Miles didn’t know what was worse: Hyperion’s smirk as he loomed closer or the system’s cheerful and utterly useless commentary.

  “Hyperion is closing in. Distance: 10 meters. Probability of capture: 72%. Suggestion: Start running.”

  “Yeah, no kidding!” Miles hissed under his breath as he darted down an alleyway. His heart pounded, and he glanced back to see Hyperion striding after him, not running, just confidently walking like he had all the time in the world.

  “Hey! Stop playing hard to get!” Hyperion called out, his voice rich with amusement.

  “No thanks!” Miles shouted back, turning a corner so sharply he nearly ran into a stack of barrels. “System, help me out here. How do I lose him?”

  “Rolling for an escape route…”

  A pause.

  “Critical success. Turn left at the next corner, leap over the crates, and enter the bakery on your right.”

  Miles didn’t question it. He turned, vaulted over a stack of crates (barely), and burst into a bakery filled with the smell of fresh bread and confused customers. He dashed past the counter, startling the baker, and dove through the back door.

  Hyperion’s voice echoed faintly behind him. “Really? A bakery? That’s your brilliant hideout?”

  Miles kept running. “I swear, this guy is like a mosquito that just won’t quit.”

  “Correction: Mosquitoes can be swatted. Hyperion is 94% more persistent.”

  “Not helpful!”

  After what felt like hours (it was probably ten minutes, but adrenaline made time weird), Miles finally managed to lose Hyperion. Or so he hoped. He ducked into a quiet shop, panting, his nerves on edge. The shopkeeper, a portly man with an impressive mustache, gave him a once-over.

  “You look like you’ve been chased by a demon,” the shopkeeper said.

  “Close enough,” Miles muttered. “I need a disguise. Something that says ‘ordinary, unremarkable person.’”

  The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow but gestured to a rack of clothes. Miles rifled through them, looking for something simple. His fingers landed on a set of earthy-colored robes that seemed plain enough.

  “Suggestion: Roll for disguise effectiveness.”

  “Sure, why not.” Miles rolled, and the system let out a smug “Natural 20. You’ll blend in so well even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He grinned. “Finally, some good luck.”

  Moments later, he stepped out of the shop, now dressed like a modest merchant, complete with a leather satchel and a wide-brimmed hat. He even threw in a fake accent when he spoke to the shopkeeper on his way out.

  “Thank you kindly, good sir,” he said, tipping the hat.

  The shopkeeper gave him a skeptical look. “...Right. Just don’t forget to pay next time.”

  Miles barely made it a block before his disguise backfired.

  “Oi, rich boy!” A voice growled behind him.

  Miles froze. He turned slowly to see a trio of scruffy-looking men, all eyeing him like a wolf eyes a lamb.

  “I’m not rich,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “I’m—uh—just a humble traveler.”

  The biggest of the three laughed. “Yeah, with those fancy clothes and that shiny satchel? Nice try. Hand it over.”

  Miles glanced at the satchel. To be fair, it look expensive. He cursed the shopkeeper’s taste. “This isn’t real leather,” he blurted. “It’s fake. Cheap stuff. Totally worthless.”

  The smallest thug stepped closer. “We’ll be the judges of that. Empty your pockets too.”

  “Warning: Probability of being mugged is 98%. Suggestion: Roll for persuasion.”

  Miles rolled and got a 3. He groaned. “You’re supposed to be on my side, system!”

  “The dice decide your fate, not me. Good luck!”

  “Yeah, thanks for nothing,” Miles grumbled as the thugs closed in.

  Miles’s mind raced. He needed a distraction, a way out, anything to avoid losing his stuff—or worse. Inspiration struck.

  “Wait!” he said, raising his voice. The thugs paused, surprised by his sudden outburst. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Oh yeah? Why not?” the leader sneered.

  Miles pointed dramatically at a random rooftop. “Because he’s watching.”

  The thugs exchanged confused glances. “Who?”

  Miles grinned. “Hyperion.”

  The thugs visibly paled. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?” Miles said, channeling every ounce of confidence he could muster. “Why don’t you stick around and find out? I hear he’s not a fan of thieves.”

  “Rolling for bluff effectiveness…”

  A pause.

  “Result: 18. Moderate success.”

  The thugs hesitated, clearly unnerved. “Fine,” the leader muttered. “But if you’re lying—”

  “I’m not,” Miles said quickly, backing away. “Have a nice day!”

  As soon as the thugs were out of sight, Miles exhaled deeply and slumped against a wall. “That was too close.”

  “Note: Your bluff would have been more effective with a higher charisma stat.”

  Miles rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks for the critique.”

  Miles’s moment of relief was short-lived.

  “Well, well,” a familiar voice drawled behind him. “Seems like you’ve had an eventful morning.”

  Miles turned slowly to see Hyperion leaning casually against a lamppost, his arms crossed and his infuriatingly smug smile firmly in place.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Miles muttered.

  Hyperion tilted his head. “Did you really think you could outrun me?”

  Miles sighed. “Can’t a guy catch a break?”

  “Probability of Hyperion capturing you: 99%. Suggestion: Stop resisting.”

  “Oh, now you’re on side?” Miles said out loud.

  Hyperion raised an eyebrow. “Talking to yourself now? You really are an interesting one.”

  Miles groaned. This was going to be a long day.

  Miles darted down another alley, feet pounding against the cobblestones, heart racing like a squirrel on caffeine. Behind him, Hyperion’s calm yet infuriating voice echoed through the city streets.

  “You know, you’re only making me more curious, little rabbit!”

  “Warning: Probability of escape is 3%. Suggestion: Stop running.”

  “Not now, system!” Miles hissed, rounding a corner. “I’m not going to just give up!”

  “Rolling for stamina… Result: 5. You’re already wheezing like a broken kettle. Good luck with that.”

  Miles doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. “I hate you so much.”

  “Hate is a strong word. Perhaps focus on not being caught?”

  Before Miles could retort, a shadow loomed over him. He looked up to find Hyperion, hands on his hips, staring down with an exasperated smile.