The workday dragged on endlessly; it felt as if an entire hour had passed, though at most it had been about half an hour. And to make matters worse, they piled even more work on top of that, which kept him there an extra hour. Every letter, every package required concentration, but Inesto's thoughts kept returning to the floating rectangle. He tried not to look at it, pretending the panel didn't exist—and to some extent it helped, just as it had many times before.
By the end of his shift, he was tired not so much physically as from internal tension. Margaret was saying something about tomorrow's shift, about the new courier, but he nodded mechanically as he gathered his things.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked as he put on his coat. "You look like you've been sorting mail all night, and even then you'd look more lively."
"Sophie's leaving soon. Tomorrow's her last day," he repeated his usual excuse. "I'm nervous."
She gave a knowing chuckle, and Inesto finally stepped outside.
The fresh evening air helped clear his head a little. He didn't take the bus but walked instead—an extra twenty minutes to gather his thoughts. Inesto walked along the wet streets, his hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, and for the umpteenth time caught himself glancing involuntarily to the side.
The blue panel was still hanging nearby.
[Waiting for the streamer's user. To activate, say "Accepted."]
He ran his hand wearily across his face.
"God…" he muttered under his breath. "It could at least flash once in a while for a change."
The panel, of course, didn't react at all. Which only gave him more motivation to get rid of it, once and for all. All the way home, he tried to come up with at least some reasonable way to check what was going on. There weren't many options, and they all seemed equally idiotic. See a doctor? Already had. Get my eyes checked? Already did. Ignore it? Tried that. Get drunk? Didn't help either. Take medication? A waste of money.
Once he even took a picture of that damn window with his phone, and what was the result? A blank screen.
Besides, the main question remained. Why a streamer, of all things? The word itself annoyed him.
Streamers, bloggers, influencers—it all sounded like professions humanity had invented out of boredom. But that wasn't the problem right now. The problem lay elsewhere. Why did people in all these stories agree so easily? If you think about it logically—it's a trap, pure and simple. An unfamiliar system, of unknown origin, with strange abilities, granting the right (read: demanding) to accept the terms.
And every other character in these stories said without hesitation:
"Yes."
As if it were normal.
"Idiocy," he muttered to himself. "Even an invitation to a cult would be more appealing."
***
Iniesta stopped at his building's entrance, shaking water off his collar. The same thought kept spinning in his head: if he didn't understand something, he needed to ask someone who knew what they were talking about.
Ask Sophie.
But how? He couldn't just come out and say, "Daughter, I'm hallucinating a streamer system— what should I do?" — that would be the height of stupidity. She'd immediately book him an appointment with a psychiatrist, and he'd already been there three times. Or worse — she'd believe he'd finally lost his mind. She had enough to worry about before her trip as it was.
So he had to do things differently.
He climbed the stairs and unlocked the door. The hallway smelled of orange air freshener and, oddly enough, grilled cheese. Sophie had clearly gotten hungry and made herself a sandwich.
"Welcome back!" came a voice from the kitchen. "Take off your coat; I'll pour you some tea."
He took off his shoes, hung his coat on a hanger, and went into the bathroom—he quickly splashed water on his face and dried his hands. A familiar face with damp, graying hair flashed in the mirror. And slightly to the side—a blue rectangle.
"Go to hell," he said to it without malice before stepping out the door.
Iniesta went into the kitchen. Sophie was already sitting at the table, clutching a large mug of tea with both hands; in front of her lay a laptop on which she was watching a video on YouTube; next to it stood a plate with the remains of a sandwich, and a little further away, a mug of tea. She herself looked a little livelier than she had that morning, still wearing the same T-shirt with the Asian character, but now with a more thoughtful expression on her face and her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"You're late today," she said as soon as he sat down and took a sip from the mug. "An hour late."
"Reports." He set the mug down heavily. "Bureaucracy is immortal."
Sophie gave a knowing chuckle. For a few seconds, the only sounds were those coming from the laptop. Iniesto tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table, pondering how to broach the subject of those streamers.
"Sophie… I wanted to ask. About those fanfics…"
His daughter, methodically, as if a robot: first she closed her laptop, turned to face him, hands under her chin, and a raised eyebrow. She was young—what could you expect?
"Decided to join our ranks?" she asked.
"Good Lord, no. I just got curious. The other day, during breaks, I browsed some websites and took a quick peek at those fanfics... And let me say right away, I still don't like them."
He paused, searching for the right words.
"And then — who benefits from giving away this system? What power or being hands out such abilities for free? It's like if a stranger on the street walked up and said, 'Take this gun, it'll make you the strongest kid on the block, just say "yes."' No one in their right mind would agree. But in stories — just like that, and it's done.
"So what's the problem?"
"As a former literature teacher, I'm interested in this thing people call 'the System.'" — Iniesto tried to give his face an expression of idle curiosity. — The system itself is geared toward the development of the bearer; that's understandable and found in practically every... — the words wouldn't come out of his mouth to call "these works" — a work of art; his inner critic wouldn't allow it. — ...piece of writing.
Sophie snorted, tilting her head slightly toward her shoulder.
"Professional deformation? Dad, you haven't taught in five years."
"Old habits," he grumbled. "Don't ask me why I still remember how students sabotage classes. Ask me instead why the authors of these…" he faltered, "why they so thoughtlessly cram the 'system' into the plot."
"Because fanfiction and the 'scribblings' they like aren't about realism," Sophie replied calmly, crossing her legs. "It's more like… a tool? A way to escape into escapism."
"That sounds kind of alarming."
"Come on." She waved her hand. "People just like the idea. When life becomes something like a game. Plus, the system is very logical… well, if the author puts in the effort, it's a familiar and understandable mechanic. And something like a framework for the narrative."
Inesto frowned.
"Explain."
"Well, look. Usually, to show that the hero has gotten stronger, you have to figure out how to present it properly. And the system makes it… way easier. Like: complete a quest — get a reward. Got stronger — here are the updated stats. Everything's clear and convenient."
"It's a lazy approach, to be honest, not to mention taking a finished work by other authors and their characters. If you want to show his growth, it's enough to show him fighting the one he lost to in the last battle, to show or write how he uses new techniques and skills, or to show how his character has changed. Not to reduce everything to numbers. Of course it's interesting, but you shouldn't focus on them."
Sophie wasn't offended. She just smiled that special smile young people have — indulgent and warm at the same time, the kind you give to older relatives when they start grumbling about cell phones.
"Dad, you're right. From a literary point of view—yes, it's often a sign of laziness or a lack of experience. But you're missing one important thing."
"What is it?"
"Readers like it." She spread her hands. "You see, not everyone wants to analyze subtext or track a character's evolution through subtle actions. Sometimes you just want to… see the hero grow stronger. The numbers go up — that means the hero is getting stronger." Complete the mission — get the reward, and all the readers care about is what he gets. It's like in video games: no one there complains that the character's level goes up too abstractly.
"Video games are games," Inesto objected. "And stories… are stories. There's no need to mix the two."
"Why can't it be both?" Sophie leaned forward. "Why can't a story be like a game? It's just a form. Like genres: detective, horror, romance. There is such a genre — LitRPG. And the system in it isn't meant to replace normal character development. It's meant to add a game element to the narrative. And people respond to that. These stories have a large audience.
Iniesta fell silent, mulling over her words.
"Okay," he said finally. "Let's say the system is a game element. But then there's another question. Where does it even come from in the plot? And most importantly—who benefits from giving it to the hero? After all, someone created this system, even if it's just within the framework of fiction."
"Well, that depends on the author," Sophie shrugged. "Some don't even bother. They just write: 'Congratulations! The system is activated!' — and that's it. Some invent gods, ancient mages, maybe the AI of the future, and other things. And some rarely create a system that actually works against the hero.
"And the hero doesn't ask himself: Am I being tricked? Am I being used? Who gave me this system?"
"Dad," Sophie chuckled, "you sound like a conspiracy theorist right now." She leaned back in her chair. "In ninety-nine percent of fanfics, the system is just a tool. Most of the time, it has no will of its own, which means it can't deceive or exploit the hero in any way. Even if the system has a consciousness, it always helps the hero. It works like… well, like a refrigerator or a microwave. You turn it on—it works. A toaster doesn't try to hurt you when it toasts bread, does it?
"A toaster doesn't give me superpowers," Inesto remarked dryly. "And if you're not careful, you can get burned."
"And a toaster doesn't lead you into deliberately dangerous adventures," Sophie countered. "Okay, I get where you're going with this. You want to know if there's any meaning to the system's appearance in these stories, other than 'the author wanted it that way'?"
"Sort of."
"There is, but rarely. Most often, the system is included simply because it's a distinct genre that attracts readers." People see "System, LitRPG, Isekai"— and immediately know what to expect. It's like… well, like a store sign. You walk in already knowing what's coming. And nobody cares where the sign came from or who put it up."
Inesto tapped his finger on the table.
"So, no hidden malicious intent? No one is behind the system trying to manipulate the protagonist?"
"Ninety - nine percent of the time—no," Sophie confirmed. "One percent of the time—it happens. But then that's a separate plot twist. But that's, you know, more of an exception. Most readers want simple adventures with a cool main character."
"I see," Inesto said slowly. "So, is the principle the same for all systems? Well… growth, levels, quests, and rewards?"
"Generally speaking, yes." Sophie nodded. "But they all look different. Some add shops, some add the ability to evolve, and some add the ability to upgrade the base. It all depends on the author's imagination."
"What about streamers?" Iniesto asked cautiously. "Is that a separate type of system?"
Sophie perked up.
"Oh, that's trendy right now. A streamer system is when real people from our world—or another world — watch the hero. They comment, donate, and sometimes can influence events. It adds an element of surprise. Because viewers are unpredictable."
"And the hero doesn't mind being spied on?" Inesto asked dryly.
"Well… he gets power, money, fame, and influence in return. Plus, he can always turn off the stream." Sophie spread her hands. "Everything in the world of fanfiction is built on compromises, Dad."
He fell silent, staring into his mug. Sophie watched him for a moment, then sighed and reached for her laptop.
"Dad, are you really worried about made-up stories?" she asked more gently. "Maybe you should read less and rest more? The doctor said so."
"The doctor said a lot of things." he grumbled. "But you're right. I guess I'm just tired."
"See?" She opened her laptop but still glanced at him with a hint of concern. "Just… don't push yourself too hard. It's all made up. No system is coming for you. So just relax, okay?"
Inesto looked up at her and forced a smile.
"Of course it won't. Who needs an old grump like me?"
"I do. Good night, Dad. And I'm glad you decided to read. Even if it's just out of spite."
"What makes you think it's out of spite?" he grumbled, without turning around.
"Isn't that the case? You always do this: first you grumble, then you start looking into it, and then it turns out you're interested yourself, and if not, you see it through to the end anyway." She smiled. "So maybe you'll even become a fan of fanfiction."
"You'll be waiting a long time," he grumbled, but without malice.
She went into her room, and a few minutes later muffled sounds of a video came from there — either a review, or an anime, or some other form of entertainment.
Inesto was left alone.
He sat at the kitchen table for a long time. He didn't feel like finishing his tea. The panel was still hanging nearby.
"No harm done, then," he said quietly into the void. "Just an adventure. A toaster, for crying out loud…"
He chuckled at his own foolishness.
He stood up, washed the mug, and went to his bedroom.
Sitting on the bed, he stared at the panel for a long time, listening to the rain start outside the window. Fragments of the conversation swirled in his head: "tool," "no harm," "just an adventure."
Somewhere deep inside, fear stirred—the very same fear he'd been drowning with pills. But now it was mixed with another feeling.
Curiosity.
He hated that feeling. It always led him down the wrong path. In his youth—into dangerous adventures; in middle age—into arguments with the dean that cost him his career. And now… now it was pushing him toward the blue panel. He wasn't in a hurry to press "Accept." Talking to Sophie hadn't made things any easier. If anything, the opposite—now what was happening seemed even more wrong. Up until that moment, Iniesta had at least clung to the idea that all of this could be explained by fatigue, stress, or some particularly nasty nervous breakdown. But the problem was that nervous breakdowns don't usually hang before your eyes for two weeks straight.
The blue panel remained in place.
It didn't disappear in the morning, didn't vanish after sleep, didn't dissolve from alcohol or pills. He tried to ignore it, to force himself to work, to distract himself, to watch movies, to read, even to stay awake on purpose for nearly a day—just to see if real hallucinations would finally start, ones that would push this thing out of his head. But nothing changed. The panel continued to hang next to him so naturally, as if it had always been part of the world.
[Waiting for the streamer's user.]
Inesto sat in the dimly lit living room, staring at those words with the weary irritation of a man who had been cornered for too long and too methodically. The apartment was quiet. Behind the wall, Sophie's laptop hummed faintly—someone's cheerful voice drifted through the wall along with muffled music. Ordinary home life. So ordinary that it was almost eerie.
He slowly rubbed his face with his palms and exhaled heavily.
Waiting was pointless.
That thought finally took shape, definitively and with unpleasant clarity. He had already been waiting. Two weeks. If the panel hadn't disappeared in all that time, it wouldn't disappear now. There were only two options left: either accept what was happening, or pretend for the rest of his life that the blue window before his eyes didn't exist.
And for some reason, the second option frightened him more. If even in fictional stories no one really knows what "the system" is, then why did he decide he had to trust the one hanging right before his eyes?
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the blue rectangle as if expecting it to be the first to break the silence. But the panel just hung patiently in the air. Waiting, as always, for his command.
"Of course you're waiting," he muttered. "Damn recruiters."
Injesto leaned back, and lying on the bed with his arms spread wide, he began to think aloud— an old teaching habit of structuring his thoughts through speech.
"So… let's say I'm not going crazy… Then we have an unknown system of unknown origin, offering unknown possibilities with unknown consequences."
He began counting on his fingers.
"What do normal people do in a situation like this? Well, normal people certainly don't suffer from a prolonged hallucination in the form of a rectangle… But let's skip the details. What would a person do if they were in his place?"
The answer came almost immediately.
Get ready. The problem was that Inesto had no idea what exactly to prepare for. With this thing, you could expect anything. If something really did happen after the word "Accepted," facing it empty-handed would be the height of idiocy. And that was when Inesto's probably strangest evening in the last twenty years began.
Not knowing what to do, he decided to document everything first. In case something happened to him... maybe the recording would show that he wasn't crazy at all, and that this way he could protect other poor souls who had also been struck by this affliction? As silly as it might be, it was better to be safe than sorry. If something really did happen to him... at least some explanation would remain.
"Maybe I can film the aliens."
Inesto picked up his phone and frowned. He'd never been a big fan of modern technology. Usually, Sophie handled all the issues related to settings, apps, and other digital nonsense. But at least he knew how to record a video.
After a few minutes of fiddling, he managed to set the phone on a stack of books across from the bed. The setup looked so unstable that he double-checked its stability.
"Don't you dare fall right now," he grumbled at the phone.
Then he started recording and studied the screen for a few seconds.
That wasn't enough.
If he disappeared, the video had to be found.
Iniesto paused to think, then opened his laptop. It took him nearly ten minutes to figure out how to connect the phone with a cable and set up automatic file backup to a folder on his desktop. Twice he accidentally opened the wrong settings, once he nearly deleted old photos, and at one point he seriously considered waking Sophie up. But in the end, everything worked. A folder with a succinct name appeared on the desktop: "If something happens to me." The name seemed ridiculous. Inesto left it as is. Only then did he sit down in front of the camera.
He was silent for a few seconds.
The red recording dot glowed quietly in the corner of the screen.
"My name is Inesto Martinez. Today is August 30, 2025."
His own voice sounded uncharacteristically dry.
"I am fifty years old. I am 178 centimeters tall. I was born in Spain, not far from Valencia. I have lived in London for the past twenty-eight years. I work at a Royal Mail post office."
He fell silent and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. From the outside, it looked as if he were recording a profile of himself. That was probably the case. Iniesto took the sick notes out of the folder and held them up to the camera.
"About two weeks ago, I started seeing a strange object in front of my eyes. A blue panel with text. I went to the doctors. I underwent tests. I was given a preliminary diagnosis related to stress and visual hallucinations."
He involuntarily glanced to the right. The panel was still there. Hanging motionless in the air, as if it were completely indifferent to what was happening.
Inesto swallowed nervously. If someone was behind this, if this thing even had creators or owners, they weren't reacting at all to his attempt to leave evidence.
"But it still hasn't disappeared."
He picked up a pencil and sketched what it looked like. The drawing was crooked, but quite recognizable. Then he held it up to the camera.
"This is what it looks like. As far as I can tell. I know this sounds like one of those ridiculous fanfics with a system, but I swear to God, this invisible thing is hovering right next to me right now. And now I've decided to make contact. I'm going to say the activation word. If someone finds this video… then maybe something has happened to me. I don't know exactly what will happen after activating this… thing. Maybe nothing. Maybe I've just finally lost my mind."
He gave a brief smile, but the laugh came out too weary.
"But if I do disappear, at least there will be a record of this. That I wasn't going to abandon anyone. Especially Sophie. I didn't abandon anyone. And if something similar is appearing before your eyes too, please don't utter that word—just to be on the safe side."
He spoke the last words almost in a whisper. After that, silence reigned in the room once more. Rain rustled quietly outside the windows. The camera kept recording. And the blue panel waited patiently. Inesto sighed. He took a sheet of paper and began to write what was meant for Sophie: Insurance policy number. Bank contact information. Landlord's details. Phone numbers of relatives and acquaintances. Where the documents are kept. Which bills need to be paid. Which payments are debited automatically.
The instructions turned out dry, almost businesslike. As if he were not about to vanish into the unknown, but to go on a long business trip and feared that chaos would ensue at home without him. When the list was finished, he took another sheet of paper. This one proved much more difficult. For several minutes he just sat there, staring at the blank paper. Over the past few years he had written thousands of letters, applications, reports, and explanations. But now, for some reason, the words refused to form sentences. He would start writing. Cross it out. Start again. He threw the sheet away again. In the end, the letter turned out short. Just a few paragraphs. And it was this letter that took more time than everything else. For a while, Iniesta looked at what he had written, then neatly folded both sheets and got up from the table.
He went down to the kitchen and attached the papers to the refrigerator door with a few magnets. In the most visible spot. So that Sophie would definitely see them. Then he went back upstairs, and as he passed Sophie's room, he suddenly stopped. Standing for a few seconds in the middle of the hallway, he involuntarily glanced toward her room. The door was closed. Not a sound came from inside. She must already be asleep. Inesto paused for another moment, then continued on in silence.
The room greeted him with the same silence as before. The camera was still running. The red recording dot continued to flash in the corner of the screen. And the blue panel was still hanging in the air.
[Waiting for the streamer's user. To activate, say "Accepted."]
He stopped in front of it. That was it. No new thoughts came to mind. He didn't even consider changing his mind; he had already done too much to back down like a coward now. He had prepared as well as any person could possibly prepare for something they didn't understand. The video was ready, the documents had been left, the letters written. He could have grabbed a knife from the kitchen, but in the end he decided that would be more like paranoia than common sense. He could have lit a candle or said a prayer, but Iniesto had never been a religious man.
If his life were to turn into a disaster in a minute, there was nothing more he could do anyway. Inesto exhaled slowly. His heart was beating surprisingly calmly. Probably because the time for doubts had already passed. He looked up at the panel. He just stared at it for a few seconds. Then he said quietly:
"Accepted."
And the world vanished.