Chapter 1

The words flashed in my vision, stark white against the sterile green of the emergency room waiting area.

System Prompt: Parental Test #99 initiated. Objective: Observe Subject Ethan's response to resource denial under extreme duress. Sub-objective: Reinforce Subject Ashton's narrative dominance.

I knew what it meant, I'd seen these prompts for years, ever since Ashton, my parents' perfect adopted son, had arrived.

They confirmed what I already felt deep in my bones: Leo, my little brother, and I were just side characters, obstacles in Ashton's golden-boy story.

This time, the "test" was my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, refusing to pay for Leo's emergency treatment.

He'd had a severe asthma attack, a bad one.

Ashton knew Leo was allergic to peanuts; he'd been there when Leo ate that cookie Ashton offered, the one Ashton swore was "safe."

The prompt confirmed it, "Allergen exposure by Subject Ashton: successful. Test parameters met."

Now, Leo was dead.

The doctor, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, had told me a few minutes ago, her voice soft.

"I'm so sorry, there was nothing more we could do by the time he got here."

Lack of timely, adequate treatment, the prompts had called it a "calculated risk assessment" by my parents.

My phone buzzed, a message from a community forum admin.

"Your post seeking funds for cremation has been flagged and removed due to a complaint regarding potential fraud. Account access temporarily suspended."

I'd only asked for enough for a simple cremation, just to give Leo some dignity.

The System Prompts flickered again.

System Prompt: Parental counter-measure successful. Subject Ethan's external support lines severed. Narrative control maintained by Subjects Harrison and Ashton.

Of course, Ashton would have told them.

My small savings account, money from a part-time job at a diner, was probably frozen too.

I felt a familiar hollowness spread through me, the one that came after years of these "tests," these confirmations that I was just a pawn.

Leo was the real victim, always frail, always in the path of their character-building exercises.

Now he was gone, and I was alone with the damn prompts.