Orphaned Seed
Copyright© 2026 by Fantasylover11
Chapter 2: Penalty
Noah made it three days pretending the overlay was a glitch in his own head.
He drifted through summer break. He ran errands with his mom and listened to her talk about someone’s cousin’s engagement like it was the kind of thing that mattered.
He didn’t mention the translucent numbers sitting just off-center in his vision, because the fastest way to become a problem was to volunteer yourself as one.
By the third morning, the timer had become a metronome.
PENALTY TIMER: 00:13:42
Noah watched it from his bed, hands flat on his comforter, trying to make himself not care.
If it was fake, it would crack under pressure.
If it was real—
He didn’t finish the thought.
The numbers kept dropping.
He got up, showered, and dressed with automatic care. He kept his eyes on the mirror, on his own face, on the version of him that looked normal.
The overlay hovered over his reflection like a watermark.
At 00:00:00, the screen didn’t flash red. No alarms. No drama.
His stomach turned anyway, heavy as a stone.
Then the pressure hit.
Not pain exactly. Weight. A thick, nauseating heaviness that pressed down behind his eyes and into his shoulders, making it harder to breathe at full depth.
Noah gripped the edge of the sink. His knuckles went pale.
The overlay updated with the same calm font it had used to threaten him.
PENALTY APPLIED: FATIGUE NOTE: COMPLETE OBJECTIVE TO CLEAR
He tried to laugh. It came out like a cough.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. I get it.”
The room swayed slightly when he moved. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that a hallway full of people would catch it.
He drank water straight from the faucet until his stomach sloshed.
It didn’t change.
He took another swallow. Still there.
The overlay offered him a pane labeled OBJECTIVE like it was doing him a favor.
OBJECTIVE: STABILIZE - SLEEP: 7H - HYDRATION: 1.5L - BREATH: 5 MIN (CONTROLLED)
Noah stared at it, resentful in a way that felt childish and also honest.
Sleep. Water. Breathing.
The System had found the most humiliating way to prove it could hurt him.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Kara: you alive today?
Noah’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. Kara Lin lived three streets over, close enough to show up in his life by accident. She had a way of asking questions like she expected answers.
He typed: migraine. gonna try later.
Her typing bubble appeared, then vanished.
Kara: ok. feel better.
Noah set the phone face-down like that made the lie stronger. His breathing was still shallow, clipped.
It buzzed again.
Kara: you sure?
He didn’t answer.
Another buzz, longer this time.
Kara: i’m on Main. on break at the diner. i’m bringing coffee.
Noah stared at the message until the letters stopped looking real.
Forty-five minutes later, someone knocked on the front door.
Noah froze.
His mother called from the kitchen, “I got it.” Footsteps. The door opened.
“Hi, Mrs. Mercer,” Kara’s voice said. “Sorry. I just—he didn’t answer and I was already on Main.”
Noah’s stomach dropped.
“Noah?” his mom called.
He forced himself upright and walked out before his mother could go looking and find him half-dissolved into his own panic.
Kara stood in the doorway holding two iced coffees from the diner on Main, lids beaded with sweat. Her hair was still damp, like she’d showered in a hurry. Her eyes flicked over Noah in a quick assessment she probably thought she was hiding.
“Jesus,” Kara said, quieter. “You look awful.”
Noah tried for a shrug. It came out stiff. “Migraine.”
Kara offered one cup anyway. “Caffeine helps mine.”
Noah hesitated, then took it because refusing would be a different kind of suspicious.
Kara’s gaze lingered on his face, on the way he held himself too still, like he was trying not to tip over.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
Noah swallowed. “Yeah. Just ... bad morning.”
Kara didn’t smile. “Okay.” She tipped her chin at him. “Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Don’t bail.”
Noah’s pulse jumped.
“I won’t,” he said, because refusing her would be louder than lying.
Kara held up a hand like she was cutting him off from making it bigger. “Text me when you’re human,” she said. “Tomorrow. Six-thirty.” Then she left, quick and light, like she hadn’t just looked straight through his lie.
His mother watched her go, eyebrows raised.
“Migraine?” she asked, like it was a question and not a label.
Noah swallowed. “Yeah.”
His mom stepped closer. Her hand hovered near his forehead and then stopped short, like she didn’t want to make him flinch. “You want ibuprofen? You want to stay home?”
“No,” Noah said too fast. “I’m fine. I’m just tired.”
Her eyes stayed on him for a second longer than comfortable.
“Eat something,” she said. “And if it spikes again, you tell me. I’m not guessing.”
Noah nodded. It felt like agreeing to another contract.
He set the phone down and did the one thing on the list that didn’t require him to give up the day.
He sat on the closed toilet lid, elbows on knees, and counted the way he’d seen runners do in videos. In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.
The first minute was all irritation.
The second minute, the knot in his neck loosened as if it had been waiting for permission.
By the fifth minute, the weight behind his eyes eased just a fraction.
The overlay flickered.
BREATH: COMPLETE
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.