, 20. NYC native. Tech support by day, hopeless romantic by night. Looking for someone to beat me at Mario Kart and then split a pizza."
Reading it now, I cringe. Hopeless romantic by night? Did I actually write that? Ugh. I meant it to sound endearing and goofy. But now I can practically hear the tumbleweeds rolling by. Maybe it's too honest — or too corny. Perhaps both.
My dating apps are basically a second job at this point, one I apparently really suck at. In the past week, I've "applied" (read: swiped right or sent messages) to dozens of "positions" (read: potential dates), and gotten exactly one response — which led to exactly zero actual meetings. If dating is a job hunt, I'm the under-qualified applicant who never makes it to the interview stage. It's like sending out résumés and hearing nothing but crickets.
I carry my sad oatmeal to the tiny two-person table by the window and scroll through social media while eating. More bad ideas: I see two college buddies-turned-influencers posting couples selfies at the High Line park. A high school friend just got engaged. My cousin posted a pic with her new fiancé at some rooftop restaurant I can't dream of affording. I'm happy for them, sure, but seeing all that success just magnifies my own failure.
I shut off my phone, determined to salvage a shred of optimism today. Because tonight, against all odds, I actually have a date lined up. Yes, a real, live date — my first in... I honestly can't remember how long (which in itself is depressing). I matched with this girl, Lily, about 10 days ago on Cinder (one of the other apps in my heavy rotation). Lily is 19, goes to NYU, and loves comic books and ramen. We exchanged a flurry of jokes about Marvel movies and the best noodle shops in the city. Unlike so many chats that died off, this one kept going. And two days ago, I asked her out. Well, I suggested we meet up for boba tea, and she said yes.
So tonight, 7 PM, at a café in Chinatown. It's circled and highlighted in my mental calendar like the event of the year — which, sadly, it kind of is. As I dump the dregs of my oatmeal and get ready for work, I give myself a little pep talk: Don't screw this up. She actually agreed to meet. That's Step 1. Just be normal, be fun. You know, all the things I constantly worry I'm not.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror gives me a once-over as I brush my teeth. Thick brown hair doing its usual gravity-defying swoop that I attempted to style. Hazel eyes, a bit of dark circles underneath from late-night gaming. Could be worse. I practice a smile. "You got this," I mumble through toothpaste. My reflection looks unconvinced.
I finish up, grab my backpack, and head out to face the day. In the elevator down, I'm joined by Mrs. Alvarez from the third floor and her yapping Pomeranian. We exchange the bare minimum morning nod. She doesn't make eye contact — I might as well be part of the elevator wall. Outside, the city air hits me with a blast of summer exhaust. I merge into the river of pedestrians on the sidewalk, another anonymous face among many. Tall, good-looking, and completely invisible.
But not tonight, I tell myself. Tonight might be different. I clutch that hope tightly as I descend into the subway station, ready to grind through another day — and counting down the hours to what I pray won't be just another disappointment.
Chapter 2: Hard Mode: IRL
At work, I can barely focus. My fingers type out routine responses to support tickets, but my mind is replaying imaginary versions of tonight's date on a loop. In one fantasy, I'm effortlessly charming and Lily laughs at all my jokes; in another, I spill tapioca pearls down my shirt and she bails within ten minutes. By noon, I've drafted at least five potential conversation starters in a sticky note app, just in case awkward silence strikes.
My coworker and friend, Marcus, notices my jittery energy as we head out for lunch. Marcus is a fellow twenty-something in the trenches of singledom, though unlike me he occasionally "scores" dates from being a social butterfly at parties. We grab sandwiches from a street cart and find a bench in a tiny plaza between office towers.
"So, big day's finally here, huh?" Marcus grins, chomping into his BLT. "You and the elusive Lily."
"Yep. 7 PM," I reply, unable to suppress a nervous smile. "I'm honestly surprised she didn't cancel yet."
Marcus nudges my shoulder. "Don't jinx it. She seemed into you, right? All those late-night comic book debates?"
I shrug, unwrapping my sandwich. "I think so? It's hard to tell over text. I just hope I don't screw it up in person."
"You won't," he says confidently. "Just be the same funny dude you are online. And remember, like I always say – treat it like a job interview. You gotta sell your best self."
I roll my eyes playfully. Marcus loves doling out dating advice (whether warranted or not). "Yeah, yeah. Present the best candidate for the position and all that," I recite.
"Exactly." He points at me with a fry. "No oversharing the weird stuff on the first date. Your prospective 'employer'—I mean date—doesn't need to hear about your year-long dating dry spell or that time you got rejected at prom."
I groan. "Wasn't planning to lead with those, thanks." He's not wrong, though. I've read similar advice online: in job hunting you don't mention your baggage to the interviewer, so likewise on a first date you keep things positive. It makes sense in theory, but it feels so…fake sometimes.
Marcus continues, "Seriously, man. Don't take it personally if things don't click. Remember when you were job searching last year? You sent out what, like fifty résumés, and only two companies even replied. Dating's the same grind. You can't let the rejections get to you — just keep putting yourself out there."
I nod, chewing thoughtfully. It's solid advice, yet I can't help but laugh at how dehumanizing it all sounds. "So I'm just a product to market now? Should I wear a name tag tonight that says 'Hi, I'm John, I'm fun and employed and totally normal!'?"
Marcus snorts. "Might save time. But really, you kind of have to. I mean, these days everyone's attention span is like—" he snaps his fingers, nearly dropping a fry, "—so you need to make a good first impression fast. Like a strong cover letter."
"Great. I'll prepare a PowerPoint about myself," I joke.
We lapse into a comfortable silence, watching a flock of pigeons terrorize a dropped bag of chips at the edge of the plaza. Marcus knows I've had a rough time with the whole dating scene, so he's trying to be supportive in his own pragmatic way.
"You know," he says after a moment, "if it goes well with Lily, maybe you can finally delete those apps for a while. Go offline, focus on one person."
"If it goes well," I emphasize. Part of me hardly dares to imagine success. "But yeah. That'd be nice. I'm pretty burned out on swiping."
He pats my shoulder. "It'll go fine. Text me after, okay? I want a full report."
I smirk. "You just want to know if I finally get past the first boss level."
"Dating is basically a video game," Marcus laughs. "The first boss is the first date. Beat that, and you unlock the second date, maybe even the coveted relationship arc."
I chuckle along, but his metaphor hits a bit close to home. If dating is a game, I've been stuck on the tutorial level for years.
Back at my desk, between calls from technophobic accountants, my mind drifts to the last time I tried to manually level up my love life – an in-person approach. The memory is a cringe-fest, but in the spirit of pumping myself up (or maybe warning myself), I let it replay.
It was last Friday, at a bar downtown. Marcus had dragged me to a happy hour with some of his friends. I was nursing a Coke (wasn't in a drinking mood) when I met Sasha – a friend-of-a-friend, visiting from Chicago. Cute, curly-haired, and surprisingly easy to talk to. We hit it off about our mutual love of retro arcade games. For a glorious ten minutes, I felt like maybe, maybe she was into me. She laughed at my Pac-Man joke, we compared favorite arcades in our cities... I even started thinking I should ask for her number before the night ends.
Then, like an ill-timed random encounter, he appeared. Some loud guy with gelled hair and the physique of a bouncer slid into our conversation out of nowhere. "Sashaaaa! There you are!" he practically yelled, throwing an arm around her shoulders like they were best buddies. I later learned his name was Trevor, a friend of the friend (and clearly the self-declared alpha of any room he entered).
In seconds, I went from actively chatting with Sasha to standing there like a third-wheel NPC. Trevor dominates the exchange, bragging about the "sick" rooftop party he'd just come from and flexing a bicep against Sasha as he talks (he literally flexes—who does that?). I attempt to interject—"Actually, there's a new arcade bar on 5th—" but Trevor literally turns his shoulder toward me, cutting me out as he laughs. "Arcades, bro? Man, you gotta get with the times. VR is where it's at," he declares, proceeding to mansplain the future of gaming to both of us.
Sasha's eyes glazed over, but she was polite, nodding along. My heart sank. The dynamic had shifted; I was effectively locked out of the interaction. After a few more futile attempts to contribute ("VR is cool, but there's a new arcade bar on 5th—" / "Yeah yeah, anyway Sasha you should come to this other club tonight…"), I did the smart thing: excused myself. "Gonna grab another drink," I lied, gesturing with my empty glass.
Neither of them tried to stop me.
I ended up alone near the bar counter, sipping a refill and watching Trevor's animated pantomime across the room. Marcus slid over a minute later with an apologetic wince. "Dude, I saw what happened. Trevor can be...intense. You okay?"
"Oh, just living the dream," I muttered. I tried to laugh it off, but it stung. I finally had a conversation going with a pretty girl, and Mr. Loud-and-Loaded swooped in without even breaking a sweat. It felt unfair. Like why did I even bother being respectful and patient, when guys like Trevor just bulldoze in and often get the girl's attention?
Marcus clapped me on the back. "Forget him. Sasha's flying back to Chicago anyway. Total low stakes."
"Yeah." I forced a shrug. "I just… It'd be nice, for once, not to be the guy standing alone watching everyone else hit it off."
He gave me a sympathetic look but didn't have a magic solution. We left not long after, and I went home feeling lower than a limbo bar.
Now, as 5 PM ticks closer on my monitor, I shake off the flashback and try to focus on something positive. Tonight's date is a fresh chance — Lily hasn't met me yet in person, so maybe I can make a great first impression. I have one thing going for me: she already liked my profile enough to match and chat. That's a foot in the door. And unlike that bar scenario, there won't be some rando interjecting mid-conversation (God, please no).
I glance at my reflection in the darkened part of my computer screen. Do I look okay? Office fluorescents aren't doing me favors, but at least I wore a decent button-down today. After work, I'll have just enough time to freshen up and head to the café.
"You got this," I whisper to myself, channeling every ounce of hope. Hard mode or not, I'm going to give it my best shot.
When I clock out at 5:30, Marcus wishes me good luck with an exaggerated thumbs-up. I head for the subway with a nervous excitement buzzing in my veins. It's game time, John. Time to show the universe what you've got — or at least not face-plant spectacularly.
Chapter 3: Ghosted
By 6:50 PM, I'm at the Little Cha Tea House, ten minutes early for our meet-up. The café is cozy and warm, fragrant with brewing oolong and sweet tapioca. I've snagged a small table by the window. Two drinks sit in front of me: my iced milk tea (half-drunk already, to calm my nerves), and an untouched passionfruit green tea with boba that I bought for Lily. I checked—she said in chat that was her favorite. Maybe it's cheesy to have ordered for her, but I wanted to be thoughtful.
7:00 PM. She's not here yet. That's fine; I'm early. I sip my drink, fiddle with my straw wrapper, wipe my palms on my jeans.
7:05. I shoot a quick text: "Hey! I'm here, take your time:)." I consider adding a joke about the big plush tapioca pillow decor in the corner, but delete it. Keep it simple.
7:15. No response. I tell myself not to panic. Trains can be late. Or maybe her phone died. It happens, right? I refresh my messages. Online 20 minutes ago is what Cinder shows under her name. Hmm.
7:20. I'm trying not to stare at the door every two seconds. I scroll aimlessly through news feeds. A couple across the café are laughing, leaning in adorably over a shared dessert. I look back at the second cup of tea on my table, the ice now beginning to melt.
7:30. She's 30 minutes late. The anxiety in my stomach has transmuted into a heavy, sinking dread. This can't be happening. I knew it. I just knew it.
At 7:32, my phone buzzes. I nearly drop it in my scramble. A text! From Lily!
Lily:hey... so so sorry. stuck at work, can't make it tonight
I read it twice. There's no follow-up promise to reschedule, no elaborate explanation. Just those words, casually shattering my hopes. My throat tightens as reality sets in.
She isn't coming.
I type back with trembling fingers: "No worries! Maybe another time." I add a smiley for good measure, trying to seem unbothered. The Delivered notification sits there with cruel finality. I doubt I'll get a reply. This feels eerily similar to what I've heard and feared: the classic brush-off. ("Sorry, I'm stuck at work" is the new "It's not you, it's me", I recall someone saying.)
I put the phone down and stare blankly at the sweating plastic cup across from me. The passionfruit tea I bought for a girl who isn't here. Each passing minute of silence feels like cement hardening around my chest. A dull hum fills my ears—maybe it's blood rushing in anger or the ventilation system, I can't tell.
I force myself to take a deep breath. Don't cry. Not here, in public. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, willing the stinging away. It's not just about Lily; it's about the pattern. The endless loop of almosts and never-minds. I was so damn close to finally having a chance. Now I'm right back where I started.
My hand curls around the condensation on the plastic cup. Part of me wants to fling Lily's untouched drink into the trash and walk out dramatically. Another part of me wants to slink away quietly and melt into the city night. The latter wins. I don't have the energy for dramatics; I just feel... defeated.
I stand, leaving the second cup untouched on the table like a little memorial of a date that never happened. As I exit the cafe, I dump my own half-finished drink in the trash, appetite thoroughly gone. Outside, dusk has settled. Neon signs flicker to life against the purple-blue sky. People bustle by, laughing, chatting, living their lives. And here I am, one guy among millions in this city, feeling smaller than ever.
I shuffle toward the subway, lost in my thoughts. A flurry of self-doubt hits me in waves: Was it something I said in my last text? Did she get cold feet after seeing me on social media? Or maybe she matched with some other guy who seemed better. My brain crafts a dozen stories to rationalize it, but none of them really help.
Lost in my head, I almost don't notice the man walking in front of me who drops his wallet on the sidewalk. He's a middle-aged guy in a suit, hurriedly checking his phone as he strides, oblivious to the loss. The small brown wallet lies there, three feet from me.
I blink, snapping out of my fog. "Sir— excuse me, sir!" I call out, scooping up the wallet. I jog a few steps to catch up and tap his shoulder. He turns, startled.
"You dropped this," I say, holding it out to him.
"Oh!" His eyes widen and he takes the wallet gingerly, patting his pockets in embarrassed realization. "Thank you so much! Wow, that could have been bad… Really, thank you."
"No problem," I manage a half-smile. The man gives me a grateful nod and hurries on, merging into the crowd heading toward the subway entrance.
I'm about to continue on my lonely way when something impossible happens.
A glowing amber screen, like a floating translucent panel of light, materializes right in front of my face. I stumble back, thinking maybe I'm about to collide with a neon sign or something, but this isn't physical. It's like a hologram hanging in the air, visible only to me. I rub my eyes. Is this… am I hallucinating?
The glowing panel displays text, as though on a video game interface:
>>> Quest Completed: Good Deed (+5 XP)
I gape. The text hovers, steady and bold, then fades. Before I can fully process that, another line of text pops up, flickering into view:
>>> Initializing Dating System...
What in the world—
A soft chime sounds from nowhere in particular. Suddenly, a more elaborate display blooms before me, like a pop-up window projected in mid-air. Cartoonish pink hearts border the edges, and at the top a title flashes:
Dating System Beta
I look around wildly. The pedestrians keep passing by, utterly unperturbed. No one else seems to see the floating UI I'm seeing. My heart rate, which had been depressed with sadness moments ago, is now skyrocketing with confusion (and maybe a touch of fear).
Before I can decide whether I've finally lost my mind, a voice speaks — clear as a bell, seemingly originating from the hovering display. It's a pleasant female voice, but with a sardonic edge, like a snarky virtual assistant.
"Welcome, Johnathon." the voice says, the words appearing in text simultaneously on the hologram. "Congratulations! You have been selected for the Dating System Beta – because honestly, you need it."
I just stand there, mouth open, looking like a fool on a street corner. My eyes dart around again to confirm no pranksters or hidden cameras are nearby. Nothing. People veer around me as they walk, a few throwing annoyed glances at the guy standing stock-still on the sidewalk.
The glowing interface hovers patiently. Did it just... insult me?
"H-hello?" I venture quietly. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to talk to it. To her? My voice comes out croaky. "What is happening?"
No one else seems to hear our strange conversation. The voice responds, dripping with faux enthusiasm, "Tutorial Initiated: Lonely in the City. Johnathon, 20 years old, frustrated romantic, height six-foot-two (nice), occupation: IT support, emotional status: currently wallowing."
I flinch. "I'm not wallowing," I mutter reflexively, then realize I'm talking to a hologram. Okay, maybe I was wallowing a bit, but how could this thing know that?
The hologram's tone clicks into a more businesslike cadence, as if reading a list. "Current objectives: Improve dating life from 'non-existent' to 'active'. Primary obstacles: low confidence, underutilized charisma, high passivity, and chronic bad luck."
"Wow. Ouch." I manage to say, still half convinced I've entered a stress-induced hallucination. I reach out a hand, trying to touch the floating screen. My fingers pass right through the light, which shimmers but offers no resistance. It's like augmented reality, but I'm not wearing any AR glasses or headset. This is... in my head? Or magic?
I shake my head. "This can't be real," I whisper to myself. The moment I say it, a few passersby glance at me oddly, likely assuming I'm on a Bluetooth call or just a crazy person.
The voice chimes again in a mock sympathy. "In denial? That's normal for first-time users. Don't worry, reality will adjust shortly."
I notice an "OK" button blinking on the hovering panel, like it's waiting for me to accept something. Without thinking, I reach out and press it. My hand passes through, but the panel registers the input anyway with a satisfying ding.
"Dating System Tutorial," the voice announces, "Loading your profile stats..."
I swallow hard, bracing myself as the display swipes aside the welcome text and begins to show something new. Part of me is terrified; part of me is morbidly curious. And a tiny, desperate part of me is hopeful — because if this is a hallucination, it's the most entertaining one I've ever had, and if it's not... then maybe I haven't completely lost the game just yet.
Chapter 4: Character Sheet
I blink rapidly as the holographic display in front of me changes. The snarky introduction slides away, and now a more detailed interface pops up — it reminds me of a video game character stats page. At the top is my name, and beneath it, a title that makes me cringe:
Name: Johnathon Smith
Title: Novice Romantic (Level 0)
XP: 5 / 100
And then a list of attributes with numerical values, each accompanied by little icons:
Confidence: 3
Charisma: 5
Appearance: 7
Humor: 4
Luck: 1
Experience: 0
I rub my eyes, half-expecting the glowing text to vanish. It doesn't. It floats steadily, waiting for me to process. The voice — let's call it the System for now — pipes up cheerfully: "Here you are! Don't worry, most of these can be improved... with effort."
I feel my face flush as I read the stats again. "Confidence: 3" — okay, yeah, I'm not exactly brimming with bravado, but seeing it rated that low stings. "Charisma: 5" — is that average? "Appearance: 7" — I guess that's flattering? Though a 7 out of what, 10? "Humor: 4" — hey, I thought I was at least a little funny. "Luck: 1" — that figures, ouch. And "Experience: 0" just feels like rubbing salt in the wound.
"Are these... out of 10?" I ask, finding my voice. I'm bizarrely concerned with the scale as if any of this is real.
The System responds with a light chuckle. "Out of 10 for now. Some especially superhuman people might break the scale later, but let's worry about getting you above basic human levels first, mmkay?"
Basic human—? I frown. "So you're saying I'm below basic on most of these?"
"Well, basic is 5. So you're a bit under in Confidence and Humor. Charisma at 5 means you're perfectly average at being charming — thrilling, I know. Appearance 7 is actually above average; you've got the tall-dark-and-handsome base stats, congrats. And Luck 1...," the voice pauses for effect, "...let's just say the dating gods have not been smiling on you."
I huff, crossing my arms. The absurdity of arguing with a possibly imaginary interface on a public sidewalk is not lost on me. A couple of people passing shoot me wary looks, so I step aside into a more secluded alcove by a closed bakery, away from foot traffic.
"Okay," I whisper sharply. "Assuming I haven't gone totally insane and this is really happening... what are you, exactly? Some kind of AI? Augmented reality game? Did Marcus hire you to prank me?" It dawns on me I should check my phone — maybe I downloaded something? I pull it out: no new apps running, just the dim reflection of my confused face in the screen.
The hologram interface patiently hovers as I interrogate it. "I am the Dating System," it explains, voice lilting like a customer service rep reciting a script. "An experimental gamified overlay for your life, designed to help you level up your romantic success."
I let out a breathy half-laugh. "Of course. Because my love life is so bad it requires a whole system to fix it."
"Precisely!" the System replies, either missing or ignoring my sarcasm. "Think of me as a personal improvement coach, wingman, and gamified motivator all in one. With a dash of tough love."
My mind is racing. Is this some high-tech self-help program? Did I unknowingly get signed up for a psychological experiment? If it's an AI, how does it know so much about me? It addressed me by name, listed my traits... "How do you know all this? These stats?"
"I have access to... hmm, let's call it your personal data," the voice admits. "Online dating profile info, personality metrics scraped from your chats, body language analysis from your smartphone camera—"
"Wait, WHAT?" I almost yelp. "My phone camera? Have you been— that's—" I splutter. That sounds alarmingly like surveillance.
The System emits a sound like clearing its throat. "Kidding, kidding. I don't actually spy on you through your camera. But I do synthesize data from your digital footprint to get a starting read. Don't worry, only you can see me or hear me. And I'm here to help, promise."
I'm not entirely comforted, but I take another look at the floating stat sheet. Low confidence, average charisma, low luck... It's not exactly surprising, but seeing it quantified is weirdly motivating. Like, if this is a game, maybe I can actually do something to raise those numbers.
This thought process alone signals that I might be accepting this as reality. I mean, I should probably be freaking out more. Maybe I still am in shock. But a tiny flame of optimism flickers inside: what if this thing can actually help me?
"Okay," I say slowly, "let's say I buy what you're selling. How does this work? Do I just... live my life and you score me on it?" I envision a Sims-like green diamond hovering over my head as I go on dates, rating my every move.
The System's hearts-and-metrics display pulses once. "In essence, yes — but with guidance. I will present you with quests and challenges, reward you with experience points (XP) for positive progress, and occasionally dole out... penalties for, shall we say, poor choices."
"Quests," I echo, half incredulous, half intrigued. "Like, go slay ten goblins or bring someone a magic ring? That kind of thing?"
The voice actually giggles, a pleasant, if slightly condescending, sound. "No goblin slaying required. These will be life quests. Think of them as missions to improve yourself and your love life. Some will be small, some larger. Complete quests, gain XP, and your level increases. As you level up, your stats will improve and new opportunities will open up."
This is... a lot to process. I lean against the bakery's shuttered door, running a hand through my hair. The humid evening air feels thicker by the minute, but an electric excitement is creeping in alongside my confusion. "So if I level up, maybe my luck or confidence goes up too, and I won't... keep ending up like tonight?"
I gesture vaguely back toward the cafe, the memory of my no-show date still raw. Strangely, discussing it with an AI doesn't feel as painful — maybe because the System seems to already know everything.
"That's the idea, Johnathon," the System says more gently. "We're going to turn your love life into a game you can win. Right now, you've been playing blind. I'm here to give you feedback and objectives."
It almost sounds too good to be true. I narrow my eyes. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. Well," the voice amends, "I suppose the catch is you actually have to put in genuine effort. I provide the framework and motivation, but you do the actual work. And like I mentioned, if you try to cheat or behave... badly, there may be consequences."
I raise an eyebrow. "Define 'badly'."
Before the System can answer, a new notification ping echoes from the interface:
New Quest Available: Start the Tutorial
A big blinking "ACCEPT" button appears beneath it.
The voice turns chipper again. "Looks like we're ready to begin. Why don't you go ahead and accept your first quest?"
I stare at the floating button. This is absolutely insane. But what have I got to lose? My evening's already wrecked, my love life already in shambles. If this is some hallucination, maybe following it through will at least be a diverting break from reality. And if it's not...
I exhale and tap the ACCEPT button. It glows and then dissolves into a new panel labeled "Tutorial Quests."
The System practically purrs, "Quest accepted. Welcome to the tutorial, Johnathon. Let's level up your life."
A tiny spark — call it hope — ignites inside me. For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe I'm not completely alone in this. I've got a strange, sassy AI in my corner. And I'll take that over nothing.
Game on.
Chapter 5: Rules of the Game
The translucent quest panel expands, showing a list of tasks under a header that reads "Tutorial Quests." I squint at the items, which seem almost comically mundane:
Tutorial Quests:
Morning Hygiene (Reward: +5 XP) Groom and Dress Well (Reward: +5 XP) Clean Your Room (Reward: +5 XP) Quick Exercise (Reward: +5 XP) Say Hello to a Stranger (Reward: +10 XP, +1 Confidence)
Each quest has an empty checkbox next to it, like a to-do list waiting to be ticked off. I can't help but laugh under my breath. "Brush my teeth, clean my room, do some push-ups, and say hello… This is the grand plan to fix my love life?"
The System doesn't miss a beat. "Gotta start with the basics. Think of it as calibrating your stats. You'd be surprised how much a tidy appearance and environment can boost your confidence."
I nod slowly, still eyeing the list. It's true I've let some things slide—my apartment is kind of a mess and on rough days I've been known to skip the razor or wear the same hoodie twice. It's just hard to find motivation when you're living the single-guy routine with no one to impress. But now... well, I literally have a game-like incentive to shape up.
I realize I'm still standing outside in the evening humidity. A couple of fruit flies buzz around an adjacent trash can, reminding me I should probably get moving. "Uh, can this," I gesture at the floating interface, "follow me home? Or do I have to keep staring at thin air in public?"
"I'm with you wherever you go, Johnathon," the System replies brightly. "Don't worry, you'll still see me when you get home. I exist in your personal augmented reality—only visible and audible to you."
"Right." I rub the back of my neck. "Let's... go home then, I guess."
During the ride home, I sit in a mostly empty subway car, the quest list hovering in front of me. I must look like I'm reading invisible newspaper. I tick through each quest mentally. They seem straightforward enough.
By the time I shuffle through my apartment door, the initial shock is wearing off, replaced by an odd excitement. It's nearly 8:30 PM now. The night is still young-ish, and I have this strange new... helper? Game? Whatever it is, it gave me tasks and I'm oddly eager to complete one, just to see what happens.
I flick on the light. My studio apartment is exactly as I left it this morning: unmade bed, a couple of dirty bowls on the coffee table, clothes draped over the back of a chair. Not a disaster zone, but "Clean Your Room" definitely belongs on that quest list.
"Alright," I announce to the empty room (and to the System). "Let's do this. Tutorial Quest 3: Clean Your Room."
Immediately, a smaller notification pops up:
Quest Activated: Clean Your Room.
Tip: A tidy space helps clear the mind (and it's less scary to bring a date over)!
I snort. "Less scary, huh? You haven't seen my college apartment." Still, I roll up my sleeves. Might as well start somewhere.
I throw on some music and get to work. The System stays mostly quiet, aside from occasionally pinging when I do something noteworthy:
When I scoop up a pile of laundry and dump it in the hamper, I hear a faint ding! and see "+1 XP" float up in the air, like I just defeated a tiny slime monster in an RPG.
Washing the dishes in my sink gives another happy ding! with "+1 XP".
I even vacuum (finding a couple of stray potato chips under the couch), and get "+1 XP" for my efforts.
It's ridiculous, but those little dopamine-hit dings actually make me smile. Gamification is one heck of a motivator.
In about 40 minutes, my modest apartment looks and smells significantly better. I toss out the trash, spray some air freshener, and fluff the pillows on my couch for good measure. The checklist in my view now has a green checkmark next to Clean Your Room, and the System declares in a triumphant font:
>>> Quest Completed: Clean Your Room (+5 XP)
I do a little victorious fist pump. "Take that, dust bunnies."
My XP bar on the corner of the HUD fills a bit more. It's now at 10/100 XP (I guess I'd gotten 5 XP total, not counting the individual +1 pings, perhaps those were just incremental progress indicators). The Confidence stat on my sheet even nudged from 3 to 3.1. Hah, I didn't know decimals were a thing. Maybe I do feel a tiny bit proud of myself right now, which could account for that minuscule boost.
"Not bad," I say, catching my breath from the brief cleaning frenzy. I collapse onto my now-made bed. "This is actually kind of fun."
"Glad you're enjoying the tutorial," the System chimes. "Small steps build momentum. A lot of guys think they'll magically become Prince Charming without putting in any work. But improving daily habits really does improve confidence and attractiveness."
I nod. What it's saying isn't new rocket science — I've heard all this advice before. But hearing it from a disembodied RPG interface while literally earning points for doing it... that's novel. I already feel a bit accomplished this evening, whereas an hour ago I felt like crawling under a rock.
I pull off my sweaty t-shirt (cleaning is exercise, right?) and grab a fresh one. That's when my eyes fall on the quest list again. Specifically, the final quest: Say Hello to a Stranger (Reward: +10 XP, +1 Confidence). That one stands out, both in its simplicity and how daunting it feels. Approaching a stranger just to say hello? For me, that's harder than vacuuming or doing push-ups. My stomach flutters just thinking about it.
Not to mention, the streets outside are pretty empty now. Maybe I'll tackle that one tomorrow when there are actually strangers around to greet.
Still, a mischievous thought crosses my mind. The system said genuine effort is rewarded. But what if... I game it a little? Like, what counts as "a stranger" and "hello"? Could I just stick my head out the window and yell "Hello, world!" to whoever's out there and chalk it up as done? Or say hello to the convenience store clerk I see every week (technically a stranger)? Is there a loophole?
I voice these thoughts aloud in a half-joking tone, "Hey System, if I just shout 'hello' to random people without actually meaning it, that counts, right? I could grind out a bunch of hellos and rake in the XP."
The interface does a little glitchy flicker, almost like an eye twitch. "Warning: That would not be sincere effort," it replies, tone sharp. "The Dating System rewards genuine social interaction, not spam. Attempting to cheat the system is... inadvisable."
I smirk, rolling my eyes. "What're you gonna do, deduct points? I'm just brainstorming."
No sooner do I say that, another overlay slams into view, bright red this time:
>>> Warning: Cheating Detected – -50 XP (Penalty)
>>> Karma Penalty: Spilled Drink incoming...
"Huh?" I yelp. "I wasn't even—"
Before I finish, I hear a sudden fizz and POP. The can of soda I left on the counter spontaneously erupts, spraying foamy cola everywhere — including all over me and my freshly cleaned floor. I jump up as the sticky liquid splashes my face and shirt.
"What the heck!" I grab a now-drenched towel (so much for cleanliness) and wipe my face. The soda can settles, half empty and hissing.
The System's voice is syrupy sweet. "Cheating and insincere behavior will be met with karmic consequences. I did mention penalties, didn't I?"
I stand there in disbelief, shirt dripping cola. Okay, lesson learned. The system isn't messing around. It actually docked me 50 XP — a quick glance at my XP bar shows it plunged down into the negatives: -40/100 XP. Great, I have negative experience points. Didn't even know that was possible. It's like I owe the universe experience points now.
"I wasn't seriously going to cheat," I grumble, mopping up soda from the floor. "I was joking!"
"Mm-hm," the System hums, clearly unamused. "Let's call it a warning shot. Sincere actions only, Johnathon. You can't just speed-run personal growth by being fake. Got it?"
I heave a sigh. "Got it. No shortcuts." I peel off my now-ruined second shirt of the night and toss it in the hamper. So much for feeling proud of my clean room — it's a sticky mess again. The irony is not lost on me.
After a few minutes of wiping up the cola explosion (no XP reward for this cleanup, I notice), I collapse onto my bed, exhausted. What a day. This morning I woke up lonely and defeated; now I'm still lonely, a bit defeated, and apparently the beta tester for some cosmic dating game. On the bright side, my apartment is clean and I have a plan — a weird plan, but a plan — for tomorrow.
"It's been a long day. You should rest," the System suggests, its tone almost gentle now. "Tomorrow, we hit the ground running with the rest of the tutorial."
I nod, too tired to argue anyway. "Yeah... yeah, that sounds good."
As I lay back and shut my eyes, I see the faint glowing outline of the quest panel even through my eyelids, like when you stare at a bright screen too long. It's bizarre, but also comforting in a way. I have an objective. Several, in fact. And for the first time in a while, I don't feel completely lost with where to start.
"Goodnight, I guess," I mumble.
The System's reply is soft, almost amused: "Goodnight, Johnathon. Sweet dreams... and don't dream of trying any funny business. I'll be here in the morning."
I chuckle wearily. What a strange new reality I've stumbled into. As I drift off, I have one last thought: This is crazy... but maybe, just maybe, I've finally got a real chance to level up.
Chapter 6: Daily Quests
I wake to the obnoxious beeping of my alarm and a bright neon notification hanging in the air above me:
Good Morning, Johnathon! Tutorial Quests Pending: 3
For a surreal moment, I wonder if I dreamed last night's events. But no—the glowing interface is right there when I open my groggy eyes, and I feel the dried stickiness of soda residue still matted in my hair. Definitely not a dream.
I sit up, stretching. The System's already active, apparently. "Rise and shine, time to grind," it chirps.
I cringe at the word "grind" but can't suppress a grin. Usually, I hit snooze three times and scroll my phone in bed for twenty minutes. Today, I actually have a weird sense of purpose nudging me up: those remaining quests aren't going to complete themselves.
First things first, I stagger to the bathroom for Morning Hygiene. The quest tracker follows at the edge of my vision. I catch a look at myself in the mirror—yikes. Bedhead hair sticking out in all directions, eyes puffy, a faint line of dried cola on my neck. If I were a Sim, my hygiene meter would be flashing red by now.
I turn on the shower, letting it heat up. The quest text helpfully updates:
Quest "Morning Hygiene": In Progress...
Objectives:
- Shower ✅ (0/1)
- Brush Teeth ✅ (0/1)
- Freshen up (Deodorant/Cologne) ✅ (0/1)
They really break it down to the basics, huh? I chuckle. "Alright, alright. Let's do this."
Stepping under the hot water feels amazing, like I'm washing off yesterday's disappointment along with the stickiness. As I lather up, a small popup appears:
"Achievement Unlocked: First Shower of the Day (+1 cleanliness, +1 morale)"
I actually laugh out loud, almost dropping the soap. The System is nothing if not thorough with gamifying every little thing. "I could get used to achievements for showering," I mutter.
After a thorough scrub, I brush my teeth with extra diligence—two full minutes, flossing and mouthwash, the whole shebang. My dentist would be proud. Sure enough, as I spit out the mouthwash, a "Quest Completed: Morning Hygiene (+5 XP)" banner slides across my vision with a triumphant jingle.
I do a little victory bow to the mirror, grinning with minty-fresh teeth. The day is young, and I've already accomplished something.
Next up: Groom and Dress Well. I throw open my wardrobe and contemplate my options. Typically, if I weren't expecting to see anyone I know, I'd default to jeans and one of my nerdy graphic tees (comfort over style, baby). But the quest specifically says "dress well." I have a decent button-down shirt somewhere... ah, there. I pull out a blue button-down I usually reserve for job interviews or rare occasions. Pair it with my nicer dark jeans and—why not—a dab of the cologne my mom gifted me last Christmas (which, embarrassingly, was still in its box).
As I dress, the System chimes in with commentary: "Good choice on the shirt – blue brings out your eyes. And nice touch with the cologne; subtle scent can boost attractiveness."
"You know," I reply while buttoning up, "if you had told me yesterday I'd be taking fashion tips from a disembodied voice, I'd have said I finally lost it."
The System laughs softly. "And yet, here we are. Collar looks good, by the way – fold it down properly. There you go."
I check myself in the mirror. Not too shabby. The shirt actually fits me well (note to self: wear it more often), and I managed to style my hair into a presentable shape rather than the usual swoopy chaos. I even took the time to shave, cleaning up the scruffy stubble that usually languishes on my chin.
Apparently that earns me another completed quest: "Quest Completed: Groom and Dress Well (+5 XP)". I swear the little confetti animation that accompanies these completions is giving me more serotonin than a cup of coffee would.
I glance at my character stats floating nearby. My Confidence has ticked up a bit, from last night's miserable 3.0 to about 3.5. Baby steps, but I'll take it. Seeing myself clean, well-dressed, and prepared actually does make me feel more confident. It's like a placebo effect with tangible results.
Two quests down, one left before the big scary one. Quick Exercise is on the docket. I haven't eaten breakfast yet (and my stomach is rumbling), but I decide to knock out a short workout first as instructed.
I roll out my dusty yoga mat (purchased during a fleeting New Year's resolution phase) onto the floor. "What'll it be, System? Push-ups? Sit-ups? Jumping jacks?"
"Let's start with something to get your blood flowing. How about 15 push-ups, 30 seconds plank, and 15 squats?" the System suggests, sounding like a personal trainer.
"Oof, go easy on me," I mock-groan, but secretly I'm glad it didn't say a 5k run or something. My endurance stats are not exactly maxed out.
I drop down and begin the push-ups. Around rep 10, my arms start shaking (yeah, it's been a while), but the System counts them out encouragingly: "...11...12... keep going... 13... push!... 14... one more...15!" I collapse on the mat, breathing hard but oddly proud.
After a short break, I manage the plank and squats—my legs burn by the last few, but I get it done. I'm sweaty and a little winded, but the endorphins kick in quickly, and I feel... good. Alive.
"Quest Completed: Quick Exercise (+5 XP)" the overlay declares, with an icon of a little dumbbell doing a happy dance.
"Whew." I wipe my brow and chug some water. "That's the most action I've had in this apartment in... a long time."
"Physical activity boosts mood and confidence," the System notes clinically. "Plus, you earn endorphins and XP. Two for one deal."
I check my XP progress. The bar has climbed up, back out of the negatives and into positive territory. I'm still not at Level 1 yet, but at least I'm no longer in an XP hole from last night's penalty. In fact, I might be close to breaking even.
A quick shower rinse (two showers before 9 AM—who am I?) and a change back into my fresh clothes later, I finally sit down to inhale a simple breakfast (cereal and a banana). The System doesn't reward me for that, other than a pop-up reminding me that a healthy breakfast is good for concentration.
Now only one quest remains: the big one. Say Hello to a Stranger. My stomach flips as I think about it. I know it sounds ridiculous—saying hello is something toddlers can do. But for me, walking up to someone random and striking up conversation is wildly outside my comfort zone. I've always been the shy guy on the sidelines, not the extrovert introducing himself to strangers on the street.
I stand and pace my now-clean living area, hyping myself up. "It's just hello. One word. I can do this," I tell myself.
"Right." I exhale. "Just a fellow human being. Maybe I'll start with someone who looks approachable. Like an older person, or a friendly-looking person walking their dog."
I grab my phone, keys, and head out before I can chicken out. The late-morning sun meets me as I step onto the sidewalk. It's a decent day, weather-wise—warm but not sweltering, with a light breeze carrying the smell of a nearby coffee cart. Plenty of people are out and about now: walking to lunch, running errands, or just enjoying the day.
I feel a bead of sweat on my back that's unrelated to the temperature. Okay, target selection... I scan the street like I'm looking for a quest marker above someone's head.
A stern-looking businessman strides past, talking loudly into his AirPods—uh, no. I even half-raise a hand and let out a timid "hi" as he passes, but he's too engrossed in his call to notice. I cringe and pretend I was just talking to myself. Okay, not him. A pair of teenage girls giggle near the bus stop—probably not going to randomly say hi to them, that could come off weird. A harried mom wrangling two screaming toddlers—she has enough going on.
I rub the back of my neck, beginning to feel a bit ridiculous loitering here trying to start chats with random people. Maybe this is hopeless, I think, anxiety rising. But the System gently pings in my ear: "Focus – you're doing great. One sincere hello, that's all." I take a breath and steel myself.
Then I spot a potential candidate: a friendly-looking older lady browsing the window display of the bakery below my apartment. She's got a little dog on a leash, a fluffy white thing sniffing around her feet. The lady is maybe in her 60s, dressed in a floral blouse, and doesn't seem to be in a rush.
"Alright, she seems nice. Dog owner, likely to not bite my head off for saying hello," I murmur. The System flashes a little green arrow in my view, as if marking the target. I roll my eyes. "Subtle, thanks."
My heart thumping, I approach the lady. With each step, the self-conscious voice in my head grows louder: She'll think you're weird. She'll ignore you. You'll make a fool of yourself. I swallow hard and try to shove those thoughts aside.
The dog notices me first, its fluffy tail wagging tentatively. The lady follows the dog's gaze and looks up at me as I come to a stop a few feet away.
Moment of truth. I summon my not inconsiderable courage, remember to smile, and speak. "Um, hi there. Cute dog!"
The words come out a bit higher-pitched than I intended, but hey, it's a coherent sentence.
The woman's face breaks into a warm smile. "Oh, hello!" she replies. "Thank you—his name is Snowball."
At the sound of his name, Snowball sniffs at my shoe. I crouch slightly and offer my hand; the pup gives it a curious lick. "Hey, Snowball. You're adorable," I coo, genuinely charmed. And I mean it—he's like a little cotton ball with eyes.
We chat for maybe twenty seconds. I ask how old Snowball is (five years), compliment his very fancy little bow-tie collar, and the lady asks if I live in the area. I find myself conversing easily, without panic—after all, we're mostly talking about the dog, and dogs are a safe, happy topic.
Finally, I stand up. "Well, it was nice meeting you. I hope you both have a lovely day!"
The lady beams. "You too, dear. Come by the bakery some time, they have wonderful scones!"
"I will, thanks!" I respond, and wave as she and Snowball continue on their way.
As soon as I turn away, I feel a euphoric whoosh of relief and triumph. I did it. I talked to a stranger, and nothing bad happened! In fact, something good happened—a pleasant little human interaction. Who'd have thought?
The System goes wild in my peripheral vision:
>>> Quest Completed: Say Hello to a Stranger (+10 XP, +1 Confidence)
A cascade of confetti and virtual fireworks explodes across my view. I almost expect a marching band to come around the corner. I laugh under my breath, cheeks flushing with pride. The rush I feel is no longer just from nerves; it's from accomplishment.
And then—
>>> Level Up! Novice Romantic is now Level 1 🕺
I stop in my tracks as a golden glow briefly surrounds the edges of my vision. It's as if the world just became a little sharper, brighter. I swear I stand up straighter without even trying. A warm confidence blooms in my chest, the kind I've never quite felt before, at least not in broad daylight talking to strangers.
Chapter 8: Level One
"Congratulations, Johnathon," the System announces, sounding genuinely proud. "You're now Level 1. You've completed the tutorial level of the Dating System."
I can't stop grinning. "Level 1... I'm not a total noob anymore, huh?"
"Not a total noob," the voice agrees playfully. "You've unlocked a foundational skill: Basic Social Courage. Use it wisely."
I chuckle, stepping aside to lean against a lamppost and bask in this feeling. Basic Social Courage—sure, call it whatever, I'll take it. I feel... lighter. Like a weight I didn't realize I was carrying has lifted slightly off my shoulders.
I pull up my stat sheet out of curiosity. There it is, in official terms:
• Confidence: 4 (up from 3 yesterday!)
• Charisma: 6 (yesterday was 5, so it ticked up a notch)
• Appearance: 7 (no change, but hey I'll maintain that)
• Humor: 4 (no change)
• Luck: 1 (hmm, still abysmal, but perhaps that takes time)
• Experience: 1 (finally, I'm off zero!)
I've gone from Level 0 to Level 1. It's a small step in game terms, but in life terms, it feels huge.
A subtle chime sounds and the System adds, "By the way, that Confidence boost you just earned... it's not just a number. How do you feel?"
I take a moment to self-evaluate. How do I feel? I'm standing on a sidewalk I've walked many times, but the world looks different today—friendlier, more full of possibilities than it did yesterday. My chest isn't weighed down by that constant ache of loneliness at this moment. Instead, there's a spark of optimism, a sense of momentum.
"I feel... good," I reply softly. "More confident, yeah. Like maybe this city isn't as lonely as I thought."
The breeze rolling down Lafayette Street is warm, edged with the aroma of roasted nuts from a pushcart half a block away. Taxis honk in impatient counterpoint, and somewhere above, a pigeon flutters between fire escapes, cooing as though it's applauding my tiny personal victory. I push off the lamppost and let the heads-up display drift near my peripheral vision like a friendly ghost. Pedestrians flow around me—summer tourists, delivery cyclists, suited office escapees sprint-walking toward late lunches—and for once I don't feel like background scenery in their stories. I feel present, almost luminescent, like I'm wearing an invisible badge that says "Upgraded."
An elderly man with a paper bag full of baguettes trundles past, and I offer an unforced nod. He blinks, surprised, then smiles—creases forming like origami in his weather-worn face. Tiny, inconsequential moment, but it lands inside my rib cage with a pleasant thump. The System flashes +0.1 Charisma—little as a ladybug, yet I swear even that fractional bump straightens my spine another degree.
"Careful," the System teases, voice soft as static between radio stations, "these micro-quests are addictive."
"Better this than doom-scrolling," I murmur.
Quest Ping: Courtesy Streak—keep acknowledging strangers; reward stacks.
I laugh under my breath, but the prompt nudges me forward. I cross the street toward a pocket park tucked between brick apartment blocks, each stoop crowded by blooming planter boxes and gossiping neighbors. The scent of soil and wet concrete mixes with caramelized pretzel sugar from a nearby vendor—New-York-City perfume.
On a bench, a mother tries to corral twin toddlers who are determined to test gravity with their juice boxes. I catch the eye of one sticky-fingered rascal just as his drink tips. In reflex I lunge, steadying the carton before it becomes sidewalk art. The mom gasps, thanks me, wipes the kid's grin with a napkin. The System chirps: Good-Samaritan Assist (+2 XP). My cheeks warm—not from the XP, but because the thanks feels genuine, like sunshine poured directly into my bloodstream.
I wander farther, letting the city's chaotic symphony seep into me: subway rumble beneath my soles, wind worrying plastic bags in chain-link fences, snippets of conversation—office gossip, tourist awe, teenage bravado—braiding together into one sprawling, living soundtrack. Had any of those notes sounded different yesterday? Probably not. Yet today each resonance seems tuned to my frequency, as if leveling up has retuned the world alongside me.
A sudden hiss—like a radio detuning—slips through the HUD. An icon pulses amber then settles. System Diagnostic: Stable (96%). I remember last night's soda-can detonation and shoot a wary glance skyward, half-expecting another karmic prank. Nothing. Just a billboard of a sunglassed model winking in perpetual twilight.
"So, tutorial complete," the System says, tone shifting into chipper survey-host mode. "How are you liking the Dating System so far?"
I smile, watching a few pedestrians go by (I even make brief eye contact and nod at one guy—I know, wild). "Honestly? It's unbelievable. If you'd told me 24 hours ago I'd get this excited about saying hello to someone or cleaning my room, I'd have laughed. But... here I am."
"Here you are," the System echoes warmly.
We slip into companionable silence—me and my unseen AI sidekick—while I drift along the park path. Children shriek at pigeons. A busker plucks a battered guitar, crooning something soulful that leaks between sun-dappled leaves. I catch myself unconsciously matching the rhythm with my stride. A cluster of office workers in pastel shirts passes, mid-debate about fantasy-football drafts. One of them—sleeves rolled, tie loosened—glances up. Our gazes meet for half a second, and I offer the faint smile of urban camaraderie. He gives a quick chin-tilt back. +0.1 Confidence.
I chuckle. "These micro-rewards are ridiculous, but I can't lie—they're weirdly satisfying."
"They're the breadcrumb trail," the System says. "Small sparks keep momentum alive until bigger fireworks arrive."
I tilt my face up to the midday sun and let out a breath I feel like I've been holding for years. I leveled up in life, just a little, but enough to feel the change. And for the first time in a long time, I have hope that if I keep at this, things can actually get better.
A memory nudges—the ghost of Lily's no-show text from the night before last. sorry, stuck at work had felt like a hammer then. Now it's more like an old bruise: tender, but no longer raw. I could let bitterness gnaw at me, yet strangely I feel… grateful? Without that flop, I'd never have intercepted the stranger's wallet, never triggered the System. Cause, effect, butterfly wings flapping hard enough to rescript my timeline.
"Hey," I say, half-embarrassed because I'm basically talking to myself, "was that really random? Me picking up that wallet, I mean. Or did you—uh—engineer it?"
A rolling shrug filters through the voice. "Let's call it fortuitous alignment. You had the moral reflex; I had the ability to notice. We swiped right on each other at the perfect moment." The System chuckles, as if pleased with its own metaphor.
I shake my head, amused. Even the interface is flirting with fate.
A grinding roar rises behind me—garbage truck chewing metal. I edge aside as sanitation workers hop on and off in a ballet of efficiency. The pungent tang of heated trash would have wrinkled my nose yesterday; today I inhale and exhale, unbothered. Maybe confidence is an olfactory shield.
I pause outside a corner bodega. Through dusty glass I spot a fridge crammed with neon sports drinks—nourishment for the hung-over and hopeful. My reflection ghosts across the window: tall, slightly disheveled from the summer humidity, but with posture that finally suggests I belong in my own life. Something about seeing that subtle difference tugs at me, a reminder of every morning I'd avoided mirrors because what I saw screamed "background character."
A digital ping. Reflection Acknowledged: +0.2 Self-Awareness. Okay, that reward feels undeserved, but also hilarious—gamified self-esteem, courtesy of aisle-three fluorescent lighting.
Another chime drops, lower pitched: New System Message—Unlocking Journaling Feature. A notepad icon unfurls: "Daily Reflection entries boost Wisdom." I snort. The System basically wants me to keep a diary like a leveling paladin. Still… maybe writing down this strange metamorphosis wouldn't hurt. I swipe the notification aside, pocketing the thought for tonight.
Back on the sidewalk, my phone buzzes—actual phone, not phantom UI. A text from Marcus floats up: "Yo, any luck with those profile pics? My couch-moving arms still hurt 😂." I grin, thumbs answering: "Pics locked, bio leveled. Feeling like a polished avatar. Drinks later to celebrate?"
He replies with three beer emojis and one muscle-arm. Social plans forming used to give me low-grade anxiety—like I needed at least two days' buffer to craft conversation scripts. Tonight, though, spontaneity sounds thrilling. The System must detect the dopamine spike: +0.3 Social Courage.
A gust sweeps up Houston Street, rattling street-vendor umbrellas. I let it ruffle my hair, tasting faint diesel and hot-dog steam on the wind. The tall windows of a yoga studio across the avenue reflect bluish midday sky; inside, rows of people mime sun salutations. I half-expect my HUD to suggest a "Flexibility Quest." It stays quiet, benevolently letting me enjoy the moment.
Side Quest Available:Hydrate, You Fool. The prompt appears with a cartoon water-glass sloshing. I roll my eyes but duck into the bodega anyway, emerging seconds later with a chilled bottle. The first gulp splashes icy clarity down my throat. The reward toast—+1 Stamina—follows like a pat on the back. Gamified hydration: who needs energy drinks when universe itself applauds your sips?
While screwing the cap back on, I catch a faint reflection of the stat panel floating near my temple. Confidence 4.3 → 4.5. Small leaps snowball.
"Hey System," I say, strolling again, "how long until Level 2?"
"Mathematically? At your current acquisition rate, approximately 430 XP," it replies. "Experientially? One big quest—like securing a first date—could get you halfway."
"First date," I echo. A tremor of nerves wiggles in my gut, but it's chased quickly by eagerness. "Then let's line one up."
A pause, as though the code is smiling. "Working on it."
I loop back toward my apartment, but a sudden percussion of thwack-thwack-thwack draws my eye: a group of twenty-somethings playing street paddleball on a chalked rectangle outside a laundromat. Laughter ricochets off brick walls, the neon ball zipping beneath afternoon sunbeams. Without thinking, I slow, watching the game's loose-limbed joy. One player—a girl with a shock of teal hair—misses a return, the ball skittering toward me. I stoop, scoop, and lob it back with a goofy underhand arc.
"Nice save!" she calls, flashing a grin. I salute with two fingers, heart skipping at the simple connection. The System gifts +0.5 Coordination and whispers, "See how easy social courage can be?"
The teal-haired player's friend waves me over: "Full sides, want in next round?" For an instant the shy part of my brain snarls stranger danger, potential embarrassment. But it's drowned out by the newer voice—the statistical, XP-seeking voice—that says this is precisely the kind of micro-quest you've been practicing for.
"I'm terrible," I admit, stepping closer anyway. "But I'll swing wildly."
They laugh, hand me a paddle. Ten minutes later I've whiffed half my returns, scored one accidental ace, and earned three high-fives. Sweat dots my forehead, lungs pumping, soul alight. When I finally tag out, the HUD showers confetti: Spontaneous Group Activity (+6 XP, +1 Humor for self-deprecation).
I part ways with the players, exhilarated. No phone numbers were exchanged, no cosmic fireworks, yet my inner scoreboard glitters. I feel integrated with the city's pulse, not perched on its fringe.
Back home, sunlight stripes my floorboards, painting long trapezoids across yesterday's tidied surfaces. The System idles, humming faintly like a power-nap ping, giving me space to think. I flop onto the couch, fingers tracing the grain of the fabric. I consider opening a gaming stream, but my gaze drifts to the notepad icon again—Journaling Feature.
With a shrug I grab my battered laptop, open a blank document, and begin typing. Words spool out: the wallet, the soda punishment, Snowball the dog, the conserved warmth of strangers' smiles. Writing feels less like homework and more like anchoring intangible sparks onto a page. The System occasionally highlights a phrase—"City isn't an enemy, it's a map full of side quests"—flagging it with a gold underline: Noteworthy Insight (+0.2 Wisdom). I shake my head at the gamified annotation but can't suppress a grin.
An hour passes unnoticed until the rumble in my stomach reminds me breakfast was a long, long time ago. I slap the laptop closed, stretch until my spine pops, then raid the fridge for leftover Thai noodles. As the microwave hums, the System pops up a translucent bar: Meal Macro Balance: 62% optimal. Whatever—I add sriracha and call it victory.
Evening smudges the sky mauve-orange when Marcus texts confirmation for drinks. I wash up, swap sweat-damp tee for a crisp charcoal one—the same shirt that used to feel too "try-hard." Now it feels like armor. Confidence 4.5 inches to 4.6. I almost laugh at how incremental but potent each tick feels—like pumping air into a bicycle tire one firm squeeze at a time until the ride smooths out.
On my dresser, my phone pings a Cinder notification: New Match—Ella, 22. I blink, surprised, then giggle. The System projects a party-horn emoji: "Improved Profile Efficiency at work."
I shoot Ella a brief but spirited opener about our mutual love for ramen (thanks, bio) then pocket the device. No overthinking. Tonight's about celebrating incremental victories with Marcus. Dates can marinate.
Downstairs, the city lights yawn awake—streetlamps flicking amber, apartment windows pulsing blue with evening television glow. The air tastes of garlic knots and taxi exhaust. I step into it like stepping onto a stage, aware of an audience of possibility.
Maybe I won't be lonely forever. Maybe I can level up again, and again, and eventually... who knows? Maybe I'll finally meet someone who sees the leveled-up me and likes what she sees.
For now, I have a game plan—literally—and newfound motivation to follow it. I take one last look at the quest list (all checkmarks, woo!) and the stat sheet with that shiny "Level 1" beside my title. Novice Romantic, Level 1.
It's only up from here.
With a spring in my step, I head down the block, ready to see what other quests life—our life, the System and mine—might throw at me next.
New Quest Unlocked: Profile Overhaul – Revamp your dating profile (Reward: +50 XP)
I see this new challenge pop up before me and grin. Game on.