Chapter 9: The Reckoning
Maya stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression flat. The door clicked shut behind her.
Dorian's heart hammered. "How did you get in?"
"Your roommate let me in. Tyler." She said it like the name itself was ridiculous. "He's very trusting."
"Look, Maya, whatever you think is going on—"
"I know what I saw." She pulled out her phone, swiped through photos, and held it up. Dorian at the art building. Dorian at the gym. "You're busy."
Dorian's jaw tightened. "You're following me?"
"I'm watching you." She stepped closer. "I know guys like you. You think you're smooth. You think no one notices."
He stared at the photos on her phone. Then something clicked.
"It was you." His voice came out low. "The texts. You've been watching me this whole time."
Maya blinked. "What texts?"
"Don't play dumb. The unknown number. The warnings." He stepped toward her. "That was you."
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't text people anonymously. If I have something to say, I say it to your face." She held up her phone. "Like this."
Dorian searched her expression. Confusion. Genuine confusion.
She's not the texter.
He filed it away. Didn't let it show.
"Fine." He stepped back. "But you need to stop. Following me, taking photos, whatever this is. It's creepy."
"It's called protecting my friend."
"Sarah doesn't need protection from me."
"That's what they all say." She pocketed her phone. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm watching. Every move. And if you hurt her—if you're just using her—I will make your life a living hell."
Dorian met her eyes. "Why are you so invested in this? In me? I get that you're protective. But this—" He gestured at the door, at where she'd been standing. "This is too far. You're stalking me, Maya. What do you think Sarah would say if I told her?"
Maya's expression flickered. Just for a second.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
She stared at him. Something shifted in her eyes—not softening, but calculating.
"Just... don't hurt her." She moved toward the door. "That's all I'm asking."
She left.
The door closed.
Dorian stood there, breathing hard.
---
Morning came too fast.
Dorian checked his phone immediately.
Sarah: Can we talk today?
He typed back.
Dorian: The quad. 4pm. I have something for you.
Sarah: Okay. See you then.
Four hours to prepare.
He called Jenna. Then he made another call—to a number scrawled on a campus bulletin board. "Actor for Hire. Period Pieces a Specialty. Cash Only."
---
The quad at 3:45 was busy—students on blankets, reading, laughing, soaking up the last of the afternoon sun.
Dorian set up near the fountain. Blanket. Sunflowers. Thai takeout containers arranged like he knew what he was doing. A small box with the bracelet. A handwritten letter he'd rewritten seven times.
Tyler had "helped," which meant he'd carried one bag and immediately sat down to scroll his phone.
"Dude, this is romantic as hell," Tyler said without looking up. "Sarah's gonna cry."
"She might cry. I might cry. This is high stakes."
Jenna appeared, out of breath. "Okay, everything good? Sunflowers? Check. Thai food? Check. You remembered the extra chili sauce?"
"I remembered."
"You're learning." She grinned. "Good luck. Text me how it goes." She disappeared before Sarah arrived.
Dorian checked his phone.
Unknown: Nice setup. The fountain was a good choice.
He spun, scanning. Nothing. Just students.
Unknown: Don't worry. I'm just watching.
Dorian shoved the phone in his pocket. Then he texted the actor: In position. Wait for my signal. And remember—stay in character.
---
Sarah arrived at 4:02.
She was nervous—he could see it in the way she walked, the way she tucked hair behind her ear. When she saw the setup, she stopped.
"Dorian..."
"Hi." He gestured at the blanket. "Sit? Please."
She sat. He sat across from her. The sun hit the fountain just right, sending rainbows through the spray.
"I know the surprise isn't a surprise anymore," he said. "I had to tell you something when you caught me. But I meant it. I was planning this. With Jenna's help. She told me about the sunflowers, the Thai food, everything."
Sarah looked at the spread. "You remembered I like extra chili sauce."
"Of course I did."
She almost smiled.
"The bracelet." He handed her the box. "Sunflower charm. Because you like sunflowers and I wanted you to have something that reminded you of—" He stopped. "Of this. Of us. If there still is an us."
Sarah opened the box. Her eyes went soft.
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful."
She laughed—a real laugh, the first one in days. "You're such a dork."
"I know." He pulled out the letter. "I also wrote you a letter. It's very long and probably embarrassing. You can read it later when I'm not here."
She took it, held it to her chest. "No one's ever done something like this for me before. Like, ever."
The words hit harder than they should have.
She deserves better than me.
"Dorian..." She searched his face. "I forgive you. Really."
She leaned forward and kissed him. Soft. Warm. Real.
When she pulled back, her eyes were wet.
They sat together, watching the sun begin its slow descent. Orange and pink bled across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of fire. Sarah leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand in his.
She turned to look at him, and the dying light caught her face just right—illuminated her dimples, softened her eyes, made her look like something from a dream.
She smiled.
And Dorian felt it—a twist in his chest that had nothing to do with quests or levels or timers. She was real. She was here. She'd forgiven him.
And he was still lying to her.
She trusts me. And I'm still hiding everything.
If she knew what I'm really doing—what I've done—she'd never look at me like this again.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah." He forced a smile, pulled her closer. "Just... glad we're here."
She nestled into his shoulder. They watched the last of the light disappear together.
---
Dorian's phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: I have arrived. The light is... acceptable. Proceed when ready.
He glanced around. Near the bushes by the library steps, a man stood holding an antique-looking camera—the kind that probably didn't even work. He was dressed in what appeared to be a velvet smoking jacket and cravat. In September.
What the hell did I hire? Was there a "maximum drama" option on that flyer?
"Hey," Dorian said. "That guy keeps looking over here. Is he taking photos?"
Sarah looked. The man struck a pose, one hand on his chest, the other gesturing grandly at the fountain.
"Is he... wearing a cape?"
"I think so."
Just say the line. Please just say the line. Why is he bowing? Why is there a cape?
The man approached with the dignity of someone walking to their own coronation—which is to say, terribly. He bowed. Actually bowed. From the waist. In public.
"Good evening!" His voice boomed with an accent that was aggressively, almost violently British. "I am His Royal Highness, King Alistair the Third, by the grace of God, Sovereign of the Realm, Protector of the Faith, and—" He paused, as if remembering a script. "—retired portraitist. One must keep busy, you understand."
Sarah blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"The light!" He gestured at the sunset with a flourish that nearly sent his cape spinning. "It cascades upon you like honey upon the morning scone! You are a vision! A muse! I must capture your likeness for the royal archives!"
Dorian buried his face in his hands.
I'm paying this man forty dollars to destroy my dignity in front of my girlfriend. This is my life now.
Sarah glanced at Dorian, thoroughly confused. "Is this... real?"
"Campus is weird," Dorian managed. "Very weird."
King Alistair the Third adjusted the tripod with the seriousness of a battlefield surgeon. He was already setting up his antique camera—the kind that probably didn't even work.
"A question, fair maiden! For the chronicles, you understand. The royal historians must be accurate." He straightened, fixing Sarah with a regal stare. "Is this dashing gentleman your betrothed? Your intended? The keeper of your heart?"
Sarah laughed—genuinely laughed. "He's my boyfriend, yes."
"Splendid! Glorious! A match made in the very heavens!" He adjusted his cravat. "The court will be most pleased. Now, if you would—a kiss! For posterity! For the ages!"
Sarah, still laughing, leaned in. Dorian met her halfway. King Alistair the Third captured the moment with the gravity of someone documenting a royal wedding.
Then he straightened, checked a pocket watch that was almost certainly a prop, and gasped. "Good heavens! The queen's tea service! I am dreadfully late!" He packed his equipment with theatrical haste, bowed again, and strode off toward the setting sun—literally walking directly into the light like a monarch exiting stage left.
Sarah watched him go. "That was... the strangest thing I've ever seen."
"Yeah." Dorian pulled her close. "Campus is full of characters."
4C COMPLETE. WITNESSES: 14. PUBLIC CLAIM ACHIEVED.
---
Later that evening, Dorian met King Alistair the Third behind the library. The cape was still on. The cravat was still perfectly tied.
"Your Majesty," Dorian said flatly.
The king inclined his head. "Lord Dorian. The light was most cooperative. A successful sitting, I trust?"
Lord Dorian? When did I get promoted?
Dorian pulled out his wallet. Fished out crumpled bills—twenty, ten, five, some ones he'd been saving for laundry. Counted forty and held it out.
King Alistair examined the money with theatrical suspicion. He held a bill up to the fading light. Squinted. Turned it over. Squinted again.
"Hmm. Counterfeit?"
"It's real."
"One can never be too careful. The crown has its enemies." He pocketed the cash without ever breaking character. Then he leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A word of advice, young lord. The court is full of spies. Trust no one. The queen herself—" He glanced around dramatically. "Well. That's a tale for another time."
A cold prickle ran down Dorian's spine.
What does that even mean? Is he still acting? Does he know something?
Before he could ask, King Alistair straightened, adjusted his cape, and strode into the night. His voice floated back: "May the light find you well, Lord Dorian!"
Dorian stood there, alone in the dark, the weirdest forty dollars he'd ever spent burning a hole in his memory.
---
4D REMAINING: OVERNIGHT STAY.
TIME REMAINING: 2 DAYS, 4 HOURS.
---
That evening, Dorian walked toward the art building.
He didn't have Lisa's number. He didn't have an invite. He just had a memory: Critique session Tuesday night. Goes forever.
He pushed open the studio door.
Chaos.
Easels everywhere. Students arguing. Someone crying in the corner. Wine in paper cups. A professor with a clipboard looking like they'd given up on life.
And Lisa, in the center of it all, gesturing wildly at a painting of a chicken.
"No, you don't understand—the chicken is a metaphor for capitalism!"
Dorian stood in the doorway, completely lost.
Lisa spotted him. Her face went through confusion, surprise, then amusement.
"You came?"
"I... was in the area."
She snorted. "Liar." But she was smiling. "Sit. Watch the chaos. I'll explain later."
He sat. Watched. Pretended to care about art critiques while secretly watching the clock.
An hour passed. Two hours. The crying student stopped crying. The chicken painting was declared "provocative." Someone opened a second bottle of wine.
The professor checked their watch. "Alright, that's a wrap. Great work tonight, everyone."
But no one moved. Students clustered in groups, animatedly discussing the critiques, refilling paper cups, pulling out phones to show each other reference images. The energy didn't dissipate—it just shifted.
Lisa got pulled into a conversation about symbolism. Then another about technique. Then someone wanted her opinion on their piece.
Dorian waited. Watched. The clock ticked.
10:30. 10:45. Finally, at 10:50, the studio began to empty. Lisa made her way back to him, yawning.
"Sorry. They never shut up."
"No problem." He stood. "Ready to head out?"
"God, yes."
They walked out together into the cool night. Lisa checked her phone. "Ugh, almost 11. I hate walking home this late. It's so creepy alone."
Dorian saw his chance. "I can walk you. If you want."
She tilted her head. "Really? It's like 25 minutes."
"I don't mind."
She smiled. "You're a lifesaver. Let's go."
---
They walked through the quiet campus, past the library, past the science building, toward the edge of campus where off-campus housing started. The streets got quieter, the buildings smaller.
Lisa talked the whole way—about the critique, about the chicken painting, about her grandmother in Kyoto who still thought she was going to medical school.
"She's going to find out eventually," Dorian said.
"Eventually is future Lisa's problem. Present Lisa has enough problems." She gestured at a small apartment building. "Here we are. Home sweet home."
From inside, Dorian could hear high-pitched barking.
"That's Momo," Lisa said. "She's the actual landlord."
They reached her door. Lisa paused. "Thanks for walking me. Seriously. I hate that walk alone."
"No problem."
She unlocked the door. Momo erupted into even louder barking, a tiny fluffy ball of chaos.
Lisa looked at Dorian. Then at the door. Then back at Dorian.
"Want to come in for tea? I owe you for sitting through that disaster."
A knot formed in his chest. "Sure. Tea sounds great."
---
Her apartment was exactly what he expected—and nothing he was prepared for. Canvases everywhere. Paint tubes on every surface. A kitchenette with mismatched dishes. A small couch covered in a crocheted blanket. And Momo, a tiny fluffy dog, circling his feet and barking like he was a burglar.
"That's just her welcome song," Lisa said, filling a kettle. "She'll stop in approximately five minutes or when you give her attention. Whichever comes first."
Dorian sat on the couch. Momo immediately jumped up, sniffed him aggressively, then curled into a ball on his lap.
"Congratulations. You've been chosen."
They talked for an hour. Lisa made tea. Showed him her paintings. Told him about the time she accidentally sold a piece to a professor who thought it was about "the human condition" when it was actually just a dream she had about a walrus.
Momo never moved from his lap.
At midnight, Lisa yawned. "I'm dead. You can crash on the couch if you want. It's way too late to walk back."
Dorian's stomach tightened. "You sure?"
"Positive. Momo likes you. That's a rare honor." She grabbed a pillow and blanket from a closet. "Bathroom's through there. Help yourself to anything. I'll be unconscious in approximately 90 seconds."
She paused at her bedroom door.
"Hey. Thanks for tonight. For coming. It was nice having someone there."
"Thanks for letting me crash."
"Don't mention it. Literally. Don't mention it to anyone. I have a reputation as a loner artist to maintain."
He laughed. "Your secret's safe."
"Goodnight, couch guest."
"Goodnight."
She disappeared into her bedroom.
Dorian sat on the couch, Momo still on his lap.
4D TIMER STARTED: 0:00
---
The couch was uncomfortable. The blanket was thin. Momo, having accepted him, now demanded constant petting.
But the timer ticked.
1:00...
Momo rearranged herself. Snored softly.
Dorian stared at the ceiling, listening to the strange sounds of someone else's apartment—the hum of a mini-fridge, the distant traffic, Lisa's muffled sleep-talking from the bedroom.
"おばあちゃん,チキンは象徴です..."
He had no idea what it meant, but it was hilarious.
2:00... 3:00... The hours crawled. Momo twitched in her sleep, chasing dream squirrels. His eyes grew heavy.
At 4 a.m., he drifted off.
---
At 7 a.m., Dorian woke to a warm, wet sensation on his lap.
Is Momo drooling? That's... a lot of drool.
He looked down.
Momo was still curled there, but a dark stain had spread across his jeans. The dog had peed on him. In his sleep. Without moving.
Momo looked up at him with the calm dignity of someone who had absolutely no regrets.
Dorian stared. "Did you... did you just..."
Momo licked his face.
4D TIMER: 6 HOURS COMPLETE. OVERNIGHT STAY ACHIEVED.
QUEST PACK COMPLETE.
LEVEL UP!
CONGRATULATIONS, HOST!
YOU HAVE REACHED LEVEL 4.
He blinked, groggy. Then he felt it.
His body was different. Lighter. Stronger. More defined. The changes had happened while he slept—no painful transition, just... results.
He looked at his arms. More tone. His stomach—flat. Really flat. He touched his face. Sharper jaw. Higher cheekbones.
Momo stared at him with what looked like judgment.
NOTIFICATION: SIDE-EFFECT REGISTRY
SIDE-EFFECT FOR LEVEL 4:
GENITAL DIMENSIONS HAVE BEEN INCREASED BY AN ADDITIONAL 1.0 INCH.
TOTAL INCREASE: 4.0 INCHES.
He looked down at his lap. The wet stain was spreading.
"Great," he whispered. "Just great."
Momo barked softly.
---
He found a pen and scrap paper on Lisa's cluttered coffee table. Wrote quickly:
Thanks for the couch. See you around.
—Dorian
[phone number]
He left it where she'd find it, cleaned up as best he could in the bathroom, and slipped out at 7:30.
A girl walking her bike slowed down, stared at the very obvious wet spot on his jeans, and slowly kept walking.
The walk back to campus felt different despite the embarrassment. He moved differently. A woman jogging past did a double take. A guy waiting at a bus stop glanced up from his phone and stared a beat too long.
Level 4. One more to go.
---
He made it back to his dorm at 8:15.
Marcus was there, on his hands and knees, patting the floor around his bed. He looked frustrated.
"Morning," Dorian said.
Marcus glanced up. "Hey. You seen my glasses anywhere? I can't find them and I've looked everywhere."
Dorian glanced around. "Uh, no. Sorry."
Marcus sighed, sat back on his heels. "They've got to be here somewhere."
He paused, then looked up.
"Where were you last night? I didn't see you come back."
None of your business. The old Dorian surfaced—just a flicker. The instinct to snap, to shut him down, to remind him who was in charge.
He caught himself.
"Studying. At the library." The lie came automatically now. "Late night."
Marcus nodded, didn't push. Went back to searching.
Dorian changed clothes quickly, threw the peed-on jeans in a bag, and sat on his bed. The forty dollars he'd paid Kevin had come out of his textbook fund. He was now officially behind in two classes.
The student grind. Gotta love it.
His phone buzzed.
Sarah: Yesterday was perfect. Thank you. For everything. ❤️
He stared at the heart.
Guilt. Relief. Triumph. All mixed together.
Dorian: I'm the lucky one. See you later?
Sarah: Can't wait. ❤️
---
He set the phone down and caught his reflection in the dark screen. Level 4. He still hadn't really looked.
He opened his camera app, flipped to front-facing, and stared.
The face looking back was... different. Sharper. Cleaner. His jaw could cut glass. His skin was clear. His eyes—when had his eyes gotten that color?
He took a selfie. Just to see. Just to believe it.
Then he opened his gallery.
The selfie was there. And next to it, the photo from the picnic. Him and Sarah, kissing, the sunset behind them. King Alistair had actually done a decent job.
He stared at it for a long moment.
She looks happy. Really happy.
He opened Pictura—the app everyone used. The one where you post your life for strangers to judge. He had like twelve followers. Mostly bots, probably. A few classmates. Definitely not Lisa or Danielle—they ran in different circles.
He uploaded two photos.
The selfie first.
Then the picnic photo. Caption: Good day. Good company.
Twelve followers. What could possibly go wrong?
---
He checked the system.
CURRENT LEVEL: 4
NEXT LEVEL: 5
REQUIRED: NEW QUEST PACK AVAILABLE? [CHECK]
He tapped it.
DOWNLOADING LEVEL 5 QUEST PACK...
The screen flickered.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown: You stole the ring. Now you pay the price.
Unknown: Check under your pillow.
His stomach dropped.
Slowly, he reached under the pillow.
His fingers touched paper.
He pulled it out.
The photo was old. Worn.
A younger Dorian stood in it. Fat. Ugly. Insecure.
Next to someone he hadn't seen in years.
Someone he had hoped never to see again.
[END OF CHAPTER 9]
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