Charlie sprawled on the basement floor, his laptop casting a faint glow across the cluttered space. A crumpled notebook lay beside him, its pages scrawled with messy numbers and half-formed budgets. He dumped his wallet's contents onto the carpet—bills and coins scattered in a pitiful heap.
"Okay," he muttered, counting carefully. "One hundred twenty-six bucks." He leaned back, sighing. "Barely enough for a protein shake."
The System's voice cut through, calm and insistent. Begin shopping. Protein powder, gym membership, resistance bands, and dumbbells are essential.
Charlie groaned, raking a hand through his greasy hair. "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly rolling in cash, System."
Ignoring the silence that followed, he opened his laptop and pulled up a browser, searching for prices. His pen scratched furiously as he jotted down numbers.
Protein Powder: $40
"Forty bucks for powder?" he yelped. "What, is it made of unicorn tears?"
Resistance Bands: $20
"Not terrible," he mumbled, scribbling. "Still stings, though."
Dumbbells: $50
"Fifty? For hunks of metal?" He scowled, crossing his arms.
Gym Membership: $10/month
"Okay, that's… doable. Barely."
His notebook was a battlefield of scratched-out figures and frustrated doodles by the time he finished. Charlie leaned back, closing his eyes. "$126. No way that's enough."
The System chimed, its tone almost smug. You have the $100 reward from cooking dinner.
Charlie's eyes snapped open. "Oh, right!" He smacked his forehead, a grin breaking through. "Totally forgot. That's $226!"
He dove back into his research, stumbling across a gym called Muscle Macho. It was pricier—$30 a month—but boasted better equipment, a sauna, and longer hours. "Three months instead of one," he muttered, staring at the screen. The idea of committing to three months of workouts felt absurd. Charlie Finch, who huffed climbing stairs, signing up for this?
He sat still, the weight of the decision pressing down. "Am I really doing this?" he whispered.
The memory of Bobby Klein's laughter, the "Kick Me" sign, the System's promise of rewards—$500, potions, a better him—flashed through his mind. He took a deep breath, a tentative smile forming. "Alright. I'm in."
Charlie clenched his fists, nodding. "I'll do it. And I don't care who's watching. I've got you, System. Guide me."
For the first time in years, determination lit his eyes, small but fierce.
That afternoon, Charlie roped his dad into a shopping trip. They loaded the car with protein powder, resistance bands, and a set of dumbbells, Howard watching his son with a mix of confusion and awe. When Charlie had asked for help, Howard assumed it was for snacks, not… this. Workout gear? he thought, gripping the steering wheel as they drove. What's gotten into him?
At the Muscle Macho Gym, Charlie pointed to the sign. "Leave the stuff in the basement, Dad, except the protein powder—put that in the kitchen."
Howard hesitated, still clutching the resistance bands. He glanced at the protein powder's label, then at Charlie, his brow furrowing. "Are you… really my son?" he muttered under his breath.
His eyes flicked to the gym's bold sign: Muscle Macho. What in God's name is happening? He opened his mouth. "Son—"
"Bye, Dad!" Charlie waved, already halfway to the entrance.
Howard stood frozen, the bands dangling in his hand. The question burned—Where'd he get the money?—but something in Charlie's determined stride made him hold back. Shaking his head, he drove home, the image of his son walking into a gym replaying in his mind. He'd cook dinner tonight, a rare treat since he'd gotten off work early, but the surreal feeling lingered.
Inside Muscle Macho, Charlie gripped his backpack straps, the air thick with sweat and rubber. The gym buzzed with the clank of weights and hum of treadmills. His heart pounded—this was miles outside his comfort zone.
At the counter, a brown-haired receptionist glanced up from her phone, her polite smile flickering as she took in Charlie's sweat-streaked face and heaving bulk. He'll quit in a week, her expression seemed to say. "Welcome to Muscle Macho! Three-month membership, right?" she asked, her voice overly bright.
Charlie nodded, handing over his ID with a shaky hand. "Yeah, and… do I need a towel?"
Her smile tightened. "Uh, yes. People… sweat a lot here." She forced a laugh.
Charlie winced, buying a gym towel with more of his dwindling cash. Great start, he thought, slinging it over his shoulder as he shuffled to the gym floor. The machines gleamed, intimidating under the fluorescent lights. He kept his eyes down, avoiding the other gym-goers.
"Okay, System," he muttered. "What's the plan?"
A screen flickered into view:
Workout Plan – Day 1:
Warm-up: 10 minutes treadmill walk (moderate pace).
Strength:
Resistance band bicep curls: 3 sets of 12 reps.
Resistance band squats: 3 sets of 10 reps.
Core:
Beginner plank: 3 sets of 20 seconds.
Cooldown:
Arm stretches: 30 seconds per side.
Hamstring stretch: 30 seconds.
Charlie frowned. "Planks? What's that?"
A simulation appeared, a glowing figure demonstrating each move with robotic precision. Charlie shuffled to a treadmill, the System guiding his pace. His legs felt heavy, but he pushed through, sweat beading on his forehead. The resistance band exercises were clumsy—his curls wobbled, his squats uneven—but the simulation corrected him, nudging his form.
The planks were torture. His arms shook, his belly grazed the mat, and he collapsed after fifteen seconds. "This is hell," he gasped, but he tried again, gritting his teeth.
By the cooldown, Charlie was a sweaty mess, his towel soaked. He slumped against a wall, panting. "System… why do I sweat so much?"
Excess body hair exacerbates perspiration and odor.
Charlie glanced at his hairy arms, grimacing. "Yeah, no kidding." He'd researched laser hair removal that morning—pricey, but it could help. "I'll schedule that for afternoons, once a week," he muttered. "Mornings for workouts. Less people, less… trouble."
Logical. Proceed accordingly.
A sharp voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Don't look at me!"
Charlie blinked, startled. A slim, fit woman at the squat rack glared at him, her face twisted with disgust. "If I catch you staring again, I'll report you!"
"I—what?" Charlie stammered, confused. Then he realized: the System's screen had hovered near her, and he'd been staring at it, not her. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, his face burning.
She rolled her eyes, grabbing her towel and storming off. Charlie sighed, wiping his face. Goddamn it, System. Pick a better spot next time.
The System chimed: Workout complete. Reward: Height Enhancement Potion (effective until age 21).
Charlie froze, the frustration melting away. "A potion?" he whispered, a grin creeping onto his face. "Okay, System. I forgive you… for now."
Charlie trudged out of the gym, his legs wobbling, his shirt clinging to his skin. All he wanted was a shower and dinner—another shot at that $100 reward. But as he turned toward home, the System's voice stopped him cold.
Time for combat training.
"No," Charlie groaned, his voice cracking. "I'm exhausted! Let me shower and cook!"
Proceeding to disciplinary action in 3… 2…
"Fine!" Charlie threw up his hands, nearly dropping his bag. "You win, you sadist!"
He dragged himself to a nearby park, dumping his bag on a bench. In an empty clearing, a simulation flickered to life—a glowing figure in a perfect boxing stance, its punches sharp and fluid. Imitate the stance. Begin.
Charlie raised his trembling arms, his posture sloppy. His jabs were slow, his footwork nonexistent. "I hate this," he muttered, swinging at the air.
Nearby, an old man on a bench stared, his bag of duck feed forgotten. What in the world is that kid doing? he thought, squinting as Charlie flailed like a drunken boxer.
By the time the simulation ended, Charlie was drenched, his muscles screaming. He grabbed his bag and trudged home, each step a battle.
The shower was a lifeline, hot water washing away the day's grime. Charlie leaned against the tiles, letting it soothe his aches. Drying off, he pulled on a loose shirt and shorts, his stomach growling. "Alright, System," he said, toweling his hair. "What's for dinner? Something good, please—I'm starving."
Today's Menu: Grilled chicken wraps with avocado, spinach, and roasted sweet potatoes.
Charlie sighed but nodded. "Let's do this."
In the kitchen, he moved with purpose, the System's simulation guiding him. He seasoned chicken, chopped sweet potatoes, mashed avocado. The kitchen was a mess—spilled spices, stray vegetable scraps—but the aroma was heavenly. Charlie plated the wraps with a flicker of pride.
His parents arrived as he finished, their tired faces lighting up at the smell. "Charlie?" Howard called, stepping into the kitchen. "You're cooking again?"
"Sit, it's ready," Charlie said, grinning.
Marge and Howard exchanged bewildered glances but sat, their caution melting as they tasted the food. "This is… amazing," Marge said, her eyes wide. Howard nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "You're full of surprises, kid."
The System chimed: Task complete. Reward: $100.
New Task: Prepare dinner for 25 consecutive days.
Reward: Cooking Mastery Level 2 (improved technique, enhanced flavor).
Charlie's grin widened. "Tastier food? Hell yeah!" He laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet house. His stomach grumbled—the wrap was filling but small. Patting his belly, he sighed. "Guess I'll get used to it."
Exhausted, he collapsed into bed, the day's grind pulling him under. But as sleep took him, the System's voice whispered: Prepare for Sleep Fighting simulation. The world dissolved, and Charlie found himself in a boxing ring, facing a faceless opponent, the first blows already flying.