Chloe eventually told Ethan her name.
He had asked twice.
The first time she said, “Sword Princess.” The second time she said, “None of your business.” On the third attempt Ethan pointed out that the Handbook already knew her age, profession, mood, training schedule, affinities, and probably breakfast preferences.
That made her angrier.
Which, somehow, made honesty easier.
“Chloe Carter.”
Ethan repeated it.
“Chloe.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m learning your name.”
“You have a talent.”
“Carter.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.
My first Deathmatch opponent is apparently Miles Carter.”
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was thinking about asking if you’re related.”
“We are not.”
“Large family?”
“No idea.
Common name.”
Ethan nodded.
That small exchange changed the projection.
Before, she had been an operator.
A label.
A red-haired girl in a menu.
Now she had a name the game did not invent.
Chloe Carter.
A mother named Martha.
A university.
Rivals.
Plans.
Ethan felt the ethical weight settle more precisely.
He had not harmed a character.
He had harmed Chloe.
That distinction mattered.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
She looked at him.
“You already apologized.”
“I know.”
“Apologies do not stack.”
“Good design principle.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“I know.”
Chloe studied him.
“Do you?”
That stopped him.
She pointed at his interface.
“You still react to notifications like rewards.”
“Occupational damage.”
“When my spirit appeared, you smiled.”
“I was happy for you.”
“And for yourself.”
Ethan did not answer.
Chloe nodded.
“That’s what I mean.”
He looked at the floor.
She was right.
Her growth helped him survive.
That would contaminate every good feeling.
He could care about her and benefit from her at the same time.
People did that constantly in real life.
Friendship.
Work.
Family.
The moral problem was not benefit.
It was whether the other person had choice.
“Then we need control,” Ethan said.
“Over what?”
“The link.”
“Can you remove me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bad.”
“Yes.”
“Can you stop taking experience?”
“Probably.
Sync requires acceptance.”
“Then ask every time.”
Ethan nodded immediately.
“Done.”
“Can you schedule me without asking?”
He checked.
The schedule menu still existed.
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
“Done.”
“Can you trigger another death trial?”
Ethan checked inventory.
Trial tokens remained.
He felt sick.
“Yes.”
Chloe smiled without warmth.
“If you do it without asking, I will find a way across worlds.”
“Understood.”
“And then I will use your spine as a training sword.”
“Extremely understood.”
For the first time, Chloe seemed satisfied.
The relationship did not become friendly.
But it became negotiated.
Ethan’s first thought was that the prison had finally broken him.
This was reassuring.
Insanity was at least a known category.
He could work with insanity.
The alternative was that the red-haired woman standing beside the vending machines—transparent, armed, irritated, and completely ignored by everyone else—was actually the stranger his game had tortured on his behalf.
That felt harder to explain to medical staff.
She looked around the common room.
“So this is where you live.”
Ethan stared.
The chess player across from him sighed.
“Blink occasionally.”
Ethan blinked.
The woman remained.
She was not physically present.
Light passed through her.
A prisoner walked directly through her shoulder without reacting.
She recoiled anyway.
“Rude.”
“He can’t see you,” Ethan whispered.
She turned.
“I gathered that.”
The chess player looked at Ethan.
“You talking to me?”
“No.”
“Worse answer.”
Ethan grabbed the legal packet, stood, and walked toward an empty corner near the window.
The projection followed.
He lowered his voice.
“You’re real.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You’re the Sword Princess.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You called me Death-Mad Sword Princess.”
“Technically the system called you that.”
“You read it.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t question it?”
“I questioned the marketing.”
She folded her arms.
Ethan had imagined the operator portrait was stylized.
It wasn’t.
If anything, the image had been conservative.
The real—or projected—Chloe looked alive in a way game art could not capture.
Sweat darkened loose strands of red hair near her forehead.
Her cheeks were still flushed from combat.
Her eyes were sharp, direct, and deeply suspicious.
A tiny silver sword floated beside her wrist.
Wave Blade.
Ethan looked at it.
The Handbook update reopened.
COMBAT EVENT COMPLETE.
DEATH-MAD SWORD PRINCESS:
Sword experience greatly increased.
INNATE TALENT: SWORD PRINCESS triggered.
BONUS EXPERIENCE: 10,000%.
VIRTUAL REALM RESONANCE achieved.
SPIRIT MANIFESTED: WAVE BLADE.
The number still looked like a typo.
Ten thousand percent.
His old studio would have hotfixed that before lunch.
“Congratulations,” he said.
Chloe’s expression did not soften.
“For what?”
“Your spirit.”
“I had it before the duel.”
“The system says manifested during combat.”
“No.
It manifested last night.”
Ethan frowned.
Then understood.
The Handbook event log had synchronized late.
Which meant the system was not omniscient.
Useful.
Terrifying.
“Okay.
Then congratulations retroactively.”
Chloe stared at him.
“Are you the Observer?”
“No.”
“You have his face.”
“His body.”
“His terrible personality.”
“That feels premature.”
“He killed me one hundred and four times.”
Ethan winced.
“I saw the number.”
“You saw it.”
“After.”
“After you arranged it?”
“Yes.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Chloe stepped closer.
Her projection had no weight, but Ethan still leaned back.
“Explain.”
So he did.
Not everything.
Not immediately.
But enough.
Earth.
Game studio.
Death or transportation.
Waking inside Ethan Hayes.
The cult.
The arrest.
The Handbook.
The operator search.
The trial he had triggered without understanding it.
Chloe listened without interrupting.
That was worse than anger.
When he finished, she said, “So you accidentally kidnapped me into a murder dream because you clicked a button in a game.”
“When you summarize it like that—”
“Is there a better way?”
“No.”
She considered.
Then pointed at him.
“If I ever become physically capable of reaching you, I’m going to hit you.”
“Hard.”
“Still reasonable.”
“Possibly with a sword.”
“Less reasonable.”
Chloe’s mouth almost twitched.
Almost.
Then a system pulse crossed Ethan’s vision.
EXPERIENCE SYNC AVAILABLE.
He focused.
Sword Princess shared experience: 32%.
Wave Stance exposure.
Slip Step refinement.
Combat timing.
Sword fundamentals.
Accept?
Ethan looked at Chloe.
“Do you know this shares your experience with me?”
She frowned.
“What?”
He explained the bond.
Her experience.
The percentage.
Registration.
The permanent page.
Chloe became very still.
“You are stealing my training.”
“Sharing.”
“Without permission.”
“Yes.”
“That is stealing.”
“Yes.”
He did not defend it.
That changed something.
But the argument lost oxygen.
Ethan said, “I made rules after I realized you were a real person.” Chloe looked skeptical.
“Rules.”
“No permanent changes without consent.
Tell you the truth if communication opened.
Don’t treat you like an asset.”
“You literally have an operator screen with my statistics.”
“Do you know my mood?”
Ethan hesitated.
Chloe’s eyes widened.
“You know my mood?”
“Only a number.”
“What number?”
“Currently two.”
She inhaled.
Ethan almost smiled.
Did not.
“May I accept the experience sync?”
Chloe looked at him for several seconds.
“What happens if you do?”
“I learn some portion of what you learned.”
“Does it take anything from me?”
“System says no.”
“Does it weaken me?”
“No.”
“Can I revoke it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bad answer.”
“Only one I have.”
She looked around the prison.
Then at his red collar.
“You said they’re going to execute you.”
“Possibly.”
“On television.”
“Almost certainly.”
Chloe stared.
Then laughed.
Ethan’s expression fell.
“That’s hurtful.”
“I’m sorry.”
She was not.
“Your world has televised executions?”
“Apparently.”
“Mine has public duels, aristocratic rankings, predictive scripture, and families that breed spirits into bloodlines.
I don’t get to judge.”
“Thank you.”
“I still am.”
Ethan sighed.
Chloe pointed at the interface.
“Take the sync.”
“You sure?”
“If you die in four days, whatever connection this is becomes less useful.”
“That is the warmest thing you’ve said.”
“Don’t make it emotional.”
Ethan accepted.
The world tilted.
Not pain.
Compression.
A thousand micro-lessons poured into his nervous system.
Balance.
Distance.
Grip.
The exact instant an opponent committed weight.
The difference between seeing a blade and reading an attack.
His right foot shifted.
His shoulders loosened.
The prison disappeared for half a second.
He stood on black sand.
A sword came at his throat.
He moved.
Slip.
The memory ended.
Ethan grabbed the wall.
His pulse raced.
Chloe watched.
“Well?”
He looked down at his hands.
Then toward a plastic coffee stirrer on the counter.
He picked it up.
Held it.
Not like before.
His wrist aligned naturally.
His weight changed.
The stirrer became, for one absurd second, a weapon.
Ethan exhaled.
“Wow.”
Chloe smiled despite herself.
“That’s mine.”
“Thirty-two percent yours.”
“Careful.”
He lowered the stirrer.
A voice behind him said, “You move differently.” Ethan turned.
Before Adrian arrived, Chloe tested the limits of projection contact.
She walked through a wall.
Then came back offended.
“That felt disgusting.”
“You don’t have a body here.”
“I have enough body to dislike walls.”
“Can you see outside the room?”
She moved toward the door.
The projection stopped at an invisible line.
“No.”
“Range limit.”
“Can you touch objects?”
She tried the coffee cup.
Her fingers passed through.
“No.”
“Can you hit me?”
Chloe tried immediately.
Her fist crossed his jaw without resistance.
She looked genuinely disappointed.
“Good.”
“Temporary.”
Ethan smiled.
“Can you see the Handbook menus?”
“Some.”
“Which?”
“Anything you intentionally open toward me.
Not private system details.”
“Can you hear other people?”
“Yes.”
“Can they hear you?”
“No.”
Chloe looked around the prison again.
For the first time, curiosity overcame irritation.
“This connection is strange.”
“Understatement.”
“If I sleep, do I come here?”
“Don’t know.”
“If you sleep?”
“Don’t know.”
“If you die?”
Ethan paused.
“Strongly hoping not to test.”
Chloe looked at his red collar.
Then away.
She might want to watch Blood Moon.
She might refuse to help him escape.
But she had started thinking of his death as something that would affect her.
The connection was becoming real in both directions.
Ethan tried opening Chloe’s biography through the Handbook.
ACCESS RESTRICTED BY OPERATOR PRIVACY.
He blinked.
“Good.”
Chloe leaned over.
“What?”
“The system blocks me from certain information.”
“It has privacy?”
“Apparently more than Grayhaven.”
“Low bar.”
He tested another field.
FAMILY DATA.
RESTRICTED.
LOCATION.
RESTRICTED.
ACADEMIC RECORD.
PARTIAL.
Chloe’s expression eased by a degree.
“So it isn’t omnipotent.”
“No.”
“Very.”
The limitations mattered.
Systems that looked magical became less frightening once they had edges.
Network failure.
Missing image assets.
Privacy locks.
Delayed updates.
The Handbook could change lives, but it could also be incomplete.
That meant it could be studied.
And if it could be studied, maybe eventually it could be controlled.
Chloe read his expression.
“You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide an impossible thing is now a project.”
Ethan smiled.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Try not to monetize me.”
“No promises.”
Her stare sharpened.
“Kidding.”
“Learn faster.”
A man stood six feet away.
Late twenties.
Blond hair cut neatly.
Beautiful in the deliberate way expensive criminals tended to be beautiful in documentaries.
He wore the same gray uniform, but his collar was blue.
His smile was polite.
Too polite.
“Have we met?” Ethan asked.
“Not personally.”
“Everyone says that.”
The man held out a hand.
“Adrian Morgan.”
Ethan studied the hand before taking it.
Adrian’s grip was neither strong nor weak.
It felt measured, as though even a handshake had been reviewed for unintended commitments.
“Former profession?” Ethan asked.
“Insurance contracts.”
That explained something.
Not everything, but enough.
Chloe appeared at Ethan’s shoulder and looked Adrian over with open suspicion.
She had stopped treating Ethan’s prison acquaintances as curiosities after meeting enough of them to understand what Lakeview collected.
“What does he want?” she asked.
Ethan kept his eyes on Adrian.
“I’m waiting to hear the exclusions.” Adrian’s expression changed by less than a smile.
“Good.
Most people ask about benefits first.” There it was.
Not Ethan’s kind of joke.
A habit of language built from forms, liability, and people discovering too late what they had agreed to.
Adrian glanced toward the nearest guard station, then back to Ethan.
“I have a proposal.
No promise of friendship, no promise of release, and no representation that anything discussed will succeed.”
“That is the least inspiring opening I’ve ever heard.”
“It is also accurate.”
Chloe folded her arms.
“He wants something.”
“I know.”
Adrian could not hear her, but he noticed Ethan’s brief shift of attention.
“You have someone with you.”
Ethan said nothing.
Adrian did not press.
“Not material to the offer.” That restraint earned him more attention than curiosity would have.
He continued.
“Lakeview is difficult to leave because its security is redundant.
Physical walls, chip restrictions, identity verification, transport procedure, staff permissions, and the simple fact that every failed escape becomes training data for the next one.
People who think of it as a wall tend to fail at the wall.”
“And people who sell insurance?”
“Read the policy.”
Ethan looked toward the corridor.
Red collar.
Cameras.
Locked doors.
Somewhere beyond all of that sat a Blood Moon date with his name attached.
“You’re talking about escape.”
“I’m talking about escape research.”
“That distinction sounds prosecutorial.”
“It is a distinction Lakeview itself recognizes.”
Adrian lowered his voice.
“The prison permits historical and procedural study of escape attempts because discussing bad plans in public is safer than letting prisoners invent them in private.
I coordinate one of those study groups.”
Chloe’s expression hardened.
“A honeypot.”
“Maybe,” Ethan murmured.
Adrian heard only the word.
“Partly.
All institutions collect information.
The useful question is whether the exchange remains favorable after you account for that.”
“That’s a very insurance-salesman way to describe informing on people.”
“I have never claimed the exchange is morally clean.”
That made Ethan pause.
Adrian was not asking to be trusted.
He was defining the shape of mistrust in advance.
“Why me?” Ethan asked.
“Because your deadline is short.”
“Not unique here.”
“Because the man whose body you occupy built a criminal organization capable of moving people, money, Spirits, and information through places that were supposed to be secure.”
Ethan’s face tightened.
Adrian did not soften the wording.
“And because you insist you do not remember how he did it.”
“I don’t.”
“I believe that you believe that.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
Chloe watched Ethan now instead of Adrian.
The old Ethan again.
The infrastructure beneath Grayhaven.
The victims.
Every time someone described the former cult leader’s competence, it placed another tool in front of the current Ethan and another crime behind it.
“If I know nothing,” Ethan said, “I’m useless to you.”
“Possibly.”
Adrian folded his hands.
“But a person with access to the consequences of a criminal network, no declared loyalty to that network, an unusual relationship with prison systems, and an immediate incentive to survive is not a common asset.”
“Asset.”
“Would you prefer participant?”
“No.”
“Then asset remains precise.”
Ethan almost smiled, but the word sat badly.
Chloe noticed.
“So what are the terms?” Ethan asked.
Adrian answered without hesitation.
“You attend.
You may ask questions.
You are not required to disclose anything you consider private.
If you contribute a useful case, theory, or document, the group may reciprocate.
No one is authorized to order an escape attempt.
No member is promised protection if he attempts one anyway.
Anything said in the open meeting should be assumed discoverable by staff.”
“And the part you’re not saying?”
Adrian’s eyes sharpened.
“Private conversations exist.”
There it was.
Not a wink.
Not a clever reversal.
Just the clause beneath the clause.
Chloe said quietly, “He’s using your deadline.” Ethan answered her under his breath.
“Yes.” Adrian caught the tone if not the words.
“Desperation is not a defect in negotiation, Mr.
Hayes.
Hidden desperation is.
Yours is public.” Ethan looked at him.
For the first time, Adrian’s expression held no amusement.
“Four days changes what you will consider,” Adrian said.
“Pretending otherwise would only make you easier to manipulate.”
That was the sentence that convinced Ethan to listen.
Not because it was kind.
Because it was true.
Adrian offered his hand again.
“Join the research society.
Learn how this place has failed before you decide how you intend to fail differently.”
Ethan looked at the open hand.
Then at Chloe.
She shook her head once—not a command, just a warning.
He understood.
“One condition,” Ethan said.
Adrian waited.
“Do not call us friends.”
“Agreed.
Undefined relationship language creates unnecessary disputes.”
Ethan took his hand.
The Handbook chimed.
NEW SOCIAL CONNECTION DETECTED.
Chloe read the notification over Ethan’s shoulder.
Her mouth tightened.
“That system is tracking prison contacts now.”
Ethan looked at Adrian, at the cameras, and at the invisible interface neither of them fully understood.
He did not laugh.
Lakeview was already full of people who could turn hunger, fear, affection, law, and violence into leverage.
The last thing Ethan needed was a system teaching itself to do the same.