Leo Vanderburg's apartment was less a living space and more a sanctuary for books and electronic junk. The air was thick with the mixed scent of coffee stains and unwashed laundry. The only light came from the glow of a monitor, illuminating a face that should have been young but was etched with exhaustion. On the other end of the phone, a sharp voice grated on his eardrum like a saw: "...Sir, your router's firmware is too old. It's causing network instability. We recommend you upgrade immediately..."
Leo took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to smash the cheap keyboard at his side. "I understand, but my router model is discontinued. The replacements I can find..." His voice was drained of moisture, dry and feeble. He knew his life was like this obsolete router, stuck on an outdated technological node, unable to get a smooth connection no matter how hard he tried.
Just then, an email popped into his inbox with the subject: [A Decade's Promise: Return to Our Alma Mater, Rekindle Your Youth!]. A ten-year high school reunion. Leo's fingertips hovered over the mouse, a mixture of nostalgia and dread churning within him. The familiar, warmly smiling face of Clara Reddington flashed in his mind. She, the girl who had been like sunshine in his world back in high school, must be an important figure at Reddington Publishing by now, right? And him? Still trapped in this digital labyrinth called "IT Support," his only literary achievement an unfinished novel he didn't dare show anyone. A sharp pang of an indescribable inferiority complex washed over him like a tide. He almost ignored the email, but Clara's name was an anchor, holding him fast. As if possessed, he clicked it open, staring at the familiar yet strange names and their glittering titles—investment banker, startup CEO, even a minor film producer. He silently closed the email, burying himself deeper.
The reunion was at a high-end rooftop bar in SoHo called "Stardust." Standing at the entrance, Leo felt like a country bumpkin who had stumbled into a fairy tale. The air was filled with the scent of expensive perfume and champagne, and the flashing lights outlined the confident, detached smiles on people's faces. He wore a faded jacket, feeling as if he reeked of an out-of-place "cheapness." He nervously clenched his fists, trying to psych himself up.
"Leo? Is that really you?" a clear voice sounded behind him.
He spun around, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. It was Clara. She wore a well-tailored blue dress, elegant and poised. Her face held the same familiar, warm smile, but her eyes held a new maturity and... a hint of imperceptible weariness.
"Clara," Leo's voice was a bit hoarse. He forced a smile. "Long time no see."
"Yes, ten years," Clara stepped forward and naturally took his arm. "I almost didn't recognize you. You still look... so scholarly."
The subtext of conflict played out quietly in that moment. Clara's words seemed like a compliment, but they actually highlighted the gap between them—she had entered the ranks of the "successful" social elite, while he remained the "scholarly" writer with an uncertain future. Leo keenly sensed this but couldn't refute it, allowing the feeling of inferiority to spread through him.
"What about you? How's Reddington Publishing?" Leo tried to shift the topic to her, a subtle note of concern in his voice.
"Well... it's getting by," Clara's smile stiffened for a moment before quickly returning. "You know, the publishing industry is tough these days, especially in this era of 'information explosion.' We're trying to transform." As she spoke, her gaze drifted unconsciously to the other end of the bar, where a louder burst of laughter erupted.
Just then, a figure cut through the crowd, approaching them with the elegant aggression of a cheetah. He wore an expensive custom suit and a gold chain that glittered ostentatiously around his neck. It was Julian Croft. Leo remembered him—a bully in high school who used his family's wealth to pick on the weak. Now, he was the Vice President of "New Era Technologies," a guy who ran roughshod over the tech world on his father's coattails.
"Well, well, if it isn't our great writer, Leo?" A mocking smile played on Julian's lips as he glanced around, seemingly basking in the attention. "What? Finally decided to come down from your ivory tower? Oh, wait, you're with Clara. Clara, are you hanging out with... 'alternative' types like this now?"
Julian's tone was dripping with contempt, making no effort to hide his disdain for Leo. A fire of rage ignited within Leo, but he knew he couldn't throw a punch like he might have in high school, not here. He just squeezed Clara's hand tighter.
"Julian, we just ran into each other," Clara tried to defuse the tension, but her voice was tinged with a subtle nervousness.
Julian's eyes darted between Leo and Clara, flashing with possessiveness and undisguised hostility. "Ran into each other? Come on, Clara, you should know what's truly valuable, right? Don't forget, I just closed a seven-figure deal I can't even be bothered to mention. To celebrate, I bought a penthouse on a whim. The view of the park is to die for."
His words shot out like a machine gun, each one dripping with boastfulness. Leo felt a sudden wave of dizziness, as if something deep inside his mind had been violently triggered.
"Ding! Hello, Host. This is the Echo System. Binding is complete. Bragging directed at Host has been detected. Initiating automatic return. Return rate: 100%!"
His phone suddenly vibrated faintly, a tiny electric current shooting through him. He subconsciously pulled it out. On the screen was an email from the "Manhattan Properties Group," with the subject: "Congratulations on Becoming the New Owner of the [Central Park View Penthouse]!" The email contained an electronic deed and key information for the apartment, the address matching the one Julian had just described. Leo thought it was some kind of hyper-realistic phishing scam. A chill ran down his spine, yet he clutched the phone tightly, his fingertips cold, as if compelled by an unseen force.
"System?" Leo thought to himself.
Julian, oblivious to Leo's state, continued bragging to the people around them. "Honestly, the penthouse was just an impulse buy. After all, my McLaren Speedtail is being delivered tonight. You know, they only made 106 of them, but mine has some... personal customizations."
"Personal customizations?" Leo asked, again as if possessed, his voice carrying a tone he himself didn't understand.
"Ding! Bragging directed at Host has been detected. Initiating automatic return. Return rate: 100%! Returning one personally customized McLaren Speedtail!"
Julian shot him a disdainful look. "Of course. I ordered a custom interior and... well, some special engine tuning. After all, I'm not the kind of guy who drives a 'mass-produced' car."
Leo suddenly felt something cold and solid in his pocket. Panicked, he reached in and pulled out a sleek, modern car key bearing the McLaren logo. The cold metal sent a shiver through him. "Pfft..." Leo spat out a mouthful of his drink. What... what was happening? A profound sense of unease washed over him, not from his anger at Julian, but from a suspicion of reality itself, a fear for his own existence. He stared at the key in his hand, then at Julian's smug face, as if witnessing an absurd and terrifying cycle playing out with him at the center.
"I... I'm not feeling well. I'm going to the restroom," Leo managed to stammer out. Before Clara could reply, he fled towards the bathroom.