[Shop Unlocked!]
[Access System Shop to view current available items, abilities, and upgrades]
[Note: Shop inventory updates based on Template Percentage and Host progression]
The notification faded, and Leon blinked.
Then a second one appeared.
[Current SE: 10]
[Shop Inventory:]
[Items:]
[Desert Eagle .50 AE – 5 SE]
[Special Function: Infinite Bullets]
The weapon can use standard ammunition.
When ammo runs out, it draws from the Host’s internal energy to generate additional rounds.
Extended fire will exhaust the Host.
[Note: Recommended only for Hosts with sufficient stamina.]
[Voss-Abbey Fresh Milk Bottle – 1 SE]
Purest, cleanest milk available.
Lab-tested.
Hormone-free.
The favorite of psychotic superheroes everywhere.
[Note: ???]
[Abilities:]
[Spatial Pocket – 20 SE]
[Type: Inventory Skill]
A small pocket dimension linked to the Host.
Current capacity: 2 feet width x 2 feet height.
Items stored remain in stasis.
Upgradable.
[Note: Essential for Host survival in hostile environments.]
Leon stared at the list.
‘A gun.
A milk bottle.
And an inventory.’
His eyes went to the gun first.
Desert Eagle .50 AE.
Infinite bullets.
Infinite ammo meant he never had to reload.
Never ran out.
The thing about the energy drain was concerning — he didn’t know how much energy each bullet used, didn’t know what “extended fire” meant in practice.
But the upside was obvious.
Then his eyes went to the milk.
‘Voss-Abbey.
Voss-Abbey.’ He knew that name.
The system selling it to him as a consumable item was either a joke or a hint.
He didn’t have the SE to waste on a joke.
Not yet.
His eyes went to the Spatial Pocket.
Twenty SE.
He had ten.
He was halfway there.
The gun was useful, but what was the point of having infinite bullets if he couldn’t carry the gun without looking like a maniac walking into school with a Desert Eagle in his waistband?
The inventory solved that.
Hide the gun, hide whatever else he picked up, keep it on him at all times.
‘Spatial Pocket first.
Gun second.
Milk never, unless I want to start lactating in public.’
He closed the shop.
‘I need more SE.
Twenty for the inventory.
Five for the gun.
Twenty-five total.
I’ve got ten.’
‘I just need to change more plot points.’
His eyes drifted to the window.
Allison was still sitting in her seat, occasionally glancing his way.
Scott was in front of him, very deliberately not looking back.
The classroom was settling into the rhythm of another lecture — Mr.
Curtis droning about Kafka, the scratch of pens on paper, the low hum of students who weren’t listening.
Leon pulled out his notebook and wrote a single line:
First line in Lacrosse.
He underlined it twice.
***********
The bell rang.
Students poured into the hallway like water through a broken dam, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the smell of cheap perfume and institutional floor wax filling the air.
Scott walked to his locker, which happened to be across the hall from Allison’s, and the two caught each other’s eye.
Allison smiled at him — polite, the kind of smile you give someone you don’t know but are trying to be friendly to.
Scott smiled back.
Then Leon stepped out of the classroom.
He was a few lockers down from Scott.
His eyes met Allison’s across the hall, and the polite smile she’d been giving Scott transformed into something else entirely.
Her lips parted.
Her cheeks went pink.
She looked away fast, busying herself with her locker combination.
Leon caught it.
He didn’t smile.
He just looked back at his own locker and pretended to be interested in its contents.
Stiles appeared at Scott’s shoulder like he’d been summoned.
He’d been lurking in the hallway, hands in his pockets, watching everything and saying nothing.
“Did you see that?” Stiles asked.
“She just blushed at Leon.
Like, full pink.
That was a moment right there.”
“It wasn’t a moment,” Scott muttered.
Their conversation drifted into background noise as Leon’s attention shifted.
Across the hall, Lydia Martin was walking toward Allison’s locker with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone who owned every hallway she stepped foot in.
“That jacket is absolutely killer.
Where’d you get it?”
Allison blinked, caught off guard.
“My mom was a buyer for a boutique back in San Francisco.”
Lydia’s eyes lit up.
“And you are my new best friend.”
Allison laughed — a real laugh, surprised and warm.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Lydia linked her arm through Allison’s like they’d known each other for years.
The two of them fell into easy conversation.
Allison’s posture relaxed, the nervousness draining out of her shoulders.
Lydia had that effect on people — she made you feel like you were already part of her world and just hadn’t realized it yet.
From across the hall, Scott, Stiles, and Leon all watched.
Jackson appeared like a storm front, sliding up behind Lydia and wrapping an arm around her waist.
“Heyyy.”
“Hey, Jackson.” Lydia leaned into him without breaking her conversation with Allison, her gaze drifting toward Leon for half a second before focusing back on Jackson.
The kiss they shared was quick, almost routine.
“Hey, who is that?” Allison’s eyes found Leon, curious.
Lydia followed her gaze, and something shifted behind her eyes.
“Him?
He’s new.
Leon Lockhart, he transferred yesterday.”
“He’s…
really attractive.”
Lydia’s smile sharpened by a fraction.
“So I’ve been told.”
The two of them looked at each other for a beat.
Something passed between them — a flicker of recognition, like two people realizing they’re both watching the same thing — before Lydia turned back to the conversation with practiced ease.
Harley, a girl from their class, walked up beside Scott, watching the same scene.
“Can someone tell me how New Girl is here all of five minutes, and she’s already hanging out with Lydia’s clique?”
Stiles answered without hesitation.
“Because she’s hot.”
Harley gave him a flat look.
Stiles shrugged, unrepentant.
“Beautiful people herd together.”
Scott wasn’t listening.
His hearing had locked onto Allison and Lydia’s conversation like a satellite dish finding its signal, and everything else — Harley, Stiles, the hallway noise — had faded to static.
“—so, this weekend, there’s a party.”
Allison’s head tilted.
“A party?”
“Yeah, Friday night.
You should come,” Lydia said, already pulling out her phone to add Allison to some list.
“I can’t.
It’s family night this Friday.”
Jackson leaned in, undeterred.
“You sure?
Everyone’s going after the scrimmage.”
“Scrimmage?”
“Yeah.
You know, like football?
Except not football.
Football is a joke in Beacon.
We play lacrosse.” Jackson’s chest puffed out like he was personally responsible for the state championship.
He looked at Leon.
“Three years running.
Maybe four, if the new blood doesn’t screw it up.”
Leon met his gaze for a beat, then looked away.
‘Charming.’
Lydia ruffled Jackson’s hair like a mother with a particularly stupid child.
“Because of a certain team captain…”
Jackson smirked, caught between pride and the urge to scowl.
Allison laughed politely.
She didn’t know Jackson well enough yet to know whether to be charmed or annoyed.
Scott, across the hall, was taking all of this in.
His eyes moved from Allison to Lydia to Jackson and back to Allison.
Jackson was already trying to leave.
“Well, we have practice in a few minutes.
If you don’t have anywhere else—”
“Perfect!
You’re coming.” Lydia grabbed Allison by the hand.
“You can watch the boys be athletic and sweaty.
It’s the best kind of people-watching.”
“I— well, I was going to—”
“Going to what?
Sit alone in the bleachers looking bored?
No way.
You’re coming with us.”
Lydia tugged her toward the double doors that led outside.
Allison looked back over her shoulder — not at Scott, not at Lydia, not at Jackson.
At Leon.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Then she was gone, pulled through the doors by Lydia’s relentless forward momentum.
Leon smiled.
“You okay?” Stiles looked at him at him.
“Fine.”
“You look like you’re thinking.”
“I’m always thinking.”
“That’s concerning.
For you and for us.” Stiles smiled and watched as Leon’s hand smacked the back of his head gently.
***********
The lacrosse field was chaotic.
Players were warming up — running drills, passing balls back and forth, shouting plays at each other.
The bleachers were already half-full of students who’d come to watch, mostly girls pretending they were there for the school spirit and not the tight pants.
Allison and Lydia had claimed a spot near the top, Lydia watching the field with genuine interest, Allison sitting with her hands folded in her lap, looking like she was trying to figure out what sport she was watching.
Scott and Stiles jogged onto the field together.
Or rather, Stiles jogged.
Scott practically floated.
“But if you play, I’ll have no one to talk to on the bench.
Are you really gonna do that to your best friend?” Stiles was doing that thing where he complained while keeping up, his voice going breathy at the edges.
Scott didn’t even look winded.
“I can’t sit out again.
My whole life is sitting on the sidelines.”
He dropped his bag near the bench.
“This season, I will make first line.”
Stiles bent over, hands on his knees, wheezing.
“Yeah.
First line.
Sure.”
Scott’s eyes had already drifted to the bleachers.
Allison was there.
She saw him looking and offered another small, polite smile — the same one she’d given him in the hallway.
Scott’s face brightened anyway, and he started to raise a hand—
“MCCALL!”
Coach Bobby Finstock materialized out of nowhere, throwing a goalie stick and helmet at Scott’s chest.
Scott caught them out of pure reflex and stared at the equipment like it had personally insulted his family.
“You’re on goal.”
“I’ve never played—”
“I know.
Scoring some shots will give the boys a confidence boost.
It’s a first-day-back thing.” The coach clapped him on the shoulder.
“Get ’em energized!
Fired up!”
“…What about me?”
“Try not to take any in the face.”
The coach smacked Scott lightly on the cheek — not hard, just enough to be annoying — and walked off shouting at other players.
Scott looked at the goal like it had personally wronged him.
From the bleachers, Allison’s eyes drifted — not to Scott, but across the field, where Leon had just stood up from his seat and was walking toward Coach Finstock.
“Coach.”
Finstock turned.
He was holding a clipboard and had the kind of energy that suggested he’d had six cups of coffee before 8 AM.
“What.”
“Let me take goal for a round.
I want to see what the team’s got.”
Finstock squinted at him.
“You’re not on the roster.”
“Not yet.”
“Then no.”
“I can take hits.
And I’m faster than half your starters.”
“You can take hits?”
Finstock looked at him for a long moment.
Then he looked at the goal, where Scott was currently standing, looking around foolishly.
Then back at Leon.
“Kid, I’ve got a McCall in there already and I already regret it.
What makes you think you can—”
“Put me in and find out.
You can always pull me out if I screw up.”
Finstock rubbed his jaw, considering.
“Fine.
You screw up, you’re off the field.
Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Grab a stick and helmet from the bin.
And if you get hit in the face, don’t come crying to me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Finstock pointed at the second goal — the one set up for the tryout squad.
“You take the far net.
Players rotate through both sides, one at a time.
We’ll see what you’ve got.”
Leon pulled on the helmet, tucked the stick under his arm, and walked toward the second goal.
As he crossed the field, he caught Allison’s eye in the bleachers.
She was watching him.
Not Scott.
Her head tilted slightly, curious, and she said something to Lydia—
“—he just volunteered?
To be a goalie?”
Lydia glanced over, then back at the field.
“Confident or stupid.
Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
From the bleachers, Leon could see everything.
The players warming up.
The coach barking orders.
Jackson, who was watching Scott with a look of barely concealed contempt.
And Stiles, who was wheezing on the bench.
‘Okay.
Showtime.’
He tapped the helmet.
Took his position.
And waited for the first shot.
***********
The assistant coach blew the whistle.
The first ball came in fast.
Leon tracked it.
His senses painted a clear arc in his mind, the ball looking slower than it should have been.
He shifted his weight, raised the stick, and—
Crack.
The ball hit the pocket of the stick dead center.
The impact traveled up his arms, into his shoulders, but his body absorbed it like it was nothing.
The next ball came in faster.
He caught that one too.
And the next.
And the next.
Stiles, who had stopped wheezing long enough to notice, sat up on the bench.
“Wait.
Both goalies are catching everything?”
Coach Finstock, standing at midfield with his clipboard forgotten at his side, didn’t answer.
He was too busy watching two teenagers catch every single ball thrown at them.
His eyebrows climbed higher with each successful stop.
By the fifth consecutive catch, he was scribbling something furiously on his clipboard.
The rhythm continued.
Shot.
Catch.
Shot.
Catch.
The field had gone quiet, players stopping to watch, the thwack of the ball against the net becoming a metronome.
Then Jackson.
Jackson had been watching from the sideline for the last two minutes, his jaw tight, his eyes hard.
He grabbed a ball from one of his teammates.
Slapped his stick against the player who’d been next in line.
Stepped into the rotation.
His shot was vicious — full power, aimed high and to the right.
The ball screamed across the field like a yellow missile.
Leon tracked it.
He moved.
The stick came up.
The ball hit the pocket.
The impact was heavy — Jackson had put everything into that throw — but Leon’s body held.
Didn’t even rock back.
He tossed the ball back to Jackson with a lazy underhand flip.
Jackson stared at him.
Leon stared back.
From the bleachers, the reaction was immediate.
Lydia stood up.
“GO LEON!”
Her voice cut across the field like a bell.
Clear, loud, and completely unironic.
Jackson’s head snapped toward her, his face going slack with something between confusion and wounded masculine rage.
His mouth opened, then closed.
Stiles, who had been mid-breath, choked on nothing.
“Did— did Lydia Martin just—”
“Yes,” Scott said, now standing next to him.
Lydia smiled toward Jackson, then sat back down, the picture of composure, like she hadn’t just cheered.
The satisfaction in the motion was quick and private, gone before anyone could call it out.
Allison, sitting beside her, was staring at Lydia with an expression that said what the hell was that.
Leon ignored it.
He didn’t make a big deal of it.
Lydia did that on purpose — whether to make Jackson mad or for some reason of her own, he didn’t know.
Either way, it wasn’t his problem.
[Key Plot Point Altered]
[Original: Scott McCall catches every ball.
Allison’s interest increases.]
[Altered: Leon Lockhart matches Scott’s performance.
Allison’s interest is now fully captured.
Scott’s moment was stolen.]
[Lydia Martin publicly cheered for Leon.
Jackson’s hostility increased.]
[Supernatural Energy Acquired: +20] [Current SE: 30]
Leon read the notification without changing his expression.
‘Twenty points.’
He looked up at the bleachers.
Allison was still looking at him.
‘Thirty SE total.
Twenty for the inventory, five for the gun.
Twenty-five.
I’ll have five left over.’
‘Inventory and the gun.’ Leon smiled.
‘I can walk around with a Desert Eagle in my pocket dimension, and nobody will ever know, an American high school student’s dream’ Leon chuckled.
‘And the milk.’ He thought for a second.
‘Definitely not the milk.’
***********
[Current Identity: Homelander (1%)] [Supernatural Energy: 5]
[Current Abilities: Super Strength: Lv1 | Super Defense: Lv1 | Super Speed: Lv1 | Regeneration: Lv2 | Super Senses: Lv1 | Spatial Pocket: Lv1 (NEW!)]
[Locked Abilities: X-ray vision: Lv0 | Laser Eyes: Lv0 | Flight: Lv0]
Leon looked at his status, then opened his Inventory and pulled out a heavy, matte-black Desert Eagle .50 AE.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the grip, the weapon settled into his hand.
Cold steel against warm skin.
He thumbed off the safety.
The faint scent of gun oil.
The perfect balance of the frame.
Even at Lv1, his senses picked up the details — the texture of the grip, the click of the safety, the weight of the slide.
He focused inward, testing the Spatial Pocket.
With a single thought, he willed the Desert Eagle forward.
It vanished instantly, slipping into the invisible stasis of his inventory without a sound.
A heartbeat later, he called it back.
The gun materialized right back into his palm, slick and effortless.
He raised it toward the far wall of his room, sighting down the barrel.
According to the system, if he pulled the trigger without standard ammunition, the gun would begin draining his own internal energy to forge infinite rounds.
He could feel that subtle tether now — a quiet link to his stamina, waiting.
Leon lowered the weapon, a cold, calculating smile spreading across his face as he looked at the empty air where the gun had just been.
In a world overrun by werewolves, vampires, and hunters, having a pocket dimension and a Desert Eagle was a comforting safety net.