Chapter 3 The System Backfires

# Chapter 3: The System Backfires

Whitney stared at the system interface floating in her peripheral vision, studying the relationship metrics with growing interest. Each man's profile displayed a negative favorability percentage, yet she noticed something curious—whenever their ratings dropped further, her physical attributes increased. Strength: +15%. Reflexes: +23%. Intelligence: +18%.

The inverse correlation was unmistakable. The more they despised her, the stronger she became.

"Fascinating," she whispered, watching her stats climb as she formulated her plan.

【System Analysis: Subject displaying unusual adaptation. Warning: Protocol deviation detected.】

Whitney smirked at the notification. "Let's test a theory."

She found Professor Jackson Sims in the yacht's library, surrounded by research papers and three laptops running simultaneous calculations. His guide dog, a golden retriever with intelligent eyes, lay at his feet. Jackson didn't look up as she entered, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

"Your vital signs indicate you've recovered," he said flatly. "Robin's medical team is surprisingly competent for criminals."

Whitney approached his workspace, noting the confidential stamps on his papers—breakthroughs in quantum computing that would revolutionize encryption forever. His life's work, worth billions to the right buyer.

"I remembered something," she said, picking up a stack of his most important documents. "About the auction."

Jackson finally looked up, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "And?"

Without breaking eye contact, Whitney knelt beside his guide dog and began feeding the papers into its mouth, page by precious page. The dog, trained never to bite, accepted the unusual treats with confused obedience.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jackson lunged forward, but Whitney was faster, her system-enhanced reflexes allowing her to feed the final pages to the dog before he could stop her.

"Digesting your research," she replied coolly. "Literally."

Jackson's face contorted with rage as he grabbed her wrist. "Do you have any idea what you've just destroyed? Years of work—irreplaceable calculations!"

Whitney checked her interface:

【Jackson Sims: Favorability -78% → -92% | Subject Physical Strength +7%】

She easily broke his grip, feeling the new power surge through her muscles. "Oops."

Instead of the continued anger she expected, Jackson's expression shifted subtly. He pushed his glasses up, a strange gleam entering his eyes. "Fascinating. You're deliberately antagonizing me."

"Is it working?" she asked, tearing another page in half.

"More than you know," he replied, his voice dropping to a disturbing register. "No one has ever cared enough to destroy what matters to me."

【Warning: Unexpected response detected. Favorability decreasing but emotional attachment increasing.】

Whitney backed toward the door, unsettled by his reaction. This wasn't going according to plan.

---

She found Ted Alvarez in the yacht's galley, making himself an espresso. His gun was visible in his shoulder holster, and three of his men stood guard outside the door. Whitney slipped past them during a shift change, silent as a shadow.

Ted didn't seem surprised to see her. "Come for breakfast, querida?" he asked, his accent thickening as he pushed a second cup toward her. "Or perhaps another piece of me?"

Whitney eyed the cleaning supplies stored under the sink. While Ted's attention was momentarily diverted by a text message, she grabbed dish soap and squeezed a generous amount into his coffee, stirring quickly.

Ted returned his phone to his pocket and picked up his cup. Whitney held her breath as he raised it to his lips, expecting him to detect the tampering.

Instead, he maintained eye contact as he drank the entire contaminated beverage, slowly, deliberately. When finished, he licked the rim where her fingers had touched.

"Your poison is sweeter than most," he said, setting down the empty cup. "Next time, try something stronger. I've built an immunity to most household chemicals."

He stepped closer, his breath somehow normal despite having consumed enough detergent to make an ordinary man vomit. "The diamonds in your earrings—they're just the beginning. I have vaults full of treasures waiting for you to steal."

"You should be sick," Whitney said, backing away. "That was enough soap to—"

"To kill a normal man?" Ted smiled, reaching out to touch her cheek with calloused fingers. "Normal is boring, mi corazón. And we are anything but normal."

【Ted Alvarez: Favorability -87% → -74% | Warning: Subject exhibiting attraction to destructive behavior】

Whitney slipped away, disturbed by the decrease in negative favorability. This was the opposite of what she wanted.

---

The system alert chimed insistently:

【Critical Warning: All targets showing increased attachment patterns despite negative actions. Hypothesis: Subjects are responding positively to antisocial behaviors.】

"They're what?" Whitney muttered, pacing the small cabin she'd claimed as her temporary hideout. "That's not possible. People don't fall in love with those who harm them."

【Correction: These subjects do. Historical data suggests all five targets display abnormal attachment patterns consistent with extreme psychological deviation.】

A knock at the door interrupted her conversation with the system. Albert stood in the hallway, looking younger than his twenty-five years in an oversized hoodie, his surgical mask hanging around his neck.

"Big sister," he said, his voice childlike despite his adult frame. "I brought you something."

Before Whitney could react, he had slipped into her room, locking the door behind him. From his pocket, he produced a small flash drive.

"What's that?" she asked warily.

"Memories," Albert replied, plugging it into the cabin's entertainment system. The screen came to life, displaying a wall covered in photographs—hundreds of them, all of Whitney.

But these weren't ordinary photos. Each image showed her committing various crimes: picking locks, hacking systems, administering poison, wielding weapons with expert precision.

"My collection," Albert explained, pride evident in his voice. "I've been documenting your work since we met. You're so beautiful when you're breaking things."

Whitney stared at the wall of evidence, each photo damning her further. "You've been stalking me."

"Supporting you," he corrected, pointing to specific images. "This one, when you stole the ambassador's encryption keys. This one, when you replaced the governor's medication. And this—" he touched the screen reverently, "—your first perfect crime. The security guard never saw it coming."

Whitney couldn't tear her eyes from the photographic evidence of a life she couldn't remember. "Why would you keep these? It's evidence against me."

Albert laughed, the sound chillingly innocent. "Evidence? It's art. Your masterpieces." He stepped closer, his eyes fever-bright. "The others think you've changed, that you've forgotten who you are. But I know better. The real you is just sleeping."

He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a small pistol, offering it to her handle first. "This was your favorite. Seven years ago, when you killed for the first time, you used this. I had it restored for you."

Whitney took the weapon cautiously, its weight familiar in her hand despite her conscious mind having no memory of it.

"How do you know I won't use this on you?" she asked.

Albert's smile widened as he guided the barrel to his chest, directly over his heart. "Because you already did, three years ago. You said it was to make sure I belonged to you forever." He pulled down his collar to reveal a small, star-shaped scar. "Your bullet is still inside me, right next to my heart. The doctors said removing it would kill me."

【Albert: Favorability -95% → -82% | Warning: Subject displaying extreme devotion triggered by violent stimulus】

Whitney lowered the gun, her mind racing. These men weren't just obsessed with her—they were obsessed with a version of her that committed atrocities. They didn't love her despite her cruelty; they loved her because of it.

As Albert left, promising to bring more "souvenirs" of her forgotten criminal career, Whitney examined the photographs more carefully. In nearly every image, partially obscured in shadows or reflected surfaces, the same figure appeared—someone watching her. The observer had a distinctive tattoo on their wrist, visible in several of the clearer shots.

The same tattoo she had glimpsed on the mysterious shooter from the balcony.

Whitney touched her own blank wrist, then the barcode behind her ear. Who was she really? And who was watching from the shadows, documenting her every crime?

The system chimed again:

【Alert: Psychological profiles updated. All five subjects classified as "Obsessive-Devotional Type C." Caution: Negative actions will trigger increased attachment.】

"So the worse I treat them..." Whitney murmured.

【The more devoted they become. Subject classification: Fatal Attraction Syndrome with Reverse Stimulus Response.】

Whitney stared at the wall of photographs, at the evidence of a life built on calculated cruelty. "They don't want me to be good. They want me to be monstrous."

She picked up the gun Albert had given her, testing its weight once more. The system had expected her to manipulate these men through traditional means—seduction, kindness, playing the victim. But these men were already broken in ways she was only beginning to understand.

They didn't want a princess to save. They wanted a villain to worship.

As Whitney studied the photographs, she noticed something else—in the earliest images, she looked different somehow. Not physically, but in her eyes, her stance. The Whitney in those photos wasn't playing a role or running a con.

She was enjoying it.

"What am I?" she whispered to the empty room.

The system remained silent, but in the corner of the final photograph, the watching figure with the wrist tattoo seemed to stare directly at the camera—directly at Whitney—with eyes that knew the answer.