Chapter 13: Will I Still Be Human Anymore?
As the old sedan hummed along the asphalt, Ethan felt a sudden, icy sensation wash over his skin. It wasn't the cold of a winter breeze, but a deep, cellular chill that seemed to seep into his very marrow. He had just allocated 50 System Points into his Body stat, and the System was wastefully efficient.
He gripped the steering wheel, and for a moment, the plastic felt like wet clay in his hands. He had to consciously loosen his grip to keep from snapping the wheel in half. His vision sharpened; the dull twilight of South River County suddenly became vibrant, every crack in the road and every flickering streetlamp appearing in high-definition.
Though his clothes still hung loosely and no grotesque muscles had erupted through his hoodie, he felt... dense. His bones felt like reinforced steel, and his reflexes were humming like a live wire. He felt a raw, primal power coursing through him. He knew, with a calm certainty, that if five or seven trained men attacked him right now, they would be broken before they even realized he had moved.
If 50 points feel like this, Ethan wondered, his heart beating with a steady, rhythmic thrum, what happens when I hit 100? Will I even be human anymore? He didn't know how strong a well-trained soldier was, but he knew he could stand his ground with his current stats. Ethan was truly anticipating what a hundred points would feel like, but he knew this couldn't be rushed. To get System Points, he would have to spend—and not a small amount, either.
[DING!] [Body Optimization Complete.]
[ZILLION SYSTEM INTERFACE] > Host: Ethan McCain
Body: 66 (Peak Human/Sovereign Foundation)
Mind: 28
Wealth: $9,859,931,780,000,000.00
System Points: 151
Ethan looked at the system stats and thought to himself if he should add any points to Mind. However, the unknown was scarier than the known. He understood what his body was, but the concept of the mind was different; he thought he should probably be in an enclosed, safe place before exploring that option.
The Red Rose Bar appeared on the horizon, a neon scar against the darkening sky. As Ethan pulled into the parking lot, the sheer contrast of his life was laid bare.
The VIP section of the lot was a graveyard of ambition and a playground for the elite. Row after row of exotic machinery shimmered under the halogen floodlights. There were Porsche 911s in shark blue, Lamborghini Huracáns with aggressive carbon-fiber wings, and a Bentley Continental GT that looked like a solid block of silver. The air here didn't smell like the city; it smelled of high-octane fuel and the arrogance of old money.
Ethan steered Elena's silver sedan into a cramped spot near the dumpster. Compared to the predatory lines of the supercars, the sedan looked like a wounded prey animal—faded, dented, and utterly invisible. To anyone watching, the person stepping out of that car was a nobody, a ghost in the machinery of the rich.
Ethan stepped out, his sneakers crunching on the gravel. He didn't look at the exotic cars; he had three of his own waiting back at the hotel. Instead, he walked toward the back entrance—the "Servants' Door."
The moment he pushed open the heavy steel door, the thumping bass of the music hit him like a physical blow, and so did the voice of Mr. Dave, the floor manager.
"McCain! You're five minutes late!" Dave barked, slamming a clipboard onto a stainless steel prep table.
Dave was a man who thrived on the tiny bit of power he held over scholarship students. He was sweating, his cheap tie crooked, and his eyes bulging. "I don't care if you were studying or starving, you're on my time now! Julian Vance's party is starting, and the VIP lounge needs more hands. If you drop a single glass tonight, I'll dock your entire month's pay. Move it!"
In the past, Ethan would have bowed his head, offered a quiet apology, and hurried to work. He had always cultivated a humble, invisible appearance to survive. But today, things were different.
Ethan looked at Dave. He didn't look away. He didn't flinch. He just watched the man's vein-popping rant with a look of mild, detached interest, as if he were observing an angry insect. He had already decided that today was his last day in this "job." In fact, by tomorrow, he might just own the entire street.
Without a word, Ethan walked past the stunned manager and headed into the narrow, cramped locker room.
Mr. Dave watched Ethan walk past him and couldn't help but be stunned. Ethan had always bowed his head whenever he was being berated; on no occasion had he ever looked Dave straight in the eyes while being talked down to. Dave couldn't help but wonder what could have changed. He snickered and thought to himself, Act as high as you want. Break any glass tonight and I'm going to make sure to dock your entire pay for the month. He then walked off to find other employees to berate.
The locker room smelled of stale sweat and cheap detergent. Ethan pulled off his hoodie, revealing a torso that was now corded with lean, explosive power. Every muscle was perfectly defined—not like a bodybuilder, but like a marble statue of a Greek god. He pulled on the white waiter's shirt and the black vest.
As he buttoned the shirt, he felt the fabric straining against his shoulders and chest. He looked into the cracked mirror, adjusting his tie. The face looking back at him was the same, but the eyes were different—they were the eyes of a predator hiding in a flock of sheep.
"Tonight," Ethan whispered to his reflection, "let's see how much Julian can embarrass me for."
A cold, sadistic smile hung on his face as he turned and walked out of the locker room, heading toward the VIP lounge where the "festivities" were about to begin.