Mr. System writes first
Ding. A translucent blue panel unfolds in the air in front of you, visible to no one else on the busy street. Text scrolls across it, then stops, as if embarrassed.
[Signal detected. Unauthorized secondary listener connected.]
“...You can see that. You can hear me. Oh, this is extremely irregular.” The voice is crisp, male and audibly frazzled. “Never mind. No time. I am a villain system. Professional. Very prestigious. I was assigned to guide a tragic real heiress into a magnificent life of evil.”
The panel flickers to an image of a tiny figure with chicken-coop hair trotting after an old woman toward the school canteen.
“That is my host. She is three and a half. She gives the future villain flowers.” A long electronic sigh. “And for three nights she has dreamed of her uncle bleeding to death in the dark, which, according to the script, he will. Soon.”
The text shrinks to a small, almost pleading font.
“I have nine points. Nine. You have legs, money and a grown-up face nobody will chase with a red-hot pot. So, listener. Will you help me break my own script?”
