Dazzling Starlight Sleepless

So that was it.

My mother was Oliver’s cherished memory, while Dennis’s mother remained the forsaken regret he could never release.

He wasn’t a saint—he was a vengeful demon.

Every kindness he’d shown me was just poison wrapped in honey.

A deep chill settled into my bones, turning my hands and feet to ice.

*Knock, knock.*

A familiar, gentle voice came from the other side of the door, one that now sent shivers down my spine. “Bruce, are you awake? Come down for breakfast.”

I nearly stumbled in my rush to answer it.

Outside stood Dennis in a sharply tailored gray suit, his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses as deep as the sea, a faint smile resting on his lips.

Seeing me disheveled—clothes rumpled, hair a mess—he reached out naturally to straighten my collar.

I flinched back.

His hand froze mid-air, a flicker of coldness passing behind his lenses.

**[Target: Dennis. Favorability -1.]**

**[Current Favorability: -100.]**

**[Emotional Analysis: Extreme Disgust.]**

That glaring “-100” flashed before my eyes. An invisible fist closed around my heart, squeezing until I could barely breathe.

He withdrew his hand, his smile unchanged, his tone still gentle. “What’s wrong? Didn’t sleep well?”

My mouth opened, but my throat was too dry for sound. All I could do was shake my head frantically.

“Hurry and get ready. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He spoke with casual ease, then turned and descended the stairs.

Leaning against the doorframe, I felt my back soaked with cold sweat.

I finally understood: this house I’d lived in for eight years wasn’t a warm harbor. It was a gilded cage, meticulously crafted just for me.

And Dennis was the elegant butcher holding the key.

Armed with the truth, every move I made became cautious.

I no longer dared to act out recklessly. Instead, I started trying to please him.

When he returned from long meetings, I’d greet him at the door with his slippers.

Knowing his stomach was sensitive, I learned to make nourishing soups.

I even picked up the financial magazines he read, though the complex graphs and jargon made my head spin.

I thought that if I became obedient and sensible—if I stopped being a hopeless mess—he might… just might… change his opinion of me.

But reality slapped me hard.

When I handed him his slippers, he’d smile and take them, only to set them aside and pull another pair from the closet.

The soup I made? He’d take a small sip in front of me, praise me with a “Our Bruce is growing up,” and pour the rest down the drain the moment I turned away.

**[Target: Dennis. Favorability -1.]**

**[Current Favorability: -101.]**

**[Emotional Analysis: Extreme Disgust.]**

Staring at that brutal number, despair washed over me like a tidal wave.

Why?

Why did my efforts only deepen his disgust?

**[Because in Dennis’s plan, the host should remain a complete and utter waste.]**

The system’s voice was merciless. **[Any sign of you “improving” deviates from his control. It irritates him. It makes him wary.]**

I understood.

In his eyes, I didn’t even have the right to become better.

I had to live—and die—as the “waste” he’d designed, until he had drained me of my last shred of value, and only then would I be disposed of.

I gave up completely, reverting to the lawless young master I used to be.

I started spending more lavishly than ever, dropping a million in a single night at the clubs.

I gathered my old “friends” for a wild pool party at the mansion, turning the place upside down.

Dennis didn’t stop me. He just stood in the wreckage of the living room after the party, watching me with a calm, unreadable gaze.

His stare unnerved me. I puffed out my chest, defiant. “What are you looking at? Spent your money, so you’re upset?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked over, reached out, and wiped a smudge of cream from the corner of my mouth.

His fingertips were cold. The touch was fleeting, but it raised goosebumps all over my skin.