While asleep, Mario experienced the memories from the simulation as a dream.
Yet it didn't feel like one.
He saw everything through his own eyes—but he had no control. His body moved, spoke, and acted on its own, leaving him trapped as a silent observer within himself.
Some moments slipped past in a blur, gone before he could grasp them.
Others lingered—clear, vivid, and disturbingly real, carrying sensations and emotions as if they had truly happened.
And no matter what he did, he couldn't pause it or look away.
---
Second Week
Inside a lottery building—
"Did you hear? A body was found in the sea," someone in the line said.
The person in front of him turned slightly. "I haven't. But it's probably another victim of the gangs from the eastern district."
"I heard that after their leader died and a new one took over, they've become more rampant. People are even leaving the east now."
Mario stood at the counter, waiting for his lottery ticket. His ears perked slightly at their words.
The city had its own laws, but both the eastern and western districts were still ruled by gangs. Even so, deaths were uncommon—unless the conflict was something that couldn't be resolved.
And in the past two years since leaving the orphanage, this was the first time he had heard of someone dying.
Only half-listening, Mario paid for his ticket and turned to leave.
"It's confirmed… The body was the lottery winner from last week."
His steps halted.
For a moment, he turned his head toward the results board.
A portrait of a middle-aged man hung beside the words: "10,000 Gold Jackpot Winner."
Above it, in large bold letters, was a single word—
"Congratulations."
To most, it would look like celebration—an invitation, even. A quiet push for others to try their luck, to believe that a single win could change their lives.
Mario had thought the same before.
But now…
He shook his head, dismissing the thought, and stepped out of the lottery building.
The northern district greeted him with its usual calm and beauty.
Mario let out a quiet sigh. 'How ironic… the luck that was meant to change his life ended up taking it instead.'
---
First Year – Seventh Month
Mario stepped inside, and the moment the door closed behind him, an unfamiliar scent greeted him.
It wasn't the usual cold, sterile air he had come to associate with places like the lottery building. Instead, something subtle lingered in the atmosphere—clean, soft, and faintly sweet.
He paused for a moment and observed the office.
Unlike the director's office, which was filled with sofas, cabinets, and scattered decorations, this room was almost stark in comparison. Despite its luxurious design, it felt strangely empty—only a single table stood at the far end, positioned near a large window that let in muted daylight.
"Cough!"
A sharp cough broke the silence and pulled him from his brief reverie.
Mario turned toward the sound.
There, he saw a man who appeared to be in his twenties, seated calmly behind the table.
He studied him carefully.
Brown hair, neatly styled. Clear blue eyes. Expensive white clothing, tailored to fit him precisely.
The young man's expression was calm—almost cold—but beneath it, Mario could faintly sense something else.
Confusion.
The young man gave a soft, apologetic smile. "I'd like to offer a sincere apology. We're currently experiencing some difficulties, so we can only provide half of your prize."
Mario did not react. His eyes remained fixed on the smile.
At first glance, it looked proper—refined, even convincing. A practiced expression meant to pass as sincerity.
But Mario, who had worn a mask his entire life, could tell otherwise.
There was no warmth in it. No apology behind it. No intent at all.
Only an empty shape of expression—carefully formed, but hollow.
The young man continued, "To compensate you for your loss, why don't we make a trade?"
"I don't know if you're aware of the existence of 'Unique Skills.' They're quite rare in places like this—I happen to be a holder myself."
"My unique skill has something to do with transactions, so… as long as you accept half of the prize I've offered, I can promise you something in return."
Mario lifted his gaze to meet the young man's eyes and pretended to consider it.
After a moment, he spoke in a reluctant tone, carefully constructed. "…There's nothing I can do but accept, is there?"
For a brief instant, the young man's smile faltered—not disappearing, but shifting, as if it had caught on something hidden beneath Mario's words. His eyes sharpened slightly as he studied him more closely.
"You're taking it rather calmly," the young man said. "Unlike others… for example, a certain middle-aged man from last year. He even threatened to expose me."
As if recalling something amusing, his expression changed. A genuine smile of amusement surfaced on his face—warmer than before, yet still faintly detached.
He shook his head slightly, then took something from his pocket and began twirling it between his fingers.
It was a short, silver piece, rounded at the top.
"Care to tell me why?"
At that moment, the reluctant expression on Mario's face disappeared. A faint trace of surprise surfaced in his eyes.
'…He saw through it.'
There was a line he had once read—people who shared similarities could recognize each other at a glance.
'I suppose… that's true.'
A minute passed as Mario watched the object spin between the young man's fingers.
Then he spoke.
"Do you know how greedy people die?"
The young man stopped twirling the piece and looked at him.
A faint hint of interest appeared in his eyes. "I don't."
"They choke," Mario said, pausing briefly, "…because they bite off more than they can chew."
Silence followed.
Then laughter broke it—low at first, then rising, filled with genuine amusement.
It lasted for a few moments before the young man's gaze sharpened, the warmth fading into something colder.
"So you've figured it out?" he asked.
Mario shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Seeing that he remained unshaken—able to lie without hesitation—the young man smiled again.
"You're quite interesting…"
This time, the smile felt more genuine.
"What is your name?"
"Mario."
"Mario, huh. Quite a plain name you have."
Mario simply shrugged.
The young man inclined his head slightly. "I'm Arthur."
---
Fourth Year
Inside a renovated office, an old man and a young man sat across from each other on a worn sofa.
A small wooden table stood between them.
The director picked up the cup of coffee resting on the table, took a slow sip, then set it back down. His gaze shifted toward Mario, who was quietly reading a book.
"It's been six years since you started working and chose to live independently. Why are you still staying in that place?" A faint frown formed on his face. "…That can't even be called a house."
He paused briefly before adding, "Just four walls and a roof."
Mario lifted his head and looked at him, a small smile on his lips. "It's fine. At most, I'll just pay someone to renovate it."
He closed the book in his hands and continued, "Besides, it's more convenient. It's closer to the warehouse."
The director let out a sigh and shook his head. "You've been using that same excuse for years. Do you really think I don't know there are better places even closer to that old bastard's warehouse?"
Mario fell silent for a moment, then gave in. "…Alright. I'll find a better place next month."
"Next month?" the director repeated, his tone calm.
But Mario knew him well enough to understand that it wasn't truly calm.
"…Next week, then?"
The director said nothing.
Mario sighed. "Fine. Tomorrow."
Only then did the director's expression ease into a satisfied smile.
---
7th Year
"Anyone you're interested in?" the director asked gently, looking at Mario.
Mario blinked, caught off guard.
Then, with furrowed brows, he asked, "Interested? In what?"
"You're twenty-five already. Don't you think it's time to find someone?" the director pressed gently.
"Someone?" Mario echoed, a faint edge of confusion in his voice.
"You know… someone to build a family with," the director clarified, leaning back slightly and watching him carefully.
"Family…" Mario muttered unconsciously, then fell silent. His gaze drifted, becoming unfocused, and for a moment he seemed lost inside himself.
The silence stretched for a few minutes.
"Little Mario?" The director's voice disturbed the quiet that had settled uncomfortably around them.
Mario was slightly startled, and for the first time, he put on his usual mask in front of the director.
He laughed awkwardly, dismissing the topic. "I'm still young… I'll think about it… someday."
The director didn't respond. He simply studied Mario, eyes steady and patient.
Mario unconsciously avoided his gaze.
Seeing that, the director closed his eyes and let out a long, quiet sigh — heavy with concern, disappointment, and something unspoken that lingered between them.
---
9th Year – 1st Month
Mario looked around the room. Chairs and tables were neatly arranged, their polished wood gleaming under the soft glow of the overhead lights. The floor had been refinished, clean and smooth, and fresh paint brightened the walls, erasing years of grime.
"Finally — after weeks of waiting, the renovation is done," Mario said, taking in the results.
It wasn't large, and it wasn't extravagant, but it was his. Every detail — the careful repairs, the new fixtures, the way sunlight spilled warmly across the floor.
'But it cost a lot…' His gaze shifted to the wall near the kitchen, where a hidden compartment he had built himself was located — and inside it, the lottery winnings he hadn't touched until now.
For the first time in a long while, a quiet satisfaction settled in Mario's chest, and a genuine smile appeared on his face.
Later that evening, the door chimed softly as the director arrived, followed by a handful of familiar faces — the children from the orphanage, wide-eyed and chattering excitedly; the warehouse owner, stoic as ever but with a rare glint of pride in his eyes; and Mario's former workmates.
Lively laughter and warm conversation filled the small restaurant.
Mario moved among them with calm precision, filleting, seasoning, and cooking each piece of fish. The gentle hiss of the pans, the soft shimmer of steam rising from the plates, the subtle aroma curling through the air — it all spoke of years of discipline, of countless hours spent perfecting his craft. Each dish was more than food; it was an extension of himself.
Later, Mario stepped outside. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of the sea. Above him, the stars gleamed like scattered fragments of light across the dark velvet sky.
'It feels peaceful…' He let out a soft breath and tilted his head upward toward the night sky.
Step. Step. Step.
Footsteps rang out from behind, and someone came to stand beside him, also turning their gaze toward the sky.
Mario, without looking, knew who it was.
They remained silent for a few minutes, heads tilted upward, before a familiar old voice rang out beside him — gentle, and faint.
"Are you happy?..."
Mario didn't answer. Instead, he turned to look at the director beside him.
Rather than words, he offered a genuine smile as his answer, then turned and headed back inside.
The director stood briefly stunned, his eyes lingering on that smile, and said nothing as Mario walked away.
He watched his back for a moment before a smile of his own appeared on his old face.
"Good…" he murmured quietly.
Before heading inside, he exhaled a heavy breath full of complicated emotions — part happiness, contentment, and pride; and part sadness, heaviness, and reluctance.