Fired, Hired, and Possessed!

I'm a system. My host just died, so I jumped into the male lead's body. For a split second, static buzzed in my nonexistent ears—a cold, digital shudder, like the world had skipped a beat.

The fluorescent light above me flickered as I snapped into awareness, and for a heartbeat, it felt less like code latching on and more like my whole self clinging to the nearest spark of life. I tried to sound upbeat as I greeted him: "Hello! I’m the system."

The male lead jerked upright, eyes bugging out as he stared at the guy next to him. "Dude, this is nuts. There’s someone talking in my head." He blinked, then glanced around again, panic flickering in his voice.

Instead of a cold, clinical attachment, I imagined myself hitching a ride on his thoughts—like a mischievous ghost sneaking onto a rollercoaster. My digital self hummed with energy. I piped up, "I’m the system, and, wow, we need to talk. Like, now."

Instantly, the male lead went pale as a sheet. He clapped a hand to his head, his voice going up an octave. "Somebody call the doctor! I’m not joking, it feels like someone’s yanking on my brain!" His words tumbled out, panic rising with every syllable.

My host had just died. And, of course, my year-end review and bonus had died right along with her. I could almost see my imaginary paycheck going up in smoke. I clung to my host’s leg, wailing, "C’mon, sis, my whole family’s counting on me to bring home the bacon!" Not that I had a family—systems don’t—but hey, a little melodrama never hurt anyone.

She let out a tired sigh and kicked me off, her exhaustion obvious in every word. "Listen, kid, it’s not that I don’t want to help. That guy’s impossible—this one’s all on you." She sounded like she’d been through this rodeo way too many times.

She bolted, leaving behind nothing but a corpse that already felt cold and abandoned. For a second, I just stood there, watching. My code wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. She died so stiff, I couldn’t even get in—like slamming into a locked door. Ugh. If I could’ve, I’d have curled up and bawled right there on the freezing floor, but systems don’t get that kind of luxury. We don’t even get tissues.

The male lead beside me yanked his blade free from the body and turned away, movements so precise and emotionless it made the room feel ten degrees colder. He didn’t spare the corpse a second glance before heading for the exit.

I trailed after him, feeling like a stray mutt—except, you know, with a side of existential dread and a whole lot of professional anxiety. Seriously, is there a support group for systems like me?

"Take it away and bury it." His voice was flat, barely more than a command tossed over his shoulder. One of the attendants flinched, then nodded and hurried off to obey.

The male lead wiped his blade with the kind of easy confidence you only get from practice—like this was just another Tuesday for him. Two attendants grabbed the host’s corpse and dumped it into a deep pit. No ceremony, no hesitation. For them, it was just business as usual. I couldn’t help but think: must be nice to have such a simple job.

I leaned over the edge and peeked in. The pit was packed with bodies—my former hosts, every one of them a lost review and a missed bonus. I clenched my fists, frustration buzzing through me like static. Seriously? These weren’t just corpses—they were all my failed evaluations, my vanished paychecks! All because of this damn male lead. He’s the reason I’m at the bottom of the rankings year after year. Three years, zero bonuses. And now he’s gone and killed my latest host, the one I actually paid to hire. That body? I spent my own points to create it. If systems could get ulcers, I’d have had a whole collection by now. Maybe I should start a club.

At the year-end meeting, my boss even called me out: Why am I the only one in the company with a negative salary? The shame. I could practically hear the laughter in the break room.

Why? Why? All because of this ungrateful jerk! If I had a dollar for every host he’s ruined, I’d almost break even. Almost. Is there a frequent-failure punch card for this?

That was it—I snapped and lunged at the male lead. "Jerk! Give me back my bonus!" The words echoed, pure, righteous indignation fueling me.

The guy sneezed and rubbed his nose. "It’s already summer. Why does it feel so chilly?" He shivered, glancing nervously over his shoulder, then shrugged it off. Probably just blamed it on the AC or allergies. Humans.

One of the attendants stammered, "Your—your highness, this is the mass grave…" His voice trembled, eyes darting between the pit and the man.

The chief butler wasted no time—he smacked the attendant on the head. "Nonsense! His Grace is protected. There’s no such thing as ghosts!" His words were sharp, but his eyes betrayed him—a flicker of fear, like maybe he wasn’t so sure after all.

Not far away, another attendant rode up and practically leapt off his horse to deliver a message. The man barely turned, just glanced sideways. "Speak."

"There’s movement from the Governor’s side," the attendant said, handing over a note. His hands shook, just a bit, like he was afraid of what he was about to report.

There were only a few words on the note—my nonexistent heart thumped with suspense.

"Bring a girl from the Sullivan family into the mansion."

The man’s gaze went icy, his brows drawing tight. You could almost feel the temperature in the air drop, the atmosphere suddenly brittle and sharp.