With the final countdown to the Ivy League admissions and the SATs only two months away, the fog has finally lifted. I can finally see a future. Back when my life was defined by a memory impairment, even opening a textbook felt like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. Then came Paige. She was a transfer student who looked at me and saw a new toy. She spent her days orchestrating a series of cruel, petty torments. Textbooks would vanish. My homework would be sabotaged with subtle, incorrect edits. She’d even "helpfully" lead me down the wrong streets on my way home, knowing I’d get lost. My body felt the sting of her malice, the exhaustion of the confusion, but my mind could never hold onto the specifics of her games. Then, two weeks ago, she cornered me. She looked at me with a terrifying, manic excitement and told me that if she had my "tragic, beautiful goldfish" persona, the whole world would fall at her feet. Before I could even process what she was saying, I was forced into a black-market clinic for a neural-feature exchange. When I woke up, the world was sharp. High-definition. For the first time in my life, things stayed. Meanwhile, Paige had become the one who moved in slow motion, her eyes vacant and her thoughts slipping through her fingers like sand. Floating before my eyes, a translucent live-feed of comments—a "Danmu" stream only I could see—was debating the shift. They complained that I, the "side character," didn't appreciate a good trope. They were thrilled that the "true heroine" could finally ask the cold, powerful billionaire, "Who are you?" with that signature, dazed innocence. I couldn't help but smile. None of that mattered. I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as I texted my parents: This time, I’m getting into Harvard. … My parents replied almost instantly: Sweetie, just do your best. We love you regardless. They had watched me struggle my entire life. I wasn't stupid—I actually learned quite fast. My comprehension was high; I understood everything the teachers said in the moment. The problem was the "delete" button in my brain. By the next morning, everything was wiped clean. I couldn't even remember where I’d been the day before. But now? Everything had changed. I locked myself in my room that night, fueled by caffeine and a desperate, starving hunger for knowledge. When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I did was a mental audit. Everything was there. Every formula, every vocabulary word, every historical date from the night before was locked in place. At that moment, hot, heavy tears tracked down my face. At breakfast, I told my parents about the procedure. They were horrified, then skeptical. They started grilling me—our home address, my phone passcode, their birthdays. I rattled them off with a fluency that broke them. My mother finally broke down, sobbing as she threw her arms around me. We huddled there by the breakfast nook, three people crying over the simple miracle of a memory. With two months left until the final exams, I went into a frenzy. When the results of the first mock trial came out, I had broken into the top thirty. I stood in front of the rankings board, staring at my name until the ink blurred. I couldn't press the smile off my face. The live-feed flickered across my vision: [Wait, why is the side character studying? Shouldn't she be working a part-time job at a high-end bar to "accidentally" run into a mogul and beg for resources?] [Exactly! She’s supposed to try and trap the billionaire, only for him to fall for the heroine’s "ditsy purity" instead. That’s the script!] My smile faltered. According to their "correct plot," I was supposed to be discarded by everyone because of Paige’s new, adorable helplessness. The billionaire would eventually destroy me to avenge her, and I’d end up having my neural traits forcibly swapped back, left to rot as a vegetable on the streets. A cold sweat broke out on my neck. But then, another comment scrolled by: [But in the early stages, the side character did use the mogul to get resources. He even donated a building to get her into a top-tier school.] I stared at those words, my fists slowly uncurling. I didn't need someone to buy my way into Harvard. I would earn it. But if someone could provide the resources to help me get there? Well, that was a different story. Following the hints from the feed, I went to a high-end lounge downtown on Saturday night. And there he was: Kieran Derrick—the most powerful, elusive shadow in the city’s private equity world. I took a breath, slipped into the staff hallway, and paid a waitress two hundred bucks for her spare uniform. I fixed my hair, grabbed a tray, and approached his booth. "Sir? Are you alright? Do you need assistance?" He opened his eyes, tracking me with a sharp, lethal intensity. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering just a second too long. "Get me to the nearest hotel," he rasped. He handed me a five-hundred-dollar tip. I didn't waste words. I helped him up, hailed a car, and got him to a suite. Once he was safely on the bed, the live-feed went into a frenzy. [Oh god, here comes the thirsty side-character move!] [She’s going to fake a 'night together' to blackmail him. Gag. Only our ditsy Paige can win him over with her soul!] I ignored them. I stood by the bed, watching Kieran sleep for a moment. Then, over the screams of "DON'T DO IT" from the feed, I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a piece of paper and tucked it under his pillow. The feed was relentless: [I bet it’s her phone number with a 'call me daddy' note. So pathetic.] [Don't worry, Kieran hates thirsty girls.] I didn't leave a number. I walked out of the room, closed the door, and sat on the floor of the hallway. I waited. The next morning, the door clicked open. I had fallen asleep against the wall and nearly toppled over. Kieran stood there, towering over me, his aura suffocatingly cold. He let out a dry, mocking chuckle, holding the paper between two fingers. "You left this?" It was my transcript. A record of my jump from the bottom of the pack to the top thirty in a single month. I stood up, smoothed my clothes, and looked him dead in the eye. "Good morning, Mr. Derrick. My name is Talia. I’m not here for your money. I’m here for your investment. I want you to sponsor my journey to Harvard." I said it without a hint of hesitation. Kieran leaned against the doorframe, flipping the transcript over. "And why on earth would I do that?" I took a deep breath. "Because I am the safest bet you will ever make. For a minimal overhead, you secure the loyalty of a mind that is currently outperforming every projection in this district." I didn't stop there. I pivoted into his company’s latest acquisitions, offering three distinct critiques of their AI infrastructure based on papers I’d memorized the night before. I had spent my "waiting time" in the hallway researching every public filing his firm had made in the last three years. He arched a brow. His eyes traveled from the top of my head to my toes and back again. "You've got balls," he murmured. My palms were sweating, but I kept my gaze steady. He seemed to be weighing his options, his lips parting as if to speak, when someone suddenly stumbled into his back. A girl pushed past him, nearly tripping over her own feet. I looked over and felt my heart drop. It was Paige. She looked around with a wide-eyed, vacant expression. Finally, her gaze landed on Kieran. She tilted her head like a confused puppy. "Who are you?" The feed exploded: [OH MY GOD! The heroine has arrived!] [The little goldfish! Look at how pure she is!] [Kieran, are you falling in love? Because I’m literally dying from her cuteness!] Kieran, however, just frowned. "What, are you here for a scholarship too?" Paige blinked, her mouth hanging open as if she were trying to process the concept of language. Then she puffed out her cheeks. "No! I’m just... I forgot where I was. I’m a little goldfish. I need someone to take me home." She reached out and grabbed the hem of Kieran’s expensive suit jacket. "You. You do it." Kieran’s frown deepened. He tried to shake her off, but she clung to his sleeve like a burr. Seeing he couldn't dislodge her easily, Kieran turned back to me. He pulled a matte black business card from his pocket and handed it over. "Call my office. We’ll talk." Then, he pulled out his phone and dialed hotel security. "There’s a woman here who seems to be mentally incapacitated and is harassing guests. Get someone up here to handle it, immediately." Security arrived within minutes. Two guards began to pry Paige away. She struggled feebly, shouting at Kieran’s retreating back, "Ice man! I’m going to remember you!" The feed was indignant: [Kieran is such a jerk right now. Just wait until he realizes how refreshing Paige’s innocence is compared to the side-character’s schemes!] [The 'enemies-to-lovers' arc is going to be so delicious.] As Paige was dragged past me, she tried to grab my arm for leverage. But when she saw my face, she froze. "Who are you? You look... familiar..." Her memory was already so shot she didn't even recognize the person she’d spent a year torturing. I didn't say a word. I pressed myself against the wall, giving the guards a clear path to take her away. I looked down at the black card in my hand, my heart soaring. That afternoon, before heading back to school, I called the number. A crisp, professional voice answered. "This is Parker, Mr. Derrick's executive assistant." I explained who I was. "Mr. Derrick briefed me," Parker said. "I’ve already made the arrangements. We’ll take it from here." The feed started scrolling again: [Side-character is digging her own grave.] [Enjoy it while it lasts, honey. Kieran is going to make you pay for this later!] I gripped the phone tight. I wasn't going to be a side character in their script. I was going to use this momentum to become so powerful that no one could ever touch my mind again. That night, Parker sent me a text. My tutoring and weekend schedule had been set. The location was a private estate on the Upper East Side—an office Kieran kept for his personal ventures. The weeks that followed were a blur of intensity. By day, I was at school. By night and all through the weekends, I was at the estate. Kieran had hired three world-class tutors for me; one of them was a retired professor who literally wrote the standard AP curriculum. I was a sponge. I climbed from rank fifteen to eight, then five. By the final mock exams, I was consistently in the top three. Sometimes Kieran would be there, working at a desk ten feet away. He’d be on low-voiced conference calls, and I found myself actually understanding the jargon he used. Occasionally, he’d take a break and look over my work. I knew from the feed that this man valued intelligence above all else. Once, after he walked me through a complex physics derivation, I let a bit of genuine admiration slip. "Mr. Derrick, that’s incredible. Most teachers would have taken three pages to explain what you just did in four steps." He gave me a sideways glance but said nothing. But in every exam after that, I never missed a question of that type again. When he looked over my graded papers, the corner of his mouth ticked upward. A ghost of a smile. After that, he started showing up more often. He grew more patient. Meanwhile, rumors of Paige started trickling back to me. Her grades had plummeted to the bottom of the school. I heard her family had hosted two major charity events that she’d single-handedly ruined—once by forgetting the name of the guest of honor, and another time by accidentally shredding a contract because she thought it was "scrap paper." The feed tried to spin it: [Paige’s parents are so mean to her. They don't deserve her! Just wait until she’s with Kieran.] [Their little boutique family is only going to survive if she lands a mogul. Go Paige!] I didn't care. I did one thing: I studied. On the eve of the SATs, Kieran had me stay at his high-end apartment in the city to ensure I wouldn't be late. He stood by the library door, looking like he wanted to say something profound. In the end, he just nodded. "Go kill it." The exams went perfectly. On the third day, as I walked out of the testing center into the blinding afternoon sun, a black sedan was waiting. The window rolled down, revealing Kieran. "Get in," he said. The car was cool, smelling faintly of sandalwood and expensive leather. He leaned back, watching me. "You used to have a memory disorder," he said, his voice casual but sharp. "How did it just... go away?" The heat from outside seemed to distort through the glass. My hands went ice cold. The feed started cheering: [YES! He’s finally onto her!] [The truth comes out! I can't wait for him to force her to give the 'heroine' her brain back!] I took a breath and forced a smile. "My parents took me to every specialist in the country. We’ve been doing intensive cognitive therapy for years. It finally clicked." It was a half-truth. They had taken me everywhere. The therapy had been constant. It just hadn't worked until the surgery. Kieran studied me for a long beat, then nodded. "Understood." He didn't push. He didn't accuse. The car merged smoothly into traffic. While waiting for the results, Kieran had Parker set me up with an internship at his firm. They specialized in AI algorithms, and I caught on fast. Data processing, model training—I devoured it all. Whenever Kieran walked past my workstation, he’d stop for a few seconds, look at my screen, and walk away without a word. A week later, he moved my desk into his private suite. One afternoon, my phone rang. "Hello, is this Talia?" a voice asked. "This is the Admissions Office at Harvard University." My hand started to shake, but my voice remained steady. "Yes, this is she." They wanted to discuss my application. My scores were... "exceptional." When I hung up fifteen minutes later, I just stared at my keyboard. A soft cough came from the side. Kieran was standing there, a rare, genuine smile reaching his eyes. "Congratulations," he said. It was the first time I’d seen him look at someone with that much respect. The day the official scores were released, my parents sat on either side of me. The webpage took four seconds to load. When the national ranking appeared, my mother screamed. My father literally lifted me out of my chair. There was no hesitation. Harvard was my first choice. On graduation day, the auditorium was packed. I was the valedictorian. Kieran sat in the front row—not in the VIP section, but in the parent-teacher section, looking effortlessly powerful in his charcoal suit. I finished my speech and bowed. Before the applause could even settle, a commotion broke out. A figure scrambled onto the stage, pointing a trembling finger at me. It was Paige. She looked terrible—gaunt, her eyes bloodshot and wide. "Talia! I remember you now!" she shrieked. "You used my brain to get into Harvard! Those scores should be mine! I’m reporting you for academic fraud!" The room went dead silent, then erupted in whispers. The livestream cameras for the ceremony pivoted toward us. The feed was going wild: [YES! Our girl is so brave! Expose that thief!] [Everything belongs to Paige!] [Finally, Kieran will see how evil the side-character is. Revenge for our baby!] I felt a chill run down my spine. Would Kieran really try to reverse it? Paige’s parents rushed onto the stage, flanking her. Her father roared at me, "You little thief! You stole my daughter’s future! Where are her parents? Get out here and face us!" My fist clenched. My grades were the result of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights. I opened my mouth to fight back, but then a chair scraped against the floor below. Kieran stood up, buttoned his jacket, and walked up the steps with a slow, rhythmic thud. He stepped beside me, shielding me from Paige’s family. "I’m her guardian," he said, his voice dropping an octave of pure ice. "What exactly is the problem here?"
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