The Harem Overlord System

The daisies were falling apart in his hands.

Cheap, creased paper petals quivered like they sensed their inevitable doom, the glue still tacky, sticking to his fingers like bad decisions and unresolved trauma. Ethan's palms slicked with sweat, nerves boiling under the suffocating grip of his borrowed graduation gown—a polyester death trap that smelled like burnt plastic and institutional disappointment.

The auditorium lights? Surgical-grade blinding. His classmates? Vultures in discount caps and gowns, waiting to rip his soul apart with Snapchat filters and group chats he'd never get invited to.

Yeah. Too late for that.

Ethan's heartbeat thrashed against his ribs, his lungs working overtime as recycled air—thick with melting chairs, cheap cologne, and desperation—flooded his chest. The daisies crumpled in his grip. Lisa's favorite flower, allegedly. Not that it mattered. He was about to detonate his dignity onstage in front of everyone with the emotional precision of a toddler wielding a chainsaw.

His voice cracked like a bootleg Bluetooth speaker mid-glitch. "Lisa… I know this is… uh… random but… I like you. A lot."

Nuclear silence.

The kind of silence where galaxies collapse. Heavy. Suffocating. His ears rang like the universe itself was holding its breath for the inevitable trainwreck.

Across the stage, Lisa blinked—expression polite, unbothered, distant. The kind of look you give a stranger on public transport before you fake a phone call to escape the conversation. Her face didn't soften. Didn't twist with secondhand embarrassment. Just… surgical disinterest.

"Ethan…" Her voice could've iced over volcanoes. "I'm sorry. I don't feel the same."

Critical Hit. Ego Integrity: 3% Remaining.

The daisies slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the stage floor like confetti at the saddest, most pitiful party on Earth. Someone snorted in the back row. Another voice—oozing smug, secondhand superiority—whispered, "Brutal."

His face burned hotter than a nuclear meltdown. His stomach turned itself inside out. He managed the words— brittle, splintered beyond repair: "Yeah… friends. Sure."

The taste of failure coated his tongue—ash and regret and socially transmitted humiliation.

He stumbled off stage like a glitching NPC, every step dragging static laughter and whispered pity in his wake. Outside, the sun lit the concrete like an interrogation lamp. His cap and gown? Less achievement, more ceremonial restraints for society's latest disappointment.

Each step toward home replayed the scene—a relentless mental highlight reel of confession, rejection, botanical disaster. His chest felt hollow, gutted by shame. His eyes stung, unshed tears sizzling at the edges. He scrubbed them away with the back of his hand, but the sting clung to him like regret.

His bedroom didn't welcome him—it looked like the aftermath of a nervous breakdown. Clothes abandoned on the floor, energy drink cans stacked like tiny monuments to self-destruction, his phone screen cracked beyond usability, blinking faintly with existential mockery.

No messages. No notifications. Digital rejection to match the physical kind.

Ethan collapsed onto his bed, the mattress groaning under the weight of crushed dreams and teenage angst. For a moment, his world shrank to his pulse hammering behind his eyes.

Then — chime. Mechanical. Alien. Wrong.

He sat up, eyes scanning the room like he expected FBI agents to crash through the window. Instead, light bled into the air—faint, pixelated, glitching at the edges. A floating, transparent screen hovered over his desk like some smug digital ghost.

"System initialized," a voice announced, smooth as whiskey, sharp with condescension. "Harem Overlord System active."

His brain short-circuited. His jaw hinged open like a broken door. "What—?"

Data flickered across the screen, scrolling like his personal hell in spreadsheet form:

User: Ethan Reed

Attributes:

Confidence: F (Social Anxiety DLC Installed)

Charisma: F+ (Technically alive)

Strength: E– (Lifting emotional baggage still a challenge)

Intelligence: D– (Capable of basic sentences)

Luck: F+ (Genetic curse confirmed)

Points: 0

Credits: $0

His eyes trailed the stats like reading his own obituary.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Didn't know I could fail this hard without a legal intervention."

The system—completely unbothered, probably sipping cosmic coffee—continued: "Complete tasks. Earn points. Upgrade attributes. Optional: Become socially functional."

Tasks scrolled into view like a to-do list from the seventh circle of hell:

Compliment a stranger → 10 points

Survive public interaction → 15 points

Manage basic conversation → 20 points

Ethan gawked, the words slicing through the fragile remains of his sanity.

"Compliment… a stranger?" His laugh cracked sharp, brittle, walking the fine line between amusement and full mental collapse. "You're joking."

The pause that followed oozed judgment. Then, that smug digital voice again: "Task Assigned. Deadline: 24 hours. Reward: 10 points."

System Objective: Compliment a Stranger. Social Mortality Risk: High. Confidence Gain: Minimal, but visible.

Ethan ran both hands through his hair, fingers tangling in frustration, panic simmering under his skin. He glanced down—paper daisies crumpled on the floor like the remains of his pride.

The sting of rejection still buzzed in his veins. But buried deep under the wreckage? Something… stupid. Reckless. The faintest flicker of defiance.

He exhaled, slow and ragged, the embers of curiosity sparking to life.

His lips twitched into something half-smile, half-suicidal mischief.

"Harem Overlord, huh?" His voice rasped, raw with sarcasm, grit layered under the nerves. "Yeah… let's see how that goes."

System Update: Confidence +0.01 — Rock Bottom Officially Breached.