I look around, this is really the world I created

  I , unfamiliar beneath my palms. Short, pale blades stretch endlessly, just as I wrote

  Something feels wrong.

  Planet 98.

  

  [Planet 98 is functioning as intended,your body is not, and it’s only been three minutes.

  I'm going to die by the world i created...

  Is this how i am going to die...

  [DANGER!!!: OXYGEN SATURATION FALLING!!.]

  “Open the dress inventory!” I to my last hope.

  “Astronaut outfit!!”

  [Rejected, Use the correct term.]

  

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Think.

  “Pressure…” My voice , barely sound. “Pressure suit—”

  [Confirmed: Extravehicular Mobility Unit.]

  The suit materializes around me in a rush of weight and pressure.

  Cold bands snap into place along my arms, my legs, my chest. The sudden confinement is terrifying for half a second then the air changes.

  Real air.

  Filtered,Pressurized.

  It floods my lungs in a sharp, shocking burst that makes me choke, cough, gasp. My muscles protesting as oxygen finally reaches places.

  The burning doesn’t it fades slowly, retreating inch by inch, leaving behind a deep, aching soreness.

  I in another breath.

  Then .

  My breathing stutters at first, uneven and frantic, but the suit regulates it for me, forcing a rhythm my body can follow. In. Out. In. Out. The screaming in my ears dulls to a low hum. The darkness creeping at the edges of my … then pulls back.

  Pins and needles still crawl under my skin, but my fingers loosen their death grip on the grass. I can feel them again not perfectly, but enough.

  Enough to curl them.

  My thoughts return in fragments at first.

  Sensations sharpen, The grass beneath me feels solid again. The world stops slipping away.

  I lie there, shaking inside the suit, lungs burning, head throbbing.

  "Open dress inventory"My voice comes out ,but it works.

  A translucent window unfolds before my eyes.

  Now let

  At the very top of the window floats a single horizontal bar,long, clean, softly glowing at the edges. A search bar. Minimalist. White light against transparent gray, like a Chrome tab suspended in midair.

  Below it, faint category tabs line up neatly, as if afraid of being messy:

  Outerwear | Survival | Utility | Adaptive Gear | Cosmetic Layers

  I swallow, my throat still aching.

  If I remember correctly, this system was designed to be voice-activated. Efficient. Intuitive. No wasted motion.

  "...Lightweight Invisible pressure suit gear"

  Huh??, why is the screen not changing or showing something new..

  For a moment, I wonder if my voice didn’t register. My throat still burns, raw from near failure. I try to speak again.

  Then the screen flickers.

  [You can customize the outfit to your liking.

  Every outfit functions as a pressure suit.]

  This have been bugging me from the ..

  The system window doesn't give me any information right away.

  "I have a question, is every outfit design for my survival in this planet?"

  The system window it self is trust worth. because it means it's not a sly system.

  For most it's honest when you ask it, after all i write this world in most logical function. The system it self is different from the other system i wrote.

  That means it's not my writing..

  [Every outfit in the inventory is optimized for your physical survival. Environmental hazards, oxygen scarcity, pressure fluctuations, and basic bodily protection are automatically applied. Cosmetic appearance does not compromise survival functions]

  How interesting, but then again foreign from my writing is dangerous

  “Dress inventory.”

  The words leave my mouth quietly, but the window responds instantly.

  I force myself to focus.

  I can’t choose anything reckless. No matter how elegant the options look, I’m still an outsider

  If I wear something too alien,too incompatible, does creatures could cook me alive.

  Pressure, Temperature, Oxygen balance.

  I can’t afford mistakes.

  I scroll.

  The list moves soundlessly, fabric names and silhouettes gliding past my vision like catalog ghosts.

  Most are unfamiliar,styles shaped by cultures that evolved under skies I don’t belong to.Then..

  One entry catches my eye.

  Not because it looks safe.

  But because it looks just right

  With this, I could play the role of a goddess or a myth.

  Something that doesn’t need permission to exist.

  I select it,The suit responds immediately.

  The rigid pressure layers loosen, dissolving like mist. The weight redistributes instead of disappearing, sinking into something softer, more fluid. Panels retract beneath overlapping folds of fabric, sealing themselves into invisible seams.

  The transformation is slow. Intentional.

  The final form settles around my body like a breath held perfectly in place.

  The dress is a fantasy gown white threaded with soft green hues, as if light itself was woven into the cloth. Fine gold embroidery traces delicate floral and vine patterns across the fitted, high?collared bodice, precise and symmetrical. Sheer sleeves flow from my shoulders, translucent and light, their edges trimmed in faint gold that glimmers when I move.

  The skirt falls in layered asymmetry, fabric draping and folding as though gravity here favors elegance. At my waist, a thin gold chain rests gently, neither decorative nor ornamental anchoring something unseen.

  It feels light.

  Too light,But when I breathe.The air remains perfect,Pressurized, Filtered,Balanced.

  My skin doesn’t burn. My lungs don’t protest. The temperature stabilizes against my body like a second heartbeat. Beneath silk and embroidery, the pressure suit hums quietly, every survival protocol intact.