Charlie's eyes snapped open, but the familiar comfort of his bed was gone. Blinding overhead lights seared his vision, and the soft glow of his nightlight was nowhere to be seen. Beneath his feet, the surface was hard yet springy. He glanced down, heart lurching.
Ropes. A boxing ring.
"What the…" Charlie muttered, spinning in place, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space.
The System's voice chimed in his head, calm and unyielding. Welcome, Charlie, to Sleep Fighting.
Charlie's jaw dropped. "Sleep Fighting? What the hell, System?!"
This advanced simulation enhances combat instincts and experience during rest. Face your opponent.
A figure stepped into the ring, and Charlie's stomach plummeted. The man—if it could be called that—was a towering behemoth, broad and muscular, his skin pale and unnaturally smooth. Where a face should have been was nothing but a blank, featureless expanse. His presence was a silent threat, muscles rippling with every deliberate step.
Charlie's face contorted in horror. "What the fuck, System?! You can't let me sleep like a normal person? This guy's gonna kill me!"
You require combat experience. Sleep is optimal for training. Do not be dramatic. Begin.
The bell rang before Charlie could argue. The faceless man lunged, a punch rocketing toward Charlie's gut like a missile. The impact drove the air from his lungs, sending him staggering back, clutching his stomach. "Ugh… God," he wheezed, barely recovering before a second blow slammed into his shoulder. He spun, crashing to the mat in a heap.
Scrambling to his feet, his legs trembled. "System, stop! I can't—" The faceless man didn't pause. A kick smashed into Charlie's side, hurling him into the ropes. His vision blurred, arms flailing uselessly, heavy as lead. Each punch and kick landed like a sledgehammer, tossing him around the ring like a ragdoll. Sweat stung his eyes, mingling with the phantom pain searing his body.
The bell clanged, ending the round. Charlie collapsed, gasping. "I'm done," he rasped. "Let me sleep."
Round 2 begins.
The faceless man advanced, relentless. Charlie swung a clumsy punch, but it was slow, predictable. His opponent dodged effortlessly, countering with a brutal hook that sent Charlie sprawling. By the eighth round, he was barely conscious, his body a map of aching bruises, his mind foggy with exhaustion.
Charlie jolted awake, heart pounding, sweat soaking his sheets. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The soft glow of his nightlight flickered, grounding him in the familiar clutter of his basement. He sat up, wincing as phantom pain pulsed through his ribs and shoulders. "Was that… real?" he whispered, clutching his blanket.
The System chimed, infuriatingly cheerful. Training complete. Combat instinct improvement: 0.03%.
Charlie stared at the glowing screen in his vision, his expression blank. "Zero-point-zero-three percent?" His voice rose, cracking. "I got my ass kicked eight times for that?"
Progress requires consistency. Your current talent level is low. Rest for the next session.
Charlie flopped back onto the bed, groaning. "Low talent? You're a sadist, System. A total sadist."
His body ached—arms like lead, legs like jelly, back screaming with every shift. "I feel like I got hit by a truck," he muttered, then froze, recalling the faceless opponent. "Wait… why don't I feel that pain?"
It was a dream simulation. No physical damage occurred.
Charlie clutched his head, scowling. "Stop reading my mind!"
Monitoring ensures optimal guidance.
"Yeah, well, it feels real enough," he snapped, hauling himself up. Every muscle protested, the soreness from yesterday's workout lingering like an unwelcome guest. He glanced at the clock: early morning. "It's already morning? I didn't even rest!"
Sleep Fighting does not impede physical recovery. Your soreness is from prior exertion. Proceed with your day.
Charlie threw his head back, groaning dramatically. "This is torture. Literal torture."
In the kitchen, Charlie shuffled through the quiet house, his parents already gone for work. The silence was heavy, broken only by the fridge's hum and the creak of floorboards under his weight. He threw together breakfast—eggs and toast, simple but System-approved—his mind wandering as he chewed.
The sweating… it's the hair, he thought, staring at his plate. All this damn body hair. His fork clattered down as he grabbed his cracked phone, typing: How to get rid of body hair permanently?
Results flooded the screen, but one caught his eye: laser hair removal. He skimmed the details, intrigued. Reduces hair, less sweat, less odor. "Laser… thingy," he muttered.
The System chimed. It is called laser hair removal.
Charlie grunted. "Yeah, I got it." He leaned back, arms crossed. "Here's the plan: morning workouts—less people, less women, definitely no her." The memory of the gym girl's accusation stung, his face darkening. "One afternoon a week for laser sessions. If I ditch this hair, I won't sweat or stink as much. Logical, right?"
Logical. Schedule accordingly.
A smirk tugged at Charlie's lips, a rare spark of pride. "Yeah, logical." He stood, brushing crumbs off his shirt. "Breakfast done. Time to grind."
He grabbed his gym bag and headed out, determination outweighing his exhaustion.
At Muscle Macho Gym, the air buzzed with the hum of machines and the clang of weights. A blonde receptionist, earbuds in, barely glanced up from her phone. "Morning," Charlie said, his voice tentative but polite.
She nodded, eyes flicking back to her screen. Charlie shrugged—better than a glare—and moved to the workout area. "Alright, System," he muttered. "What's today?"
A screen flickered into view:
Workout Plan – Day 2:
Warm-up: 10 minutes elliptical or stationary bike (moderate pace).
Strength (Upper Body Focus):
Dumbbell bench press (or resistance band chest press): 3 sets of 10 reps.
Seated dumbbell shoulder press (or resistance band overhead press): 3 sets of 10 reps.
Bent-over dumbbell rows (or resistance band rows): 3 sets of 12 reps.
Core:
Side planks (each side): 2 sets of 15 seconds.
Dead bugs: 2 sets of 12 reps (controlled movements).
Cooldown:
Chest opener stretch: 30 seconds.
Cat-cow pose: 30 seconds.
Shoulder stretches: 30 seconds per side.
Charlie's lips pressed thin. "Half these sound made-up."
Simulation guidance initiated. Begin with the elliptical.
He climbed onto a machine, the System's simulation correcting his posture—back straight, pace steady. His legs burned, but he pushed through, sweat beading. The strength exercises were a struggle; his bench press wobbled, his shoulder presses drew grunts, but he didn't quit. When a machine was occupied, he waited, keeping his distance. If a woman was using it, he didn't linger. "System, swap it," he whispered, face flushed.
Substitute: Resistance band chest press.
He set up in a corner, away from prying eyes, the simulation guiding his form.
The core work was brutal. Side planks left him trembling, his belly grazing the mat. "Dead bugs?" he muttered, watching the simulation. "Who names this crap?" His limbs flailed, but he powered through, sweat soaking his towel.
By the cooldown, Charlie was a wreck, his muscles noodles, his shirt drenched. But as he stretched, a flicker of accomplishment warmed his chest—he'd done it.
Workout complete. Progress toward 100% Potential: 0.0007%.
Charlie snorted. "That's it?" But the tiny number felt like a badge.
In the park, Charlie's resolve wavered. "Do we have to do this?" he whined, his breath puffing out. The boxing simulation flickered to life, a glowing figure demonstrating jabs and weaves with flawless precision.
Begin.
Charlie mimicked the moves, his punches sloppy, his footwork a stumble. An old man on a bench stared, crumbs forgotten as ducks swarmed his feet. What's that kid doing? he thought, squinting at Charlie's flailing.
"Stop staring," Charlie muttered, not daring to meet his gaze.
Home at last, Charlie dropped his bag and staggered to the shower. The hot water was a godsend, washing away sweat and grime. He pulled on fresh clothes, his stomach growling. "Time to eat," he said, shuffling to the kitchen.
He eyed a block of cheese, craving a loaded sandwich, but the System's warning flashed: Unhealthy meals result in disciplinary action.
"You're kidding," Charlie muttered, hand hovering. The System's silence was deafening. With a sigh, he made a turkey sandwich on whole-grain bread, adding carrot sticks and water. He ate quickly, grumbling. "Happy now, System?"
Nutritional balance achieved.
Charlie rolled his eyes, but the light satisfaction in his stomach was undeniable. His thoughts shifted to dinner. "Gonna make something good," he said, grinning. "Those $100 are mine."