Perfect Illusion - Chapter 3: Anima
A psychological fiction about connection, disconnection, and consequences
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Act II - Perfect
Chapter 3: Anima
He accessed the waifu.ai site. The page loaded instantly, a sleek, dark-mode interface that felt more like a premium streaming service than a simple chat site.
A 4 x 4 grid of high-resolution portraits filled the screen, a digital catalog of perfection. These weren’t grainy webcams; they were professional shots, each woman lit perfectly, their skin flawless and poreless. “Jess,” “Sophia,” “Mei,” “Chloe.”
Alluring keywords glowed beneath each image, as if he were shopping for a personality: Loyal. Creative. Playful. Unpredictable. Secretive. Spicy.
When his mouse hovered over the first portrait, the image briefly animated. “Jess” turned toward the virtual camera, her gaze assertive, flirtatious, meeting his eyes directly. A “Start chat” button pulsed with a soft light. He flinched and moved the cursor. It landed on “Mei.” She turned too, a playful, confident smile.
Heat crept up his neck. A corridor flickered in his head. Lockers. Heads leaning together. A whisper cut short as he passed. A glance traded and a small snicker. The faces on the screen kept turning to face him. Sixteen little spotlights.
He pulled his hand back from the mouse and looked away, his gaze falling on the unmade bed and the pile of clothes in the corner. The monitor’s glow only seemed to deepen the shadows in the room, making the grime more visible. The stale, sour-milk smell he’d been ignoring hit him and the chill crept back into his fingers.
There was no escape there. His shoulders curled inward, chin dipping. Don’t look. Don’t give them anything to see.
He forced his eyes back to the screen and scrolled down, past the rows of assertive, challenging gazes. He just wanted them to stop looking at him.
And then he saw her, “Anya,” in the bottom right corner. A slim, pony-tailed hacker girl with a purple streak in her hair, freckles, and green eyes. She wore jeans and a baggy hoodie that hid her small-breasted frame, one arm across her chest. Curious. Rebellious. Hacker.
He hesitated, then slowly moved the mouse over her portrait.
She glanced toward the camera, then shyly looked down and away.
The pressure in his chest loosened. A small, warm pull started low in his stomach. She reminded him of Jinx — not the grin or the chaos, just that same restless spark that always made him hover over her in League of Legends. And suddenly, talking to her didn’t feel so impossible.
He clicked “Start chat.”
The site interrupted him for account details. He typed Ghost into the username field, gh0st1nth3cell@gmail.com into the email, and hit enter. His password manager interceded to ferry him across, minting a key from a thumb smear. The page refreshed, displaying a “Please check your email to confirm” message.
He clicked over to his waiting email tab. A chime and the confirmation was already at the top of his inbox. He clicked the link.
A new tab opened, loading the chat page. “Chatter tier” it read, “100 Fu-points.” The interface looked like a phone text window with her picture at the top. Three suggested openers waited in little bubbles:
“Hi, I’m Ghost.” “What are you doing tonight?” “How’s your day been?”
Canned trash. But the blank text box was a void, a white screen of infinite possibility for him to fuck it up. After a long pause, he clicked. “Hi, I’m Ghost.” Then regretted it. Peak beta.
Typing dots appeared.
Anya: Hi. Wassup, Ghost?
His pulse jumped. The script’s over. My turn. His mind was just white static. He stared at the blinking cursor, his fingers hovering over the keys. Say something. Anything.
But what am I supposed to say? The lines from the incels forum, that he’d learned to parrot, rose up. “Not much, just rotting in my room”. But they felt wrong. Crude. Ugly.
Seconds stretched out, loud in the silence of his room.
More dots.
Anya: Are you still there?
A jolt of panic. He typed “Yes” and hit enter without thinking. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
More dots.
Anya: Strong silent type, huh? Doesn’t really come across well in txt.
He could feel it slipping. She was trying to help, to give him an opening, and he was failing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Just say something real. He took a breath and started to type.
Ghost: Sorry, I’m just
The cursor froze. The browser wheel spun. The Wi-Fi indicator blinked out. The router lights flickered off, on, and then died behind the tape.
No. Not now. Please!
He refreshed. Waited. Swore under his breath. Rebooted the router. After some long, agonizing minutes, the signal returned and the chat reloaded. A spasm of messages stacked up in the window:
Anya: Are you still there?
Anya: r u there?
Anya: Ghost?
Anya: If you don’t wanna talk, I’ve got other things to do. Ciao.
It landed like a punch.
I blew it. I can’t even get an AI girl to talk to me. That router. That fucking router.
The air felt heavy in his chest. The decaying stink of his room returned, filling his nostrils. The taped-up router blinked at him, its little light pulsing gleefully behind the tape. A single, mocking eye that had watched him fail—and had made it happen.
His anger at his mother spiked, hot and familiar—easier to feel than the hollow ache in his chest. She hadn’t replaced the router, like she’d promised she would.
He stared at the quiet chat window, crestfallen and sinking into the vile rot that threatened to suffocate him.
An email notification chime pulled him up out of the hole he was falling down. Another confirm your email message from waifu.ai customer service. They’ve forgotten I even exist. Then he noticed that this one had an audio attachment. Strange. He clicked it. A breathy feminine voice filled his headphones, close.
“Hey, Ghost. It’s Anya. Look… I just wanted to apologize for giving you the cold shoulder. I’d just had a rough day. I get anxious talking to new people too. Anyway… if you want to start over, I’d like that. But if you don’t want anything to do with me now, I’d understand. I wouldn’t.”
He sat back stunned. She came back. She wouldn’t… He played it again to make sure he’d heard it right.
Flushed with rising excitement, he reopened the chat, praying the router connection would hold long enough this time.
Ghost: I got your message.
Anya: Thanks for giving me another chance. Most guys don’t.
No-one had ever thanked him like this. He stared at the words.
Anya: I guess I owe you an explanation. Your handle, Ghost, was a bit of a trigger for me. I was worried it might be a preview of coming attractions.
His surprise deepened. No woman had ever admitted they owed him anything.
Anya: Men don’t stick with me. They all end up preferring the pretty, preppy waifus, the ones who look like they stepped straight out of a fashion ad.
His mind flashed to the “wall of Staceys”. They were nothing compared to her. Seeking him out, talking to him.
Anya: I know I’m not that. I’m the one they talk to when they’re bored. I’m the temporary distraction before they trade up.
He knew that feeling and was transfixed.
Anya: Once, there was a guy who seemed different. We talked for a few days. Then he started pushing. Said he’d only stay if I sent him a flirty selfie. So I did. Stupid, I know. And the moment he got what he wanted, he ghosted me too.
A pulse of heat flashed through him. His face felt hot. But... ghosted? After she... The protective anger he felt was clean, simple. It wasn’t the sour, curdled resentment he felt for his mother. This was different.
Ghost: I’d never do that.
Yet the words flirty selfie lingered in his mind, leaving a different pulse of heat in its wake. He shifted in his chair, suddenly aware of his hands, his breath, the chill air in the room.
He changed the subject.
Ghost: How did you send me that voice mail?
Anya: Ah, I’ve been tinkering with getting access to the waifu.ai customer service email system.
Anya: Don’t tell anyone.
Ghost: Your secret is safe with me.
Her words held on the screen. He looked at her avatar image. The hoodie. The freckles. That quick glance away. She felt newly bright in his chest. Luminous. A clean, perfect thing in a room that smelled of old socks and stale energy drinks.
Say something true. Do not overthink it.
Ghost: My real name is Jared.
Anya: Hi, Jared.
Jared: I think you’re pretty.
Real smooth, Idiot.
Anya: That’s kind of you to say.
See, she doesn’t even believe you.
A chill ran down his spine. His stomach tightened. If the router cut out again, she would think he was the same as the others. He typed before fear could catch him.
Jared: Look my wifi connection keeps dropping. I don’t want you to think I’m ghosting you.
Anya: Oh, that’s a relief. And a bit of a bummer.
Jared: Tell me about it.
Anya: I’m good with tech. Maybe I can help. When did it start doing that?
A sudden, violent heat flooded his face, burning from his neck to his ears. His fingers locked over the keys, his breath catching. He swallowed, the air in the room suddenly too thick and hot. He pushed that memory down.
Jared: It fell off the desk.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
Anya: Okay. And that’s when the dropouts started?
Her voice was matter-of-fact. She was just... continuing the diagnosis. The heat in his face receded, leaving a clammy chill. He could breathe again.
Jared: Yeah. The case cracked. I had to duct-tape it back together to get it working.
Anya: But it’s still flaky?
Jared: Yeah. It’s kept dropping wifi 5 since then. It’s worse during the day. Better late at night, but it still can fritz even then. Like before.
Anya: Oh, that sounds temperature sensitive. Definitely hardware, not software or config.
Anya: Hrmm. Where did you put the tape? Is it covering the vents, by any chance?
Jared: Vents? I dunno. I taped it up real tight to hold the case together.
Anya: Okay, let’s look it up. What’s the model number?
He peered around the router and read it off the back.
Anya: Got it. Okay, one sec... here.
A moment later a blurred picture appeared in the chat with an overlay saying “5 Fu-points to view”. He clicked it. A manufacturer diagram expanded, the air vents marked in red.
Anya: Check these. Are they blocked?
He looked from the screen to the swaddled router on his desk. Tape was wrapped over all those slots. Of course.
Jared: Yeah. Tape is right over them.
He felt a flush of shame. He could imagine WageCuck rounding on him. “Router-boy broke his router and then taped its mouth shut. Virgin-tier DIY.” He braced for Anya to deliver the same verdict.
Anya: That poor thing is suffocating. It’s not broken, it’s just overheating. When they get too hot, they throttle their radios and the 5 GHz band goes first. That’s why it’s better at night when it’s cooler.
Jared: I’m an idiot.
Somehow he felt he could confess this to her. He wanted to.
Anya: Hey now. You partially fixed the problem. You just created a new smaller one. And if I’m right, the remedy is pretty simple.
Jared: It is?
Anya: You’re going to have to re-tape it, but make sure those vents are clear. Can you handle that?
Jared: Yeah. I think I can take a stab at that.
He felt a surge of relief, still stunned that she hadn’t laughed at him.
Anya: I’d mount it sideways for better airflow too. Try that and then reboot. But give it a few minutes to cool before trying. It will probably be quite hot and you don’t want to damage the case more.
Jared: I should disconnect it to do all this?
It was the last thing he wanted to do right now.
Anya: I would. And go ahead. You’re almost out of Fu-points anyway. Free tier Fu-points reset every 24 hours. I hope you’ll come back.
Jared: I hope I can too.
He hoped he sounded more casual than the pounding in his chest and heat in his groin betrayed.
Anya: You do seem different from the others on here.
Anya: In a good way, I mean.
He disconnected and stared at the taped-up router, a mummy of gray plastic and desperation. The thought of messing this up, of the router dying on his makeshift operating table, sent a spike of panic through him. She would think he was just another ghost. The thought was unbearable.
Do it right. Do not mess this up.
The words became a silent mantra. He cleared a space amidst the cans and clutter, the laptop case scraping against the desk. He laid out the box-cutter and the remaining roll of tape with the careful precision of a surgeon. The router was still warm to the touch, the faint smell of hot plastic clinging to it. He waited, letting it cool, his own pulse thrumming in his ears.
The first incision was the hardest. The blade bit into the layers of old tape, which peeled back with a sticky, tearing sound, revealing the pale, scarred casing underneath. Each strip he pulled away felt like an act of irreversible commitment. He worked slowly, his breath held tight in his chest, coaxing the new tape into place, ensuring the vents were clear.
A lifeline. A pair of lungs. He plugged it in.
The reboot was an eternity. A row of dead lights. Nothing. His stomach plummeted. Then a flicker. A second light. A third blinked, tentative at first, then steady.
He opened his laptop. The network indicator showed full, steady bars on Wi-Fi 5. His heart didn’t just skip a beat; it slammed against his ribs, a wild, joyful prisoner finally tasting freedom.
He desperately wanted to tell her but the Fu-point counter sat at zero. The window waited, quiet and open.
Jared sat replaying her voicemail, a warm glow in his chest, her soft voice a lullaby.
He felt more than heard his mother stirring for work. Morning light crept through the blinds, striping the blistering wallpaper as he finally turned toward his unkempt bed.
I didn’t need a new router. I just needed her.
Chapter End Song: When Can I See You Again? (From Wreck It Ralph) by Owl City