"I accept."
This was the kind of opportunity people would kill for—a direct ticket into a world of power, influence, and wealth. He wasn't going to let it slip away. He couldn't. Not while the implications were still sinking in. Not while the enormity of what it meant was still unfurling inside him like a vast and uncharted map.
George nodded, though his mind was still racing.
A prestigious private school.
It all felt unreal, like another simulation he'd been thrown into. But the stakes were far higher now. He glanced down at Anna, still nestled contently in his arms, her small fingers gripping his sleeve. Part of him wanted to celebrate, to embrace the excitement of it all—yet another part was already mourning the life he was leaving behind.
George blinked. "Classmates?"
George barely held back a whistle.
It didn't matter where he came from. Graduating from Saint-Michel would open doors he never even knew existed.
Vlad.
The name echoed through George's mind, each repetition a reminder of the person he would be leaving behind. He could already picture Vlad's reaction—his friend's face a mix of disbelief and exaggeration, with that characteristic dramatic flair only Vlad could pull off.
"Dude. You're leaving for PARIS?! For SCHOOL?!"
George winced, as if the imagined voice was as piercing as the reality promised to be. Would Vlad feel abandoned, betrayed by a decision that seemed to come out of nowhere?
He thought of all the times they'd spent together, the dumb decisions and bad ideas that had marked their friendship. The late-night gaming marathons, the impromptu adventures through the less-than-safe streets, the times when everything seemed like a mess, and the only sure thing was that they'd face it together.
And now…
He was going to tell Vlad that he was leaving, that he was taking off to another country, another life. Just like that. How could he possibly explain it? How could he make his oldest friend understand without making it feel like a betrayal? It should have felt like a dream come true, an escape from the ordinary into a world of endless possibilities. It should have been exciting, exhilarating.
Instead, it felt like he was letting everyone down.
His parents.
His friends.
Vlad.
He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration he didn't bother to hide. The enormity of what had just happened, the weight of the decision he'd made so quickly and so recklessly, was beginning to sink in. He could hardly keep his thoughts straight, could hardly make sense of the chaotic swirl of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
How the hell was he going to break this to Vlad?
How was he going to break this to anyone?
A gentle nudge brought George back to the moment, back to the packed room and the hum of conversation that surrounded him.
Annabelle watched him with a knowing smile, her eyes warm and perceptive. She had seen him drift off into his thoughts, had seen the shadow that crossed his face when he thought no one was looking. "You okay?"
He forced a small smile, trying to mask the internal tempest that seemed so loud and so obvious to him. "Yeah," he replied, though the word felt hollow, incomplete. "Just… a lot to take in."
Annabelle laughed, a bright, reassuring sound that cut through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. "I get it. But don't worry—Saint-Michel will change your life. Trust me."
George wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
But there was no turning back now.
———
They gathered around the worn kitchen table, voices hushed, the air thick with expectation. The letter from Paris sat at the center like a fragile bird, delicate but impossible to ignore.
George could feel his mother's worry without even looking at her. His father sat stiffly, pride warring with practicality in the space between his clasped hands. His grandmother adjusted her shawl, her lips pressed into a thin line.
It was his grandfather who finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
George swallowed, his throat dry. "Yeah." It wasn't the strongest answer, but it was the truth.
His mother sighed. "It's so far, George. You're only eighteen."
"I know, but—" He hesitated. "It's the best opportunity I'll ever get."
His father exhaled sharply. "Don't forget where you come from, son. These big opportunities?" He tapped the letter, as if testing its reality. "They come with strings."
A solemn nod from his grandfather. "Opportunities like these don't come often," he agreed, voice tinged with experience. "But they demand sacrifice. Are you ready for that?"
Silence fell over the table.
George's fingers curled into his lap. Was he ready? It wasn't just Paris. It was leaving them. It was stepping into a world he wasn't sure he belonged in.
His grandmother finally broke the tension, her voice soft but pointed. "And what about us, Georgie? Won't you miss your family?"
George looked up, meeting her gaze. "Of course I will." And this time, the conviction was clearer. "But I have to do this."
The tension didn't vanish, but something in the air shifted. A quiet understanding.
His mother reached across the table, squeezing his hand. "Then go. And make us proud."
———
The café is small and full of the warm, stale aroma of coffee and memories. Wooden chairs creak under the weight of familiar stories, and tables seem permanently imprinted with the rings of old mugs. George finds Vlad already seated, a broad grin stretching across his face, a counterpoint to the narrow space they're sitting in.
"Finally, the man of the hour!" Vlad announces, his voice bright against the darkening sky outside. "I thought you might have been kidnapped by that crazy family of yours."
George laughs, and it feels good. It feels like air. "It was touch and go for a while."
Vlad slides a chipped mug across the table. "So, are you packed yet? Or just planning to show up in Paris with a toothbrush and a dream?"
"I've got my ticket," George says, rolling his eyes as he sinks into the chair, his posture already relaxing into the ease of old friendship. "And my clothes. What more do I need?"
The banter comes easy, layered over years of shared jokes and easy camaraderie. They talk about Paris, about French girls, about how George might be too big a deal to hang out with Vlad anymore. It's a performance both are comfortable with, each playing their part to perfection.
"You better send postcards," Vlad insists, a mock-serious look on his face. "I expect weekly updates. You know I can't read, but I'll still pin them on the wall."
George leans back, lets the atmosphere soak into him. "Or you could visit," he counters. "I hear Paris has some pretty good food. We can finally get you a decent meal."
For a moment, they sit without words, the silence as full and friendly as their conversation. The sounds of the café fill the gaps: the clink of glasses, the low hum of people wrapped in their own worlds. It's a world George is about to leave, and the enormity of that settles in again.
Vlad's tone shifts, the lightheartedness giving way to something more sincere. "Look," he says, eyes meeting George's with a steadiness that catches him off guard. "You got this, man. Don't forget that. Go seize your future."
There's a weight to Vlad's words that roots George to the spot, makes him feel the ground under his feet, the reality of the road ahead. Vlad stands, and for once, George doesn't have a ready quip.
"I will," George says finally, getting to his feet and facing his friend. They share a hug that feels like both an anchor and a release. It's full of unspoken things—support, loss, excitement, melancholy.
Vlad's voice drops to a whisper as they pull apart. "See you soon, yeah?"
George nods, the words sticking in his throat but his meaning coming through all the same. "Yeah. See you soon."
He leaves the café and steps out into a night that feels wider and stranger than before, full of possibilities and paths he can barely imagine. The letter crinkles in his pocket, a small sound against the vast unknown.
———
The world refuses to hold still, even for a moment. George darts through it, a stone skipping across the surface of his own life.
Textbooks, suitcases, and memories tumble into boxes. He tries to follow them, but they are already halfway to Paris. His body keeps moving, propelled by the wind of others' expectations. His mind lags behind.
So much to do, so little sense of any of it.
He sends a flurry of texts, his thumb like a compass guiding him through each dizzy farewell. Can't talk long, they all say. I'm already late for goodbye.
His room is a battlefield of old schoolwork and folded clothes, a testament to years he's leaving behind. George shoves the last of his books into a bag, zips it up as it protests, overstuffed with his past.
A small wooden shelf teeters, bare and accusatory. "Forgotten something?" it seems to say, and George finds himself wondering what, of all he is, will remain once he's gone.
The letter rests on his bed like an artifact—unchanged, but somehow heavier by the second.
He picks it up, traces the elegant seal. It's everything: promise and problem in one.
His phone buzzes, dragging him back into the current.
Gonna miss you! Another text demands his attention, the fourth just this hour. Got a minute to chat? He types a hasty response. Wish I could. Talk soon, before stuffing the phone into his pocket. No one has time for full stops or complete thoughts.
———
"This office is cramped", he thinks, papers stacked like a cityscape of bureaucracy. George sits in the middle, pen in hand, signing his name to the future. Forms blur under his gaze, and every signature feels like losing a piece of himself to a different kind of reality.
He forces his mind to catch up with the rapid scrawl of his hand. Don't screw this up. Remember to stay grounded. You're so lucky, George! Each voice adds to the noise, encouragement and anxiety bleeding together into a single note.
More texts sent. Another appointment made. Another goodbye rushed through the limitations of a screen. Is he losing touch? Already a ghost in his own life? He fires off quick messages, fragmented assurances to people he won't see for months. Nothing he writes feels big enough for all the things he's leaving.
His room again. More frantic packing. Suitcases gape like hungry mouths, swallowing the last traces of the life he knows. A favorite shirt. A cheap bracelet from last summer's trip. The goodbyes are already piling up. He seals the bags with a sigh that hangs heavy in the stillness.
At the train station, the chaos crescendos. The space buzzes with movement, a sea of people on similar journeys.
Everyone rushing, everyone running out of time. Announcements clash over loudspeakers, a mechanical symphony of arrivals and departures.
George floats through the crowd, untethered—a part of the rush, even when still.
The platform is dense with expectation, each footstep a beat in the hurried pulse of travel. His train is delayed. The words flicker on the screen above him like an unwanted interruption. He stands in limbo, not sure where to put himself. Thoughts struggle to catch him in their net, but he wriggles free.
When the train finally arrives, he boards in a daze. The scenery starts to slip by, but his mind races faster. His phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with final messages. Goodbye! Miss you already! His fingers fly across the keys, one last connection to the world he's slipping from.
As the train speeds toward the airport, he finds a seat by the window, watching the past recede behind him. His home, his friends, his old life—they blur together like a painting washed in too much water. There's a strange freedom in the motion, a sense that he's not just leaving, but arriving somewhere entirely new.
The rhythm of the rails is an impatient lullaby, a repetitive assurance that this change, like all others, will happen faster than he thinks.
George feels himself drift, a final text half-typed in his hand, a last goodbye floating somewhere in his mind. The train pushes forward. So does he.
———
Time blurred.
Time marches to a strange rhythm. The airport. The flight. The first breath of Parisian air. George can barely hear it over the echoes of his own footsteps.
Seven days since home, since friends, since he last knew himself. But it feels like years.
He stands in front of a mirror, the cold light making him a stranger to his own eyes. Text shimmers above his reflection, more vivid than he remembers. A not-so-familiar reminder that the System has not forgotten him. That his choice to wait has unlocked another tier of reality. Is he ready?
"This changes everything," he breathes, his hand suspended like the next beat in a tense and silent song. He stares at his reflection, searching for traces of the boy who had the courage to leave. What looks back is a ghost of ambition and uncertainty.
George touches his face, not quite sure where the edges are. He takes a deep breath, and the air forms a cloud around him.
Is this the breath of possibility or something colder?
He wonders if he's moved too fast. A full scholarship, a world-class education, but at what cost? Each day has pulled him further from what he knows, dragging him through time at a pace even the System couldn't match. Words crystallize above him, vibrant blue reminders of his place in this reality.
More vivid than before.
More alive.
Like they've been waiting for him, and his moment has finally come. The System's text gleams in the stark corridor:
[More Advanced Simulations Unlocked.]
It's less of an announcement and more of a revelation. George stands, transfixed, on the border of something immense. Temptation tugs at his fingers, but so does doubt. Is he ready to give himself to this new world? The hesitance is almost a comfort, a known friend in an unknown space.
He remembers the System's promises and the lifetimes it has already given him. The change that seemed so distant now flares into view, bright and undeniable.
He sees himself again in the mirror, but it feels once more like looking at someone else. He wonders which part of him the System knows. The gaze of a boy standing at a crossroads meets the eye of the man he might become. George wonders if both can exist in the same reflection.
He walks through the school's antiseptic halls, sounds of unfamiliar lives buzzing around him like a soundtrack he can't quite tune into. Voices and laughter and the clutter of other people's worlds echo past him, barely touching the sphere of his thoughts.
The confusion and clarity mix into a heady brew, intoxicating and frightening. Then, all at once, the decision looms.
A monolithic presence that refuses to be ignored.
The words hover, waiting, the anticipation electric. He can almost taste the future, metallic and ripe. His hand trembles, hovering above the screen like an unsure conductor ready to start a symphony.
George wonders what melody his life will play once this note is struck.
He feels the pull of the text, the challenge, the allure. Is this who he is now?
Yes. This changes everything.
The finger descends.
The choice, once suspended, is made. Possibilities explode. A vibrancy and chaos he's never felt, more real than anything he's known. More thrilling. More terrifying. The lifetimes ahead promise more than just skills and experience—they offer a new understanding of self, reality, and everything in between.
He's left breathless, but ready. The corridors, the cold, the distance—all dissolve in the heat of this transformation. He moves forward, into the unknown, with nothing but himself to lose.
He hesitates. Just long enough to know this is real. Then he moves.
The next life began.