"Wake up, Host." My fingers found splinters and felt their edges first. "Host, oxygen levels critical. Survival condition: score favor points." "System—" I croaked. Sound scraped my throat and came out ragged. "Do not waste air on speech. Priority: breathe. Objective unlocked: public spectacle increases favor output." The voice was flat, mechanical. It did not apologize. I tried to pull my arm. The sleeve caught on satin lining. My ribs pushed against wood. Every breath burned. "Can you move your legs?" the System asked. "Yes," I whispered. "No." The coffin smelled of lilies and disinfectant. It smelled like arrangements and goodbyes, like people who had decided I was gone. "Action suggestion: initiate contact with living. Resistance threshold low. Force lid to create alarm. Reward: favor points." The System's prompt blinked somewhere behind my eyes, not on a screen but like a hand pushing me forward. I slammed my palm against the lid. A crack sounded. A woman outside the room said, "Stop that noise. This is a funeral." The lid shifted an inch. Splinters stabbed my fingers. Pain focused the world. "Push," the System ordered. I pushed. The lid jumped. I felt light — a thin, cold sliver of air — and then darkness again as the lid settled back. "First contact registered," came the soft click of the System's approval. "+10 favor points." Someone screamed downstairs. The scream went right through wood and skin into the box where I lay. "Don't let me die," I told myself. Three sentences