Chapter 8

• During what little time he was granted for a so-called lunch break—barely enough to catch a breath—Gala still managed to feel a sliver of gratitude. At least he had a moment to eat. And strangely, his stomach—so often clenched with hunger—wasn’t hurting as badly today.
• He wasn’t sure whether to feel thankful or concerned. Was this good luck?
• Or the opposite?
• Whatever it was, today felt like more than just another stroke of misfortune. If anything, it felt… surreal.
• Or maybe even—dare he say it—fortunate?
• Gala didn’t know what to call it. A miracle? A trap wrapped in kindness. All he knew was that earlier this morning, he’d found himself seated at his tiny table, digging into a feast fit for someone whose life didn’t involve scraping the bottom of the pot. Where all that food had come from, he had no idea.
• He’d figure it out later. None of the neighbors in his building were particularly nice—at best, they ignored him, at worst, they added to his daily string of bad luck.
• But then—
• Gala choked, hard.
• He’d just taken a bite of roast chicken—too fast, not even thinking—and nearly gagged on it. He reached for the glass pitcher on the table and guzzled the water down. Half the jar—a jar that had water in it for once. Usually, it was bone-dry.
• His eyes blinked rapidly. He rubbed them hard, terrified that what he was seeing wasn’t real.
• But it was.
• She was back.
• That strange girl from before—the one glowing in blue, the one who’d called herself Dice—was now sitting right across from him at the table.
• Smiling. Sort of.
• Her smile was stiff, robotic. Her movements were too calculated, too exact, like something out of a machine. Gala wasn’t sure she was human at all.
• “Did my cooking please you, Master?” she asked softly.
• Dear God. What fresh madness had found its way into his life this time?
• Gala jolted so hard, he shoved his chair back with a screech. The chicken in his hand went flying—he flung it straight at her in reflex. The piece bounced off her with a soft thud, falling to the floor.
• The loud scrape of wood against tile echoed through the cramped kitchen. His mind screamed knife. He needed to find a knife—now.
• Drawer? Top shelf? The fridge?
• He tore through every possible hiding place, his breaths ragged and quick. No knife. Nothing. Not even a butter spreader.
• “What are you looking for, Master?”
• Her voice was calm. Too calm.
• A chill crept over him.
• “Please, just go,” Gala begged. His voice cracked, body trembling. “Don’t… don’t bother me.”
• “Bother you?” she echoed. “Who’s bothering you, Master?”
• He didn’t move. Not an inch. Just pressed his back flat against the wall beside the fridge, hands shaking as sweat gathered on his brow.
• “D-Don’t come any closer,” he warned, his voice barely a whisper now. Tears were already stinging his eyes.
• And yet…
• The girl moved.
• She took a slow, deliberate step toward him, her gaze locked on him with no expression at all. A moment ago, she’d been smiling—or at least mimicking the motion—but now even that facade had faded.
• “Who’s bothering you, Master?” she asked again.
• “Go away!” he cried, his voice rising in panic.
• In his entire life, Gala had never experienced anything like this. Were this what people meant when they spoke of ghosts—vengeful spirits of women with unfinished business?
• But why him?
• He hadn’t passed any cemeteries lately, not that he remembered. No haunted buildings either.
• So why was he the target?
• Gala had nothing but bad luck.
• Dice tilted her head slightly, quiet and calculating. She no longer moved toward him. “How can I leave, Master, when I’ve waited for this day for over a decade?”
• “W-what do you mean?” Gala stammered.
• “Oh? So now you’re ready to talk?”
• Gala said nothing. He wasn’t sure he even could.
• “Master, if you’re able, please sit down and finish your breakfast. I’ll explain who I am.”
• “A ghost?” he blurted, still pressed against the wall.
• Dice’s brows furrowed even more. “A ghost? What’s a ghost?”
• “So you’re not one?”
• She shook her head stiffly. “I’m a technology created from the pinnacle of human intelligence. I follow no orders except those of the dice’s rightful owner.”
• Gala’s guard lowered just a little. “The owner of the dice? So… you belonged to someone before?”
• The holographic girl nodded quickly.
• “But—” Gala paused. His thoughts were starting to spiral again. None of this made sense. Honestly, if she’d just claimed to be a ghost, it might’ve been easier to swallow. But this? “That kind of thing… does it even exist in the real world?”
• “Would you sit, Master?”
• “But… you won’t hurt me, right?” he asked, still hesitant.
• Dice offered a small, robotic smile. “No. You are my master. Your words are law to me.”
• “Master?” Gala echoed, stunned.
• “Yes. You are my master—the one who touched the dice last night and freed me.”
• “This is insane,” he muttered under his breath. “This can’t be happening.”
• “Please,” she said calmly, “let’s talk.”
• With cautious, measured steps, Gala slowly dragged his chair back toward the table. This time, he moved quietly, careful not to make it screech across the floor. He stole glances at her as he sat, eyes scanning her from head to toe, trying to decide if he was hallucinating or staring at something real. She looked real. Tangible. But…
• “So… tell me who you really are.”
• Dice began to explain.
• She was born of technology that far surpassed anything currently known to mankind—an advanced intelligence with a purpose carefully designed by her creator. Her activation was conditional: she could only be awakened by someone with a specific bloodline. The dice—her vessel—had spent years searching, scanning every encounter, waiting for the rightful one.
• Only one person in the world could command her. Only one person could access her abilities.
• That person was the descendant of her creator: Xavier Horratio.
• Gala’s breath caught in his throat.
• “Xa-Xavier…?” he whispered, utterly stunned.
• "That’s correct, Master," Dice said softly. "Your father was my creator. He entrusted me with the task of finding his son in the Southern region. It took me over a decade to locate you."
• Gala scoffed—loudly. He even spat to the side in disgust. “I don’t have a father named Xavier.”
• “My memory system is fully intact and extremely accurate,” Dice replied. “You were born on February 2nd, 2100, with a birthmark at the base of your left hip. It’s black, though it may have faded with age. You were born in a time when your parents were still deeply in love. A happy family. Your mother, Bellamie Rosaline, was a kind-hearted, gentle woman. She loved you dearly.”