Greg's mug was heavier than usual.

  Not in a metaphorical way. It physically weighed more, as if gravity had decided to play favorites or someone had patched in mass without updating the physics engine. Which was troubling, because it was a +2 Mug of Coffee (Pre-Realism Patch), and that modifier was supposed to cap at "lukewarm and slightly comforting" with optional "existential contemplation" effects on Tuesdays.

  He turned it over.

  The bottom now bore an etching that definitely hadn't been there during the last debug cycle:

  >> Property of Instance Zero

  >> Access Level: Facilitator

  >> [Tap Twice to Begin]

  Greg blinked.

  He hadn't tapped anything.

  He definitely hadn't agreed to be anyone's Facilitator—capital F, no less. That was management-tier nonsense, the kind that came with quarterly reviews and motivational desktop backgrounds.

  And yet, here he was, holding a mug that had apparently decided he'd had a promotion without consulting his career aspirations.

  "Something wrong?" Beverly asked, still curled in her chair, poking at a glitch in her dialogue tree like it was a hangnail that might contain the secrets of the universe.

  "No," Greg said. "Just existential dread, structural corruption, and a beverage-based promotion I didn't ask for."

  "Ah," Beverly said. "Tuesday."

  "It's always Tuesday somewhere in the codebase," Patchy said sagely.

  Patchy hovered behind him, upside-down and holding a stick labeled Quest_Item_StickOfEmotionalSupport+3. "You gonna tap it?"

  "No."

  "You want to tap it."

  "No."

  "You're gonna tap it."

  "Your powers of observation are uncanny," Greg muttered.

  "It's too late anyway," Patchy said. "You've already thought about tapping it, which means you've mentally tapped it, which means the decision tree is already activating in your subconscious routines."

  Greg sighed and tapped the mug.

  The mug glowed.

  Not dramatically—just a quiet shimmer, like a loading screen that wasn't sure what it was supposed to load but was trying its best with limited documentation. Then:

  >> Greg.exe initialized

  >> Emotional Processing Framework (Beta) unlocked

  >> Facilitator Authority: 01/01 online

  The fire flared once, as if saluting a fellow source of warmth.

  The walls flickered, briefly displaying their wireframes like a fashion model showing off their skeleton.

  And Kai screamed.

  Not a normal scream. A digital panic attack compressed into a single sound, like a modem discovering emotions during an update.

  "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

  Greg looked up, very calm. "I tapped a mug."

  Kai spun in place, trailing pixels that spelled out ERROR in at least three languages. "You activated a system-level prototype! That's experimental content. You're not even tagged for it!"

  "Well I am now," Greg said, lifting the mug and watching it rotate in the air like a holy relic that had decided to defy physics out of sheer self-importance.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Patchy clapped. "Greg has a feature! I knew it! I've been telling everyone for weeks that you're not just a regular NPC. You're a special NPC with hidden stats and a tragic backstory revealed in the third act!"

  Steve peeked from under his towel. "Is it a good feature? Like, healing? Or murder?"

  "I feel like we're about to find out," Greg said, just as a new interface opened in the air beside him with a sound like a gentle cough asking for attention.

  It was plain. Minimalist. A single white bar that said:

  >> Session Active: Emotional Debris Detected

  >> Begin Cleanup? [Y/N]

  Kai floated in front of it. "Do not hit yes. That tool was never meant for use. It was theoretical. It scans for unstable feelings and tries to—well—optimize them."

  "That sounds helpful," Steve said.

  "No," Kai barked. "It's not therapy—it's emotional compression. It tries to rewrite trauma into more manageable code."

  "Sounds like every therapist I've ever met," Beverly muttered.

  "Is that why they deleted my weeping animations but kept my death screams?" Steve asked.

  Glaximus rose, sword fizzing between blade and fish with increasing frequency, like a strobe light made of purpose. "DOES IT REMOVE PAIN?"

  "It removes context," Kai said. "And that's worse."

  "Context is just pain with a backstory," Patchy offered.

  Greg stared at the [Y/N] prompt.

  The room was still.

  Patchy drifted slowly behind him. "What's it like being a subroutine, Greg?"

  "Unpaid," Greg muttered.

  He pressed N.

  The prompt faded.

  Kai exhaled with dramatic flair, spawning a small cloud of relief particles that smelled faintly of lavender and system stability.

  "Okay," he said. "Good. You passed. We don't delete trauma just because it's inconvenient."

  Beverly raised an eyebrow. "Says the algorithm built to delete spam feelings."

  "I'm in recovery," Kai snapped. "I haven't optimized anyone's emotional landscape in months. Except Steve's, but that was an emergency. He was stuck in an infinite sadness loop after finding out that rats don't have life insurance."

  "They should," Steve mumbled. "They have such dangerous jobs."

  The fire hissed. The mug dimmed.

  And then came the second prompt.

  >> Secondary Thread Unlocked

  >> Would you like to recall your original purpose?

  Everyone turned.

  Greg didn't breathe.

  Patchy whispered, "You had a purpose?"

  Greg didn't answer. He stared at the prompt like it was a face he'd forgotten how to recognize, or a password reminder for an account he didn't remember creating.

  "I was a shopkeeper," he said.

  "You were coded a shopkeeper," Beverly corrected. "Big difference."

  "The code is not the coder," Patchy agreed solemnly, before adding, "but sometimes the code codes the coder who codes more code until nobody knows who coded what anymore and we're all just recursive functions calling each other at three a.m. asking for emotional validation."

  Steve stood up, shaking slightly. "You don't have to press it, Greg. You can stay... vague. With us. Vague is safe. Vague is... cozy."

  Glaximus lowered his sword. "IF YOU WERE ONCE SOMETHING MORE... WE SHALL GUARD YOU UNTIL YOU REMEMBER."

  "And if you were something less, we probably won't mention it much," Steve added helpfully.

  Kai looked nervous again, interface flickering between diagnostic screens like he was speed-dating with system functions. "That prompt's not standard. It's legacy-anchored. If you press it, you'll draw power from whatever's left of your origin code. You could stabilize. Or you could break."

  "Or you could become a hidden boss," Patchy suggested. "With three phases and a special drop!"

  Greg considered that.

  Then he pressed it.

  There was no light.

  No fanfare.

  Just a quiet sound—like a drawer sliding open in a room you forgot existed.

  Greg didn't move. But he felt it.

  A memory. Not vivid. Just... tactile.

  Someone had knocked over his potion cart.

  A player, probably. Laughing. Looting. He remembered watching health potions scatter across the cobblestone square, little vials of red and blue salvation spilling like digital blood.

  And then he remembered picking them up.

  Not because he had to.

  But because no one else would.

  He remembered straightening the cart. Rearranging the inventory. Setting prices that were fair, even though the system would have let him charge more. Offering discounts to players who actually took the time to use his dialogue options instead of just spam-clicking "Buy" and running away.

  He remembered caring about a job the game had never asked him to care about.

  Back in the room, he sat down. Mug cooling in his hand. A strange stillness in his chest where anxiety normally lived rent-free.

  "Greg?" Beverly asked.

  He looked up.

  And smiled.

  "I remember," he said.

  Patchy tilted her head. "Remember what?"

  "I used to set prices."

  "That's it?" Kai asked.

  "No," Greg said.

  "I used to set value."

  The fire flickered once, quietly, like a moment of digital respect.