My Romance Life System-Chapter 79: Call for help

So there he was, a freshly diagnosed weakling with a new questline.

’Work out. My training arc begins.’

A slow, determined grin spread across his face, the kind of look that usually precedes a montage of push-ups and jogging set to an inspiring J-rock theme.

His feet knew the way home, the short, direct route of a boy who just wanted to get back to his cave. But his brain? His brain made a different call, a detour down streets he had no business being on.

’Just... a quick look. To make sure.’

To make sure of what, exactly? That the house was still standing? That it hadn’t been swallowed by a sinkhole of pure misery?

He turned the corner, and there it was. Thea’s street. A quiet, forgotten little artery of the city where the houses looked tired and the lawns had given up trying. He walked slowly, his eyes scanning for that specific shade of peeling blue paint.

The house was just as he remembered. A sad, blue box with paint flaking off like sunburned skin. The fence, still broken. The windows, still blind with grime. It was a monument to neglect.

But something was different.

The front door. It was ajar.

Just a sliver of darkness in the afternoon sun. An invitation. Or a warning.

Kofi stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, his blood running cold.

’No. Not my business. Just walk away.’

This was the old Kofi talking, the one whose survival strategy was ’non-existence.’ (A truly pathetic strategy, but effective in its own way.)

’But what if she’s hurt? What if that aunt...?’

The image of Thea carrying that single loaf of bread flashed in his mind. The thought of her being in that house, alone and in trouble... it was a weight he couldn’t just walk away from. Not anymore.

And just like that, the battle was over. The new Kofi, the one who gets involved, the one who has a ’pillar,’ won the argument.

He crossed the street.

’Man, this place...’

He finally reached the crooked front step, his shoes making a crunching sound on some dead leaves. The whole place was dead quiet. He put a hand on the railing to steady himself, and a chunk of rotted wood just fell off.

’So the whole house is a death trap. Noted.’

He got to the door. It was hanging open just enough to see a black slit of a hallway inside. No TV, no music, no crying. Nothing.

And then the smell hit him.

It was bad. No, bad doesn’t cover it. It was the kind of smell that physically punches you in the face. It was old garbage mixed with something wet and moldy, like a basement that had lost a fight with a flood. Underneath it all was this faint, sweetish rot that made his stomach try to climb up his throat.

(Honestly, you’d think a smell that bad would have to pay rent.)

He gagged, his hand slapping over his nose and mouth. His eyes started to water. This was a full-on chemical assault, a biological warning sign that screamed ’GET OUT, YOU IDIOT.’

He took a shallow breath through his mouth, tasting the air instead of smelling it. It was worse. It was so much worse. His hand, shaking just a little, reached out and pushed the door.

It swung inward without a sound, the hinges too rusted and tired to even squeak. It was dark inside. The afternoon sun just stopped at the doorway, like it was too scared to go in.

"Hello?" He called out, his voice sounding thin and stupid in the silence. "Thea? Are you in here?"

No answer.

He took one step inside, then another, his eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom. The floor was sticky under his shoes. He could make out shapes now—piles of something against the walls. Old newspapers? Clothes? It was impossible to tell in the dim light. The living room was just off the hallway, and what he saw there made him freeze.

The room was a disaster zone. A sea of trash. Fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, and overflowing plastic bags covered every surface. In the center of the chaos, a small, ancient-looking TV was perched on a stained coffee table.

"Thea? It’s Kofi. From school."

Silence answered him, the house just sitting there, marinating in its own filth. This wasn’t just messy. This was a level of decay you usually only see in post-apocalyptic video games. (Honestly, you’d probably find better loot in a Fallout bunker.)

Another hesitant step forward brought him face to face with the living room. Pizza boxes formed a greasy mountain range against one wall. A whole colony of empty soda bottles had taken over the corner. The air itself felt sticky, a physical presence of neglect.

’How could any adult allow this? This isn’t a home. It’s a tomb.’

Past the living room, the kitchen beckoned. It was a tactical error, really. A rookie mistake to go looking for more horror when you’re already standing in it.

And it was worse. Oh, it was so much worse.

In the sink, a single, crusty plate floated in a pool of brown, stagnant water. You couldn’t even see the counters under a blanket of old mail and more fast food bags. Driven by some desperate, foolish act of hope, he pulled open the fridge door.

Nothing. A hollow, empty box. Except for a single, half-empty bottle of ketchup.

That was the final straw. The disgust in his gut curdled into a cold, hard knot of rage. This wasn’t laziness. This was a fourteen-year-old girl who had been completely and utterly abandoned. Her aunt, that ghost who sends a check once a month for "groceries." This is what it bought. This was the life she was given.

’That bitch.’

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

He froze, every muscle in his body seizing. The sound was faint, barely there, but in the dead silence of the house, it was like a gunshot.

’Someone’s here.’

His heart started pounding. Was it her? Hiding? Or was it someone else? The thought sent a jolt of pure, undiluted fear through him.

"Thea?" he whispered, his voice cracking.

’What the hell was that? Is she here? Is it that aunt? Or is it someone else entirely?’

Honestly, this kid. One minute he’s avoiding eye contact in the school hallway, the next he’s storming a biohazard zone like he’s the main character.

He had to move. Standing here was not a strategy. It was an invitation for whatever horror was lurking upstairs to come down and say hello.

"Thea?"

His own voice sounded weak, swallowed by the quiet of the house. He started for the stairs, his feet sticking to the grimy floor with each step.

’This is a terrible idea. The absolute worst idea. I should just call the cops. That’s what a normal person would do.’

But he wasn’t a normal person anymore, was he? He was a guy with a system of all things.

He placed a hand on the banister, and a film of something slick and greasy coated his palm. He recoiled, wiping his hand on his pants with a shudder of disgust.

’Everything in this house is so disgusting.’

Taking a breath that tasted like old garbage and regret, he started to climb. Each step groaned under his weight, the wood so old and tired it seemed to be begging him to turn back.

"Thea? It’s Kofi. Are you okay up there?"

Still nothing. Just the sound of his own ragged breathing and the thumping of his heart. He reached the top of the stairs and was greeted by a hallway that was, impossibly, even worse than the downstairs. Here, the piles of trash were more personal. Schoolbags, old clothes, a single, sad-looking shoe.

One door at the end of the hall was open. Just a crack.

’In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.’

He walked toward it, his steps slow, cautious. He was no hero, no knight in shining armor. He was just a terrified kid who had made a series of increasingly poor life choices.

He pushed the door open.

And that was it. The world just... stopped.

Thea was on the floor, curled on her side, a small, broken shape on a stained and threadbare rug. Her breathing was a harsh, ragged sound, each gasp a desperate, painful effort. Her face was slick with sweat, her eyes closed, her body completely still except for the frantic rise and fall of her chest.

The narrator’s usual snark just died in his throat. There was nothing funny about this. Nothing to comment on. This wasn’t a scene in a story anymore.

This was real.

Kofi was across the room in a second, his own pain forgotten. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hand hovering over her shoulder, afraid to touch her, afraid to make it worse.

"Thea? Thea, can you hear me?"

She didn’t respond. Her breath hitched, a wet, rattling sound that sent a fresh wave of ice-cold fear through him.

’What do I do? What the hell do I do?’

His brain was a mess of panicked, useless thoughts. He had to check if she was breathing. She was, but it sounded wrong. It sounded like she was drowning.

His eyes scanned the room, desperately looking for a clue, for an answer. The room was sparse, just a mattress on the floor and a small, rickety desk. On the desk, next to a half-finished drawing of a bird, was an empty blister pack of pills and an overturned glass of water.

’Oh, god. No.’

He didn’t know what the pills were. He didn’t care. He just saw the empty packet, the girl on the floor, and the equation just solved itself in the most horrific way possible.

He grabbed his phone, his fingers so numb and clumsy he almost dropped it. His thumb jabbed at the screen, his mind screaming a single, repeating command.

Call for help. Call for help now.

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