Jelika stared at the empty space, at the persistent, glowing contract. The prompt pulsed, an insistent heartbeat in the dead silence of the Dean’s wrecked vault. *[Master-Servant Pact: Bavol, UserID: 77-Theta-9, irrevocably transfers all legal and existential rights, holdings, and will to Jelika, UserID: 93-Gamma-4. Affirmation required for Grid re-categorization. Accept? Y/N]* Her lip curled. She remembered the smug idiot, his casual disdain for regulations, his self-satisfied smirk. Then came the phantom flash of him lunging into the steel path of that poisoned blade. The confession about his illegal sensory filters, the raw panic, the utter disgrace. And finally, those dissolving pixels, begging her to keep him anchored to reality. “You are infuriating,” she said to the empty air, her voice a low growl. “You are a menace, a parasite, and a walking disaster.” Her gaze dropped to the ‘Y’ option. It was practically glowing, daring her. She imagined the alternative. Bavol, gone. His infuriating presence, his brilliant, chaotic inventions, the way he always knew how to push her buttons, the way his laughter echoed in the lab, the way he looked at her… Her jaw ached. She wouldn’t have to worry about him ruining her life anymore. She wouldn’t have to worry about him *at all*. But the thought didn’t bring peace. It brought a cold, hollow ache. The vault was freezing, but the chill that settled in her chest had nothing to do with the environment. “Fine,” she bit out, the word tasting like ash. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and pressed the ‘Y’ with a violent jab of her thumb. It wasn’t a choice made with love, or even affection. It was a choice born of stubborn refusal to let the Grid win, to let *anything* take away what was, inexplicably, hers. [DING! Master-Servant Pact affirmed! UserID: 77-Theta-9 (Bavol) successfully re-categorized as Mechanized Familiar of UserID: 93-Gamma-4 (Jelika)! Enjoy your new companion!] The cheerful Grid prompt was instantly followed by another. [System Alert: Server Wipe averted for re-categorized asset! System integrity restored! Auto-healing protocol initiated for Mechanized Familiar Bavol (ServiceID: Familiar-9-Theta)!] Then, silence. *** The first scent to hit Bavol was old aetheric grease and singed copper coils. Next came the scratch of worn wool upholstery under his shoulders—his favorite smuggled dorm divan, long since dragged into Jelika's private sanctuary. Finally, silence: the rot in his gut had vanished without a trace. He blinked, pushing himself up on an elbow. The room was mostly tidy, a stark contrast to the destruction he remembered. The blast door, though dented, was closed, and no assassin bots lay in smoking ruins. Had it all been a dream? A fevered hallucination brought on by the Null-Blade? He reached a hand to his stomach, expecting the raw, gaping wound. Smooth skin met his touch. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the familiar contours, no longer a fractured mess of pixels. He was whole. He was… alive. Then, a low thrum vibrated at the base of his neck. He reached back, fingertips hitting a band of dense, cool light. A choker of interwoven runes pulsed cyan against his skin, humming with persistent ownership. [Mechanized Familiar: Bavol. Designation: Property of Jelika, UserID: 93-Gamma-4. Status: Online. Optimal. System Override: Disabled. Ad-Blocker: Purged. Obedience Sub-Routines: Active.] Bavol stared at the prompt, his brain struggling to process the implications. He was an artificial ward? A glorified pet construct? His mouth fell open. Before he could process the sheer indignity, the hydraulic seals on the workshop entrance wheezed open, revealing Tirvan. His best friend looked absolutely ecstatic, practically vibrating with uncontained energy, a datapad clutched in his hand. “Bavol! Jelika! You’re alive! Well, mostly! Oh, this is amazing! This is *so* amazing!” Tirvan bounded in, skidding to a halt. He didn’t even notice the glowing choker, or Bavol’s stunned stare, or Jelika stepping out from behind a chassis lathe with grease-stained cuffs and an exhausted, victorious smirk. “Tirvan, what in the Hexes are you babbling about?” Jelika asked, her voice even but with an underlying current of exhaustion. “My bot! The matchmaking bot! It worked! It went viral! You guys! Your whole… *thing*! The tragic rivals! The ruined engagement! The heroic sacrifice! The desperate pleas! The love confession in the vault!” Tirvan waved the datapad around like a mad conductor. “I monetized it! All of it! The livestream from the quarantine, the recorded confessions, the… the *groveling*! It was a certified hit! The ‘Rivals to Romantics’ reality stream just hit one billion credits! All your debts, Jelika, they’re paid off! Every single last one!” Bavol’s head snapped towards Jelika. Her debts? All paid? Because of *him*? Because of their disaster? His face, already warm from the servitude prompt, burned red with fresh mortification. He had groveled, yes. He had confessed. He had given his life. And Tirvan had turned it into a viral reality show. “One billion credits?” Jelika repeated slowly, pupils dilating as a bright, unburdened grin spread across her lips for the first time in memory. It wasn’t a triumphant smile, or a mocking one. It was soft, joyful, and completely disarming. A sharp, dizzying thud knocked behind Bavol's ribs. “Every credit! And fifty percent of all future earnings, which, let me tell you, are looking *massive*! I’m thinking product placements, sponsored dates, a line of ‘Hexed Heart’ merchandise…” Tirvan rambled on, completely oblivious to the silent, charged moment between Bavol and Jelika. Bavol discovered he no longer cared about the broadcast, or the bound choker, or the shredded remnants of his dignity. Not with that expression softening her features. He was hers to command, and she was smiling. Jelika walked over to a nearby data console, pulling up a new projection. It wasn’t a blueprint for a new invention or a schematic for an antidote. It was a list of Paldarian wedding venues, ornate cakes, and tailor-crafted ceremony robes. Her fingers danced across the interface, selecting dates and color schemes with an air of absolute focus. “Alright, pet,” Jelika murmured without glancing up, her tone carrying a teasing bite he hadn’t heard since their second-year practicals. “First step: a complete mental purge to scour out every trace of your shady third-party filters. If you try slipping one back in, the Grid's corrective arc-lash will fire automatically. Trust me, lightning through the skull is unpleasant.” She glanced at him over her shoulder, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And then, we pick out a decent ring. Something that won’t get me mistaken for a widow.” Bavol sank deeper into the cushions, the ring of light around his throat steady and chilled against his pulse. Ruined, demoted to property, utterly penniless—none of it tipped the scales against being alive to watch her plan their wedding. “Anything you want, Master,” he said, a genuine, easy grin spreading across his face. “Just… not an autumn wedding. The Hex-Isles are notorious for their pollen counts that time of year.” Jelika scoffed, but a tiny, delighted laugh escaped her lips. [DING! You are now happily married. Would you like to activate Hard Mode?]