John kept talking.
And talking.
And talking.
"—and then she was all like, 'You don't understand my vision, John!' And I was like, 'Babe, your vision is literally just you in a bikini holding a pumpkin spice latte. That's not a vision, that's a Starbucks ad.' But she didn't think it was funny—"
"Mhm."
"—and then she made me take like two hundred pictures. Two hundred, bro! My arm was literally numb by the end of it. I couldn't even—"
"Right."
"—and you know what the worst part is? She only posted like three of them. Three! Out of two hundred! And they weren't even the good ones, they were the ones where I looked all 'boyfriend material' or whatever. I wasn't even looking at the camera in any of them! She said it looked 'candid'—"
"Uh huh."
"—like, what does that even mean? Candid? I looked like I was having a stroke, bro. I swear, sometimes I think she just keeps me around for the aesthetic—"
I took another sip of my beer. It still tasted like battery acid, but at this point I was using it as a coping mechanism.
This dude would not shut the fuck up.
And the worst part was that he kept circling back to the same topics. Sylvie. Steph. Girls in general. Every other sentence was some comment about a woman's body, or some story about a party, or some vague brag about his sex life that I'm pretty sure was heavily exaggerated if Bethany's earlier comments about his... *equipment* were anything to go by.
"You know what I mean, bro?" He elbowed me in the ribs.
"Absolutely."
"Like, I love Sylvie, don't get me wrong. She's my girl. But sometimes I see other girls and I'm just like... damn. You know? Like, your stepmom, for instance. She's like a solid nine. Maybe nine-point-five. Those tits are—"
"Can you not."
"What? I'm just being honest! I'm a visual guy, bro. I appreciate beauty. It's a compliment, really."
"It really isn't."
"You're so uptight, Noir."
"Noel."
"Right, right. Noel." He took another long swig of his beer, draining the bottle. He let out a loud burp that made me want to throw the remote at his face. "You know what your problem is, man? You need to get laid. Like, seriously. All this reading and being quiet and brooding in your room—you need to get out there. Find a nice girl. Or a not-nice girl. Whatever works."
"Thanks for the advice."
"Anytime, bro. Anytime." He set his empty bottle on the coffee table and looked around. "Hey, you got any more beer?"
"No."
"Wine?"
"No."
"Anything?"
"Water."
"Ugh." He made a face. "I'd rather drink tap water from a gas station bathroom."
"That can be arranged."
Before he could respond to that, the sound of heels clicking on stairs echoed through the apartment. We both looked up.
Sylvie was coming down the stairs.
She was wearing a white crop top that showed off her entire midriff and barely contained her massive DDD-cup tits. The fabric was stretched so tight across her chest that I could see the outline of her nipples through it. Below that, she had on a pair of denim shorts that were so short they basically qualified as underwear. Her ass cheeks were literally hanging out the bottom. The pockets of the shorts were longer than the shorts themselves, sticking out from underneath like some kind of fashion disaster.
Her golden hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, her lips glossy. She looked like she'd stepped off an Instagram filter.
She looked at John first, then at me. Her expression shifted from "happy to see her boyfriend" to "why is this trash in my living room" in about half a second.
"What are you doing?" she asked, looking at John.
"Just chilling with your bro, babe! Noel's cool. We were watching the game, having a beer—"
"Since when do you guys hang out?"
"We don't. He was just here when I came down."
Sylvie looked at me with barely concealed disdain. "And why are you still down here?"
"I live here."
"Unfortunately." She flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned back to John. "Are you ready? Our reservation is in twenty minutes."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm ready. Let me just—" He stood up, stretching. "Hey Noel, it was great meeting you, man. We should hang out sometime. Grab a beer, watch a game, whatever."
"Sure."
I stood up too. And I extended my hand.
John looked at it for a moment, then grinned and grabbed it.
"Good meeting you, bro."
"See you around, Noel!" John slapped me on the shoulder with a grin.
"Yeah. See you."
Sylvie rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. "Come on, John. Let's go before I have to look at him for another second."
"Bye, Noel! Tell your stepmom I said hi!"
"She won't care."
"I know! But it's polite!"
They left. The door closed behind them. Sylvie's heels clicked down the hallway, fading into silence.
I stood there for a moment.
Then I smiled.
Then I started laughing.
"Hah... hahaha... hahahahaha!"
This was perfect. This was fucking *perfect*.
[Ding!]
[Parasite (Gen 1) status update.]
[Host: John Jackson]
[Ability: Gravity Negation (A-rank)]
[Gen 1-A: Drained: 0.1% / 12%]
[Gen 1-B: Drained: 0.1% / 12%]
[Gen 1-C: Drained: 0.1% / 12%]
[Total drain: 0.3% / 36%]
[Inherited trait: Enhanced Speed (minor)]
[Lifespan: 11:47:55 remaining]
I sat back down on the couch, still grinning. The TV was playing some commercial about car insurance. I wasn't watching it. I was just staring at the screen, thinking about how quickly things had changed.
"What are you so happy about?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Steph was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her silk robe tied loosely around her waist. She looked like she'd just woken up from a nap—her hair was messy, her eyes were puffy, and there was a crease on her cheek from the pillow.
"It doesn't look like nothing. You're smiling. You never smile."
"Maybe I'm just having a good day."
"You? A good day?" She squinted at me suspiciously. "What did you do? Did you break something?"
"No."
"Did you steal something?"
"No."
"Then why are you—"
"I just had a good day, Steph. Is that really so hard to believe?"
She stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head. "You're weird. Whatever. I don't have the energy to deal with your bullshit today." She walked past me toward the kitchen, her robe riding up to reveal her thick thighs and the curve of her ass. "There's leftover pasta in the fridge if you're hungry."
"...Thanks."
"Don't mention it. "
She disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the fridge open, the clink of a wine bottle, and then the sound of her pouring herself a glass.
I stood up from the couch and headed for the stairs.
"Where are you going?"
"To my room."
"It's 8 PM. You're going to bed already?"
"I'm tired."
"You're always tired." She sipped her wine. "Whatever. Try not to die in your sleep or whatever it is you do in there."
"Goodnight, Steph."
"...Night."
I climbed the stairs, skipped the third step, and closed my door behind me.
The room was dark and quiet. I lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of the system's power humming through my veins.
Two powers. Speed and—soon—fucking gravity.
And this was just the beginning.
[Parasite (Gen 1) ×3 status:]
[Host: John Jackson]
[Fill: 0.3%]
[Lifespan: 11:42:08]
I closed my eyes and smiled.
◇◇◇
I woke up to the sound of bass thumping through the wall.
"*BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.*"
"FUCK! FLINT!?"
My eyes snapped open. The ceiling of my room stared back at me, unchanged from five hours ago. I checked the clock on my nightstand.
12:07 AM.
I'd been out for about five hours, and I felt completely rested. Not the groggy, half-dead feeling I usually got from sleeping too little. I felt... good. Alert. Energized. Like I could run a marathon and then come back and do calculus.
"*BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.*"
The music from the next room was getting louder. I could hear voices—male voices, plural—laughing and shouting over whatever garbage rap song was playing. And above it all, Bethany's unmistakable hyena laugh.
"*Hehehehe—OMG, stop! You're so bad!*"
I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
"Why the fuck is she having a party at midnight on a—"
I stopped. It was the weekend. Saturday night turning into Sunday morning. Of course she was having a party. Of course she was.
But I really didn't like the Boom sound. I think I have a PTSD...
I got up, stretched, and decided to test something.
I focused on my legs, on the buzzing energy that had been sitting in my core since I consumed the Enigma. I could feel it—this constant, low-frequency hum, like a motor idling in the background. I just had to... rev it up.
I took a step.
Then another.
Then I was across the room in what felt like a single blink. The door was right there, and I'd crossed ten feet without even trying. The world had barely shifted around me.
"Holy shit," I whispered, looking down at my feet. "That's... that's fast."
I wasn't even pushing. That was maybe... what? 30 km/h? 40? A light jog for me now. I could feel the potential sitting there, waiting to be unleashed. Like pressing the gas pedal on a Ferrari and barely touching it.
I wanted to test more. I wanted to run. But I couldn't exactly sprint around the apartment at midnight without waking everyone up.
Later. I'd test it later.
I opened my door and stepped into the hallway. The music hit me like a wall—some generic party anthem with too much bass and not enough melody. Bethany's door was open, and I could see the glow of string lights and the silhouettes of people moving around inside.
I didn't look. I didn't care. I started walking toward the stairs.
"Hey! Loser!"
I stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath.
Bethany was leaning against her doorframe, holding a red plastic cup. Her hair was messy, her cheeks flushed, and she was wearing a tiny pink tube top that was struggling to contain her massive tits and a pair of shorts that were basically underwear. Her thick thighs were on full display, and her pose was deliberately provocative—the kind of thing she'd post on her Instagram story with some caption about "living her best life."
She saw me looking—at her, not at her body—and flipped me off.
"The fuck are you doing up, creep?"
"Living my life. You should try it sometime."
"I AM living my life. That's the difference between us." She gestured vaguely behind her. "I have friends. I have people who actually want to spend time with me. You have... what? Books? Your weird little phone that you don't even have anymore?"
"Goodnight, Bethany."
"Night, freak." She disappeared back into her room, and the music got louder.
I kept walking.
The stairs were quiet—everyone was either asleep or too drunk to notice me. I skipped the third step out of habit and made my way down to the living room.
The clock on the wall confirmed it. 12:14 AM.
I pulled up the system.
[Ding!]
[Parasite (Gen 1) status update.]
[Host: John Jackson]
[Ability: Gravity Negation (A-rank)]
[Gen 1-B: Drained: 5.1% / 12%]
[Gen 1-C: Drained: 5.1% / 12%]
[Total drain: 15.3% / 36%]
[Inherited trait: Enhanced Speed (minor)]
[Lifespan: 5:47:55 remaining]
I smiled. Fifteen percent of an A-rank's power, steadily climbing. At this rate, they'd be close to full by the time their lifespan ran out.
But there was a problem.
Five hours and forty-seven minutes. That was how long the Gen 1s had left. And John was... somewhere out there. At a restaurant with Sylvie, probably. Or maybe at a club. Or at her place. I didn't know where he lived, didn't have his number, didn't have any way to contact him.
I needed to recall the parasites before they died. Which meant I needed to find John Jackson in the next six hours.
How hard could that be?
"...Pretty fucking hard, actually."
I didn't have a phone. I didn't have his number. I didn't know where he lived. I didn't know anything about him except that he was Sylvie's boyfriend, an A-rank gravity manipulator, and had a micropenis.
The door swung open.
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Sylvie stumbled in, barely standing upright. Her hair was a mess—half of it had fallen out of its careful styling, and the rest was tangled and matted. Her crop top was stretched and pulled to one side, showing off way more of her tit than it was supposed to. Her tiny denim shorts were unbuttoned, and I could see the pink fabric of her thong riding up above the waistband.
She was drunk. Like, *really* drunk. The kind of drunk where you can't walk straight and everything comes out as a mumbled slur.
But she wasn't alone.
A guy had his arm around her waist, holding her up. He was tall, with dark skin and a buzzcut. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans, and he had the kind of easy, confident smile.
I focused on him.
[Name: Tyler Richardson]
[Age: 22]
[Rank: Blank]
[Occupation: College student]
Blank.
"Who the fuck is this?" I asked, looking between them.
Sylvie turned her bleary eyes toward me. She squinted, processed my face for a few seconds, then flipped me off.
"Fuck... you... Noel..." she slurred, before collapsing onto the couch face-first.
"...Right."
I looked at the guy. "Who are you?"
He smiled. "I'm Tyler. Friend of Sylvie's. We go to the same college."
"And where's John?"
"John?" He tilted his head. "John's right there."
The door opened again, and John Jackson walked in. He looked slightly less put-together than he had earlier—his polo shirt was wrinkled, and he had the look of a guy who'd been sitting in a restaurant for three hours longer than he'd planned.
"Hey, Noel!" He gave me that same easy grin. "What are you doing up, man? It's past midnight."
"Couldn't sleep. What happened to you guys?"
"Oh, we went to dinner, and then Sylvie wanted to go to this club, and then she had way too much to drink..." He gestured vaguely at the couch, where Sylvie was now starfished. "Tyler's been helping me carry her around all night. Good guy."
Tyler nodded, still smiling. "Yeah, it's no problem. She's... energetic when she's drunk."
"..."
John walked over and tried to rouse Sylvie. "Babe? Come on, let's get you to bed."
"Mmmnn... no... 'm fine... I'm fine..."
"You're not fine. You can't even open your eyes."
"'M just resting them..."
I watched the scene unfold with mild amusement. Then I looked at John.
"Hey, John."
"Yeah?" He turned to me.
I extended my hand.
He looked at it for a moment, then grinned and grabbed it. "Good seeing you again, bro. We should—"
"Yeah, definitely. See you around."
"Take care, Noel!"
He and Tyler managed to get Sylvie to sleep on the couch—she was mumbling something about someone named Cassandra and how she was "totally gonna get her fired."
Tyler left first, giving me a nod on his way out. John followed a minute later, throwing me a wave.
"Later, Noel! Tell your stepmom I said—"
"Bye, John."
The door closed.
I stood there in the quiet living room. The music from upstairs had stopped—Bethany's party must have wound down, or she'd passed out. Steph was presumably asleep. And Gracie was dead to the world in her room.
I started walking toward the stairs, and that's when I heard it.
"...Noel... Noel, you little... shit..."
Sylvie was sprawled out on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, the other draped over her face. Her crop top had ridden up completely, showing her entire stomach and the undercurve of her tits. Her unbuttoned shorts had slipped down, revealing the thin pink thong she was wearing underneath. The fabric was pulled tight against her pussy, barely covering anything.
"...You think you're so smart... you think you're sooo clever..." She was mumbling, her eyes half-closed. "I see you... I see what you are... you little freak... you're nothing... nothing..."
I stared at her.
"..."
"You're a nobody, Noel... you'll always be a nobody... just like your deadbeat dad... just like your whore mom who left you..."
"She didn't leave. She died."
"...Whatever... same difference..."
She trailed off, her eyes closing fully. A moment later, she started snoring.
I stood there for a moment.
I really, really hated them all.
I walked past her and headed up the stairs.
I closed my door, lay down on my bed, and...
Checked my new powers.