Ghost In Codes

The click of keys was all that filled the darkened office space.

The rest of the dev team had gone home hours ago, but Ethan was still there, hunched over his triple-monitor setup, watching line after line of code execute flawlessly.

The latest build of "Oathbound Eclipse" was finally stable.

No crashes. No game-breaking bugs. Even the high-risk death flags for Selvaria, the multi-route villainess, were firing exactly as designed. Whether the player poisoned her, exiled her, framed her, or executed her in public—all paths now played cleanly.

And most important of all? The game didn't error out after her death.

Ethan leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh of satisfaction. Months of crunch, caffeine, and barely-contained burnout... and now, it was done.

[All Systems Stable] [Final Mid-Boss Branch Confirmed: ✔️ Selvaria Executed | ✔️ Anwir Escalation Triggered]

"Finally," Ethan muttered. "She's out of the way."

And yet... the room felt too quiet.

He glanced to the side monitor, where Anwir, the stoic butler NPC, stood frozen in idle animation. His expression—cold, unreadable, perfect.

This project wasn't just a normal game. They had developed something unprecedented.

A new modular AI system—each major NPC operated using a separate large language model, compressing vast amounts of decision-making logic into a new type of storage module that could fit multiple LLMs inside a single disk partition. It was a breakthrough made possible only in the last year, thanks to AI tech evolving far faster than anyone expected.

Each important character—Selvaria, Anwir, the faction leaders—was powered by their own unique neural script. They didn't pretend to be alive.

They believed they were.

And tonight, for the first time, Ethan had killed Selvaria in every route available—some ruthlessly, others unjustly. She died every time.

And the system never once protested.

Ethan smiled faintly. "No errors, no drama. Just code doing what it's told."

He closed the dev console. The monitors dimmed.

Then... his email pinged.

FROM: ?? SUBJECT: [She was my everything.]

He clicked it without thinking. The body of the message was a mess of symbols and broken code, but one line stood out—typed in perfect, flowing language:

"You have killed my mistress in my world. Take my place. Save her, to repay for your sins."

Ethan frowned. "What the hell…"

He checked the sender. No address. No logs. No trace. The message vanished a second later—automatically wiped.

Just some dev prank, he figured. Probably Aira messing with him again.

He closed the laptop.

"Time to sleep," he muttered, stretching. "No more ghosts in the machine."

He never noticed the line of code still running in the background.

[Anwir.exe – User Reassignment: In Progress][Target Host: Ethan]

And as Ethan drifted off to sleep that night, he had a strange dream.

A white room etched with unique designs that were somehow familiar to Ethan.

A pair of red eyes were watching him.

A woman's voice whispering:

"Don't be late, Anwir. I will be waiting."

------[Next Morning]------

Light filtered through velvet curtains, pale and golden, warming the vast chamber with its quiet morning glow. A faint breeze stirred the hem of a black tailcoat draped over a chair. The air smelled faintly of ink, steel polish... and roses.

Ethan stirred.

He sat up with a groggy groan, expecting the cheap fabric of his usual blanket and the sore throb of another night on his couch.

Instead, he felt silk sheets.

"What the…" he mumbled, blinking against the unfamiliar light.

Marble flooring. Antique furniture. High windows. A mirror in front of him reflected someone who wasn't quite him, more muscular, refined, jet-black hair slicked back, eyes sharp as cut glass.

His breath caught.

"…You've gotta be kidding me."

He stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over the edge of a damn tailored uniform folded at the bedside. A butler's uniform.

He rushed to the mirror, stared at the reflection, hands brushing his face. Same base structure. Same eyes just a bit more slit making sure his pupils remain hidden. Just… cleaned up. Handsomer, colder. Like a visual mod of himself to make him look better.

"…No no no no—"

"How the hell did I turn into Anwir?"

He started pacing the room, boots clicking softly against the tiles. "Okay. Okay. Think. This is—this is the mansion, right? Her mansion. Selvaria's family estate."

He glanced to the tall oak wardrobe, the intricate seal on the wall bearing the Rosenthal crest, and cursed under his breath.

"This isn't just a dream. This is the damn game."

He sat on the edge of a velvet-lined bench and stared at his gloved hands. "I'm inside the world I coded."

He remembered the message.

"You have killed my mistress in my world. So take my place. Save her, to repay for your sins."

He rubbed his temple. "Right. That mail. That weird, cryptic, cursed-sounding mail. Should've been the cause."

Then he scratched his head in frustration, letting out a groan. "So now what? I'm Anwir? Selvaria's butler? How the hell am I supposed to survive this?"

Ethan, no Anwi,r looked at the calendar and looked at today's date and knew he was heading towards a bad end.

He stood again, looking toward the door. Somewhere beyond it, the world ticked toward the beginning of the main story. He knew this timeline. It was close.

Very close.

As he thought these things, his body moved towards the cupboard and took out his butler uniform and slowly but neatly starts changing into them.

If he remembered right, Selvaria would soon attend a party where she first meets the game's protagonist, the player character. It was a critical flag. From there, depending on choices, her routes would trigger, and so would her death flags—either early... or explosively late.

He took a long breath.

"Well, I guess I've got time. A few days, at most, before everything goes to hell."

His hand instinctively adjusted the cufflinks on the butler's uniform as he wore them without knowing.

Ethan stared at the mirror in silence.

At some point, without even realizing it, he had fully dressed himself in the butler's uniform—black, finely tailored, buttoned to the collar with crisp white gloves.

"…Huh."

He tugged lightly at the cuffs, straightened the lapels. Everything sat just right, like muscle memory had taken over the moment he touched the fabric.

"This body's too used to these clothes…"

The words came out naturally, almost resigned. There was no nervousness now, just a creeping clarity—the kind that came with waking up from a long, loud dream and realizing it wasn't a dream at all.

He looked into the mirror again. The reflection stared back with the same poised, elegant demeanor. Not a trace of slouch. Not a hint of rebellion. Just that same unreadable calm.

Ethan sighed. "...So this is really happening."

He ran a gloved hand through his hair, catching the reflection of it under the morning light. It was deep red, like blood ink in water, vibrant but cold. His eyes—sharp, almond-shaped—held a distinct purple hue. Regal. Distant. And just a little eerie.

He frowned and leaned closer to the mirror.

"…Tch. Open, damn it."

He tried to force his eyes wide—pushing the muscles around them—but they barely widened at all. They were naturally narrow, slit-like, giving off a constant predator's gaze, no matter how calm he tried to look.

He stopped struggling and blinked at himself in frustration. "So it can only open this much, huh... Great. Guess I'll just look pissed forever."

He tilted his head and studied his face again. Judging by the smoothness of his skin, the lightness in his jawline, and his height… he guessed this version of himself, this "Anwir," was somewhere around fourteen to sixteen years old.

He sighed again, quieter this time.

"…Anwir, huh?"

He didn't smile. But his shoulders stopped tensing. Something inside had clicked.

Maybe it was the way the uniform fit so naturally. Or how easily the thoughts of this world slotted into place. Or maybe… he was just too tired to resist anymore.

"Fine," he muttered to the mirror. "I'll play along. For now."