I'm Dead

When we finished up the transactions at the thrift shop, we immediately went straight back home. As soon as we arrived, we both fell into our respective rooms. Heather wanted to see what she could make with the 10 yards of each type of fabric I bought for her.

As for me, it was time to do a little research on certain matters regarding Heather's dream. From where I'm standing, we'll need to start small and work our way up carefully, so we don't stumble and fall before we even get anywhere.

I hate mistakes. Even back when I had a passion of my own, I made sure I was perfect. I knew, even without experiencing it for myself, that a single mistake could cost someone their life.

That's why I fell back when I knew I wasn't cut out to be a doctor. I could've been stubborn, tried to force my way to the top. But more than excellent brains, what's needed to be a surgeon is level-headedness—and I didn't have it.

But since what Heather needs doesn't require bloodshed (I hope), I was going to ace this.

I reached for my laptop, but the game I'd left running on my PC yesterday was trying to lure me back in, enticing me. But I couldn't do that to Heather—or to myself. But... what if I played just one game? Just one, and I'd go back to serious mode.

A Few Hours Later...

"Oh, come on, what are you doing, 376dashyomama? You were supposed to wait for the element of surprise! Is this the reason your mother brought you into this world—to be a waste of space? No wonder your father left, you suck."

I angrily exited the game and tossed my gaming headset away. Was it too much to ask to be matched with someone who actually knew what they were doing? Fuck.

I grabbed my phone to check the time and cursed under my breath. Heather and I had gotten home at 10:30 AM, and now it was 4:15 PM. Too much time had passed while I was playing War of the Worlds, that damn online multiplayer game.

Instead of doing research, I was wasting time—and money at this point. I know old habits don't die easily, but to be this lazy is a skill in itself.

I ran out of the room to relieve my bladder, then grabbed something to eat. I'd switched off the distraction in my room and brought my laptop with me. It had games on it too—too many of them—but I never used my laptop to play unless I was desperate during a power outage.

Heather must be at work by now, which is good. She's a distraction too—a distraction I can't ignore because I don't want to create a toxic home environment.

Now, let's see what I need to prepare if I want Heather to rise up, make some money, and in turn, I'll make some money too.

First off, it's clear Heather doesn't make her clothes here in the apartment. She must have another place somewhere.

Second, secretly appealing to the older target audience seems like the way to go. They're at that stage where seeing themselves age is an existential crisis, and they'll want to appear young.

That means they'll be more receptive to the ideas I choose to feed them. Especially those with daughters—they'll be easier to manipulate.

*Cough* *cough* Ahem. Why do I sound like a villain scheming in the dark under bad lighting, thinking I look cool or something?

Anyway, there's a problem with this plan: I don't know any older people. I could use my mother, but that's a train wreck I'm not ready to face.

I could already feel the sting of a five-finger handprint on my face. Nope, I'm not going there until I have something to show for it—not even on the system's insistence.

Anyway, as I said, I'll be secretly appealing to the older audience. But at the end of the day, they're not the true target. The younger audience is, not because I'm discriminating against MILFs or cougars, but because I think Heather would work best with people she relates to—young people—until she grows her craft.

Now that I've identified my target audiences and figured out how to separate the two, it's time to worry about financial plans, though they're not much of a concern for me.

I'll support Heather in whatever she wants, even if I go slightly overboard. In the end, I'm confident it'll pay off.

But I fall short when it comes to networking. I'll have to ask Heather if she attends any eco-fashion events. If she doesn't, we'll have to start going ourselves. We might find potential collaborators who actually know what they're doing.

Even so, I've realized my shortcomings as I do this research. For one, I still don't know the driving force behind Heather's eco-friendly dream, which could be useful in manipulating someone higher up in our favor.

Then there's the fact that we still don't have brand value or a clear objective. We don't have a source of sustainable materials, no partnerships with local artisans who could be potential suppliers.

We don't have a prototype, no online presence, no unique logo, or a brand story that resonates with eco-conscious consumers. We don't even have promotional strategies.

We've got piles of problems to deal with, but strangely, I find myself more and more excited. This situation feels closer to the hardcore games I used to play, where there was no clear direction on how to beat them.

And yet, I always stayed at the top. The harder the game, the more excited I got. The more excited I was, the more motivated I became.

And this time, I'm infinitely motivated. I'm going to beat this difficult game, then raise the stakes until it goes from hard to impossible.

I love challenging myself, and Heather's dream is a challenge I'm going to make happen. If not for the fun of it, then because I want money. I want that upgrade fast.

With that thought, I called upon the system and got the information I wanted. My money had decreased, but it wasn't the money I focused on—it was the mission.

"Whether I like it or not, I have to reach out to her. Who knows, maybe she's forgiven me by now," I muttered. That seemed unlikely, but I've seen stranger things happen.

I pulled out my phone. I hope she still uses the same number. I think my kind prefers texting, but this situation deserves a call.

First, though, I need to see what Sarah's been up to. I think she still uses Instagram. I'll look her up.

I connected my phone to the building's Wi-Fi for the first time since I moved in. I don't use my phone much. I live pretty much like a cavewoman, only contacting my parents and sister. As for anyone outside that bubble, it's safe to say I'm dead to them.

I opened Instagram and was hit with hundreds of DMs. I raised an eyebrow. Was I this famous before? I don't remember being this well-known. It's a creepy feeling.

My eyes widened as I saw my followers and their posts. I'd gained so many followers, but here's the kicker: it seems everyone thinks I'm dead.

Just as I suspected. My parents definitely know my situation, but they never said anything. That can only mean one thing—when I meet them again, I'm dead.