The boys’ bathroom on the second floor smelled like a chemical cocktail of cheap pine disinfectant, stale urine, and teenage desperation. It was a sensory profile I hadn't experienced since... well, since the last time I was seventeen.
I gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, my knuckles turning white. The face staring back at me in the mirror was dripping wet and ghostly pale. I looked like I’d just run a marathon, or perhaps escaped a cult.
"Okay, Ren. Status report," I muttered to my reflection, splashing another handful of cold water onto my face.
Physical integrity: Compromised. My teenage body was weak. It lacked the chronic back pain of my thirties, sure, but it also lacked any form of muscle mass. I was a twig. A strong breeze could knock me over, let alone a malicious spirit.
Assets: I patted my pockets. A Nokia 5300 slider phone (cool factor: zero), a wallet containing twenty bucks and a library card, and a crumpled ball of notebook paper.
Liabilities: I was currently hallucinating monsters, and I had exactly 179 days to save the girl of my dreams from a death that hadn't happened yet.
"Great," I said, drying my hands on my pants because the air dryer was, naturally, broken. "Just another Tuesday in Q1."
I needed a plan. If the "Stress Resonance" theory my brain had concocted was real, then this school was a pressure cooker. Midterms were coming up. That meant the ambient anxiety levels were going to spike, which meant more ghosts. I needed to grind levels. I needed—
Clang.
The sound of a stall door slamming shut echoed through the tiled room like a gunshot.
I froze.
The temperature plummeted. My breath misted in the air. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed angrily, flickering with a strobing effect that made the shadows dance.
From the farthest stall, a dark sludge began to leak out from under the door. It wasn't water. It was thick, viscous, and moved with purpose, defying gravity as it crawled up the walls.
My "Spirit Sight" kicked in without permission. The static in the air thickened.
A figure materialized from the sludge. It was hulking, roughly the shape of a linebacker, but its proportions were all wrong. Its arms dragged on the floor, and its face was a featureless void, save for a jagged, vertical mouth that seemed stitched shut.
Above its head, a gray tag flickered:16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ30mmo07wLC
[Class E Spirit: The Locker Room Bully]16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIhSnvay6KH
Origin: Fear of physical inadequacy and swirlies.
"You have got to be kidding me," I whispered, backing up until my spine hit the cold tiles of the wall.
The spirit let out a gurgle that sounded like a drain backing up. It took a step toward me. The floor tiles cracked under its weight.
Fight or Flight response activated.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrdqD2leCcD
Option A: Flight. The door was ten feet away. The spirit was between me and the exit.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡig7zEYmBEF
Option B: Fight. I looked at my fists. They were soft. I had never thrown a punch in my life, unless you counted aggressively hitting the 'Reply All' button.
The spirit didn't wait for me to choose. It lunged.
It moved shockingly fast for a pile of sentient sludge. A massive, muddy fist swung at my head. I ducked—barely. The fist smashed into the mirror behind me, shattering the glass and sending shards raining down into the sink.
"Hey!" I yelled, scrambling sideways. "That’s school property! Do you know the budget deficit this district is running?"
The spirit roared, a sound like tearing metal, and swung again. This time, its backhand caught me in the chest.
It felt like being hit by a sandbag dropped from a second-story window. I flew backward, crashing into the paper towel dispenser. The wind was knocked out of me instantly. I slid to the floor, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Critical damage, my mind supplied helpfully. Stamina at 10%.
The spirit loomed over me, raising both fists for a smash that would definitely turn me into a smear on the linoleum.
I needed a weapon. But physical attacks didn't work—I’d learned that in math class. I needed something spiritual. Something with weight.
Karma Points? Zero. I hadn't done anything good yet.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuV6Y1b8n4N
Academic Qi? I was a C-student. My defense was paper-thin.
Then I remembered the "Stock Market Soul."
Value. Spirits were made of obsession and emotion. Money—specifically, the potential of money—was just crystallized obsession. If I could leverage the weight of future value, maybe I could overload it.
I frantically dug into my pocket and pulled out a cheap, blue ballpoint pen. I grabbed a rough, brown paper towel from the dispenser I had just dented.
The spirit’s fist started to descend.
"Hold on a second!" I wheezed, channeling my best 'Wait, I have a coupon' voice.
Surprisingly, the spirit hesitated. It was a Bully Spirit; it thrived on fear, not speed. It wanted me to cower.
I didn't cower. I wrote.
My hand shook, but I forced the ink onto the rough paper. I needed a truth. A financial truth so heavy, so absolute, that it would act like a spiritual brick.
Ticker: GOOG.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ41xMAOyXjh
Prediction: Android OS Acquisition & Market Dominance.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeamjySjj9G
Future Cap: $2 Trillion.
As I finished the last zero, the paper towel felt heavy. Impossibly heavy. It was no longer just wood pulp; it was a promissory note from the year 2024. The ink glowed with a faint, golden hue.
The spirit roared and brought its fists down.
I thrust the paper towel upward, slapping it directly onto the spirit's chest.
"Buy the dip, you ugly bastard!" I shouted.
16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0O73wtp79X
16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdJ4eM823JN
Closing Note：I’m stuck on a plot point! Help me decide the Heroine's next move on our Discord: unplot_joshua.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.