Chapter 17: The Ghost of Beige Future

7:00 a.m. – The Helicopter

POP.

Screaming.

Not your screaming. Hers.

There is now a feral‑looking teenaged girl in your bedroom, hoodie up, hair in a greasy, matted ponytail that feels damp for reasons you don’t want to investigate.

She smells ripe. Somehow both sour and sweet, like expired gummies left in a gym bag.

You try to move your hand.

You can’t.

You’re fused to her. By her ponytail.

You just close your eyes and pretend you're somewhere far, far away.

“Oh my God!” she screeches, “WHY ARE YOU HOLDING MY HAIR?! CREEP!”

You: “I didn’t—ow ow ow OW—stop moving!”

She spins in a full circle. You’re dragged with her. Then another. Then another.

You are now a human wind sock, tethered to a screeching 16‑year‑old helicoptering in place.

“LET ME GO!” she howls, spinning harder.

“I CAN’T!”

“YOU’RE A KIDNAPPER!”

“You literally appeared in my bed!”

She’s hyperventilating. “My mom was right. I’m gonna die in a basement.”

“Was she talking about my basement? Or yours?”

She points at you like you’re the Antichrist. “DON’T GASLIGHT ME.”

7:10 a.m. – The Negotiation

She finally stops screaming, though mostly because she’s out of breath.

You give her water. She glares at it like it might be poison.

“Who even are you?” she snaps.

“Some guy. You?”

“Kayla.”

“Kayla, this is… complicated.”

“This is ****.”

You pinch your nose. “If it was ****, do you think I’d be giving you water and letting you scream for thirty minutes?”

She thinks about that. “…Maybe you’re a nice kidnapper.”

You groan so hard your soul leaves your body.

“Okay, Kayla—”

“Don’t say my name. Makes it sound like we’re friends. We’re not.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fine. You. Look, we’re stuck. It'll go away in 24 hours. We just have to get through today without killing each other.”

Kayla snorts. “Okay. That's easy. We’re staying here. You’re gonna shut up, and I’m gonna play Path of Exile on your computer until I go back.”

You: “What? No.”

“Yes.”

“I have to go to work.”

She blinks at you like you just said you eat rocks for breakfast. “Work? At 7 a.m.? That’s… disgusting.”

“Welcome to adulthood.”

“I don’t do adulthood.”

You: “Too bad. Get up.”

She crosses her arms. “No. This is my house now. I live here. Go to work without me.”

You wave your fused hand. “Do you see how that’s not possible?”

7:15 a.m. – War Declared

You try to stand.

She yanks back on her ponytail, dragging you down with her.

“OW—Kayla—”

“This is oppression!” she screeches. “You’re keeping me from my gaming setup!”

“You don’t have a setup here!”

“THEN I’LL USE YOURS.”

“You’re not installing malware on my laptop.”

Her jaw drops. “MALWARE? Excuse you, Path of Exile is a lifestyle.”

You: “You’re not playing it.”

Kayla: “Try and stop me, Beige Man.”

You do, in fact, try to stop her.

She flails. You flail. Somehow, your hand stays fused to her hair as she crab‑scuttles toward your desk like a gremlin defending a treasure hoard.

She throws herself at your laptop. “I’M DOWNLOADING IT.”

You pull back. “YOU ARE NOT.”

“YOU CAN’T STOP ME.”

“YOU’RE ATTACHED TO ME.”

“I WILL BITE YOU!”

You believe her.

7:25 a.m. – The Standoff

You’re panting. She’s panting. The laptop is safe, for now.

She’s glaring at you with **** in her eyes.

“You’re ruining my life,” she hisses.

“Lady, I just met you.”

“I could be grinding right now. Do you know what day it is? League start. LEAGUE START.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She gasps. “You’re an NPC. A literal NPC. No wonder your life is beige.”

“I didn’t choose this!”

Her eyes narrow. “And you smell weird.”

You stare at her. “I smell weird? You smell like week old mountain dew left out in the sun.”

"Rude."

7:45 a.m. – Sunlight

You try to leave the house.

She fights the door like a vampire.

“It BURNS.”

“It’s the sun.”

“I don’t do the sun.”

“Well, tough. I have to go to work.”

She digs in her heels. “Then we’re calling out sick. I’m not built for this.”

You tug her forward by the ponytail.

She yelps. “OW! You can’t just drag me like a dog!”

“You’re leaving me no options!”

She goes silent for a moment, then mutters, “You deserve prison.”

9:15 a.m. – The Second Computer Fight

You sit down at your desk.

Kayla immediately yanks your arm toward your work computer.

“No,” you say.

“Yes,” she says.

“You cannot install anything on this.”

She glares at you with the righteous fury of someone who has never held a job. “Then why do you even have it? This is prime gaming hardware.”

“It’s for work.”

“Path of Exile is work.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. Endgame mapping. You wouldn’t understand.”

She mashes the keyboard anyway. IT instantly locks her out.

She screeches. “WHO PUT ADMIN LOCKS ON THIS?! THIS IS A HATE CRIME.”

9:45 a.m. – The Nuclear Option

Your boss appears at your cubicle.

“Hey,” he says carefully, staring at the greasy‑ponytailed teenager tethered to your hand like an evidence exhibit. “What… exactly is going on here?”

Before you can even open your mouth, Kayla hits play on her inner trauma documentary.

“Sir,” she says, in the smallest, most trembly voice imaginable, “I didn’t want to come here. He made me.”

Your stomach plummets through the floor. “What—NO—”

She points at you with a shaking finger. “He said if I didn’t do what he wanted… I couldn’t go home.”

Your boss blinks. “I’m sorry… what?”

You start flailing. “That is NOT—”

Kayla ups the volume: tears, sniffles, full‑on trembling. “He drags me around by my hair. Like I’m property.”

Every conversation in the office stops.

Phones appear. Coworkers are filming.

“Oh my God,” someone whispers. “This is like an Epstein thing.”

You ****. “WHAT?!”

Kayla, voice breaking: “I just wanted to play video games… but he said little girls don’t get to make their own choices.”

Gasps.

“Kayla—”

“And he said… I belong to him now.”

You’re lightheaded. “I DID NOT—”

Your brain scrambles for the truth. For anything that clears you. And out of your mouth comes:

“She’s—she’s an addict!” you blurt. “She’ll do anything and say anything to get what she wants!”

Silence.

Then:

“Oh my God,” someone says. “He’s grooming her.”

“No,” you bark, panicked. “Not like that—”

“An addict?” another coworker hisses. “She’s a child.”

“No! To a video game! She’s addicted to a video game!”

Your boss’s face has gone blank in the way people do when they’re already drafting your termination email.

Kayla sniffles, turns toward the nearest camera, and whispers: “He said no one would believe me.”

You hate her so much.

10:30 a.m. – The Throne Room

You are in your boss’s office.

Your boss is on the phone with Legal, muttering words like “liability,” “minors,” and “public relations disaster.”

Kayla is in his chair. Feet up. Hoodie hiked.

Playing Path of Exile.

On his computer.

She’s got that dead‑eyed gamer bliss, clicking like she’s diffusing a bomb.

“Look at this,” she says casually, as if she didn’t just socially ruin your entire life. “Dropped a six‑link.”

You stare at her. At your boss. At the floor. “You’re an addict.”

“Shut up,” she says, not looking away. “I’m mapping.”

You gesture wildly with your free hand. “You popped into existence in a strange man’s apartment, getting dragged around by your hair, and your only concern was finding a way to play more Path of Exile.”

She clicks. Shrugs. “League start.”

Then, for the first time all day, she pauses.

Her hands still on the keyboard.

She tilts her head, actually looking at you — not glaring, not performing, but really studying you.

“…So what is this?” she asks slowly. “Some kinda… Christmas story thing?”

You blink. “What?”

“Like, you know. Scrooge. Ghosts. Lessons.” She gestures vaguely at you. “You’re, like, the Ghost of Beige Futures or something. I’m supposed to, like, learn not to rot in my basement or I end up… like you.”

You open your mouth. Close it. You have no idea what to do with that.

She snorts softly. “Guess that tracks.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet except for the hum of the computer and your boss whisper‑arguing with Legal.

Kayla shrugs again, pulling her hood tighter. “Kinda depressing magic, though. If that’s what this is.”

Then she cracks a small, lopsided grin and goes right back to clicking. “Anyway. Ooh, exalt.”

Your boss hangs up the phone and says, flatly, “We need to have a conversation about your future here.”

You stare at the ceiling, wondering if it’s too late to just let the genie kill you.

7:30 p.m. – The Discovery

You made the mistake of telling her she’d have to wait out the night at your place.

She made the mistake of believing your laptop could run Path of Exile.

Now you’re in your living room, watching her stare at your wheezing laptop with the kind of disgust usually reserved for dead things in walls.

“What is this,” she says flatly.

“A laptop.”

“No. This is a beige coffin. This atrocity can’t even open Steam.”

You shrug. “It’s good for emails.”

She whirls on you, eyes blazing. “EMAILS? You live like this?! What do you do all day, write apology letters to yourself?”

8:00 p.m. – The Five Stages of Withdrawal

Stage One: Denial. “It just needs updates. I can make this work. League won’t even stutter.”

Stage Two: Anger. “HOW DOES ANYONE LIVE LIKE THIS?! I’VE SEEN MICROWAVES WITH MORE PROCESSING POWER!”

Stage Three: Bargaining. “Do you at least have a console? I’ll even play Diablo. Or Minesweeper. Or literally anything.”

Stage Four: Depression. “I can feel my neurons committing suicide.”

Stage Five: Acceptance. She slumps onto your couch like a starfish. “Fine. I guess I’ll just… rot. Like you.”

11:00 p.m. – Living Room Chaos

You doze off.

When you wake up, she’s moved all your furniture. You're not sure how.

“Feng shui,” she says, perched smugly on your armchair. “You’re welcome.”

“You can’t just—”

“Shh. It’s better now.”

It isn’t.

1:00 a.m. – Sleepover

She refuses to sleep in your bed.

“Nice try, creep.”

“It’s literally just a bed.”

“I don’t want whatever sad‑divorced‑man energy is on those sheets.”

Before burritoing herself in your blanket, she mumbles, “This is, like… the universe punishing me. I never leave my room, and now I’m glued to… you. The Ghost of Beige Apartment Future.”

You: “Goodnight, Kayla.”

3:15 a.m. – Confessional Hour

You wake up to find her sitting cross‑legged on your floor, eating stale cereal out of the box.

“You know what’s sad?” she says, between mouthfuls of captain crunch.

You: “Everything?”

“No, you. I thought my life sucked. Then I saw yours.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re like… the final boss of giving up. I’m horrified.”

Then she adds, “Also, your cereal hurts. I think the roof of my mouth is bleeding.”

6:55 a.m. – The Countdown

She’s sitting cross‑legged on the floor, dragging you down beside her by default, staring at the clock.

“You know,” she says, “this whole thing? Still sucked.”

“Good talk.”

“But…” She chews her lip. “Maybe I needed it. The whole… talking. Being out here. Even if you’re… you.”

You rub your face. “Not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It’s not.” She smirks.

7:00 a.m. – Pop

POP.

She’s gone.

On your counter:

“Thanks for the side quest. Get a real computer. Don't rot too hard, Beige Man. —Kayla”

You sigh. “…I hate this magic.”