Marvel Fanfiction Compilation Chapter 169 2

March 23, 2019, at 11:01 PM

This day was unusually calm. Absolutely nothing happened. None at all. I just ran. Listened to music, ate my salad, and ran again, still listening to music. If happiness is possible within the limits I set for myself—diet and no advances toward the opposite sex—then this was it. Twenty units of endurance! This means I can run for a very long time, even while feeling "Hungry." Without that feeling, I could maintain a moderate pace, restoring energy faster than I spent it! At the beginning, I had only a fraction of what I can now regenerate in a minute! Comfortable headphones, a body that no longer resembled just a sack of shit and bones, but more like a well-conditioned bag of shit and bones,

good weather, and no need to rush anywhere... And even if it's raining, with puddles forming underfoot—well, Nature has no bad weather! It simply doesn't care! Any weather is good! Even if it's the end of September and the rain is cold. While you're running, all of that doesn't matter. The main thing is to keep running and not stop.

Attention! Skill acquired: "Cold Resistance." Attention! Cold Resistance +1.

Hmm. An unexpected acquisition. But useful. And even a couple of amusing thoughts crossed my mind about how to develop it further—thoughts that made me shudder just to imagine... I returned home around seven in the evening. Murdoc had called twice, clarifying some details regarding the lawsuit. His voice... had changed since yesterday. I'm not sure what exactly, but something in his tone felt different. What could have influenced him like that? Why would he change his attitude toward me at all? Unless... what is this? Did Daredevil visit and I didn't even notice? What kind of opinion does he have of me now, having only seen my late-night training? I can't ask him directly: "Matt, what do you think of me after you secretly watched my self-torture?" Though, I imagine the reaction to such a question would be quite interesting. I even smiled at that thought.

Meanwhile, I climbed the stairs to my apartment and, as was my habit, headed straight for the shower. About fifteen minutes later, I emerged refreshed, clean, and relaxed (with only about three hundred units left in my "potential" energy scale), feeling good-natured and wearing only a towel wrapped around my hips. The doorbell rang. Without a second thought, I opened the door, thinking it was Matt who had decided to clarify something that couldn't be said over the phone. Wiretapping the phones of citizens suspected of a criminal offense is an everyday occurrence.

But it wasn't Matt behind the door. It was Sharon, standing at the threshold, her hand still hovering over the doorbell, having rung it just as I opened the door. I looked at her, and she looked at me. I felt myself blushing rapidly and uncontrollably, my face turning crimson. "Um... Sharon..." I managed to stammer. "You're back..."

"Um... yes," she replied, quickly looking away from my pale skin and the remnants of mascara (at least I had some color on my face, neck, and arms up to my elbows). But she returned her gaze back to me much faster than she had looked away, and that gaze became very attentive. "Are those marks from a taser?" she asked quickly, concern etched on her face. "What have you gotten yourself into, Tom!?"

How quickly she had shifted to a more familiar tone, dropping the formal "You" for "Thou." Although in English, there is no such division. There are nuances in sentence construction that are somewhat similar to that transition, at least as it seems to me. "Nothing," I shrugged. "Just a small misunderstanding. But it's already been settled. The lawsuit regarding the unlawful use of force by the police has been filed and sent to court. The case is straightforward, so a lawyer can handle it easily..."

"But you need to go to the hospital!" she interjected, already unceremoniously pushing down my eyelid and inspecting my eye, or whatever it was she was examining. I'm not a doctor, after all. But Sharon is officially listed as a nurse at one of the nearby hospitals. While I was lost in thought about this, the blonde had already taken my hand, checking my pulse and timing my heartbeat, keeping a close watch on the second hand of her watch.

"How are you even standing on your feet?" she exclaimed, a mix of indignation and surprise in her voice. "You have a severe concussion and acute tachycardia! And you're burning up!" She exclaimed, pressing her palm to my forehead. "So! Lie down immediately! I'm calling an ambulance!"

I caught her hand and looked into her eyes. "Sharon," I said firmly, "I don't need an ambulance."

Attention! Strong-willed look: success. Attention! Strong-willed pressure: success. Attention! Pressing look: success…

I quickly looked away before anything more abrupt and uncomfortable could happen. It turns out that the "Willpower" parameter not only affects me but also influences others. I need to remember that. Otherwise, things could get very unpleasant, like with Sharon just now. She didn't want anything bad to happen to me, but I inadvertently used "Crushing Look" on her. Not good at all!

"Okay, Tom," she relented. "But you still need to lie down quickly; it's dangerous for you to stand. You're practically in a pre-infarction state! An attack could happen at any moment!" she insisted, practically forcing me down onto the sofa.

"Sharon, I'm perfectly fine. I was just getting ready for bed…"

"'Fine'!? What do you mean by 'fine'!? You need intensive care! How did you even let yourself get to this state?"

"Did I try really hard?" I attempted to joke, flashing a cautious smile.

"Very funny!" she shot back, her tone stern and devoid of any hint of humor. "Lie here; I'll get the first aid kit and a blood pressure monitor."

"Why?" I asked, surprised. "My medical record is right there on the nightstand. Everything is detailed in it…"

"Because! Health isn't static! What was true yesterday or even an hour ago is not necessarily true now. Don't argue with me; I'm a professional!" And with that, she left.

Well, that was awkward. So what should I do now? Alright, let's be consistent: first, I need to get dressed. I should do this before the ever-caring Miss Carter returns. Second… I didn't have time to think of a second task—Sharon was back. Thankfully, I had at least pulled on my underwear and pants before she returned to find me standing next to the sofa, holding a shirt in my hands.

"What did I tell you to do?" she demanded, indignant at my posture. "You need to lie down! Just lie down and don't get up!" The blonde pounced on me like a hawk, quickly and expertly tightening the blood pressure cuff around my arm and beginning to pump air into it.

The device was expensive, electronic, and worked quickly. It beeped, delivered the results, and Sharon's eyes widened.

"One hundred ninety-five over one hundred ten!"

"Is that bad?" I asked, though I wasn't particularly invested. My health, after all, was measured in completely different terms. I could see those numbers quite clearly.

"This is terrible for your age!" she exclaimed.

"This is terrible for any age! Here, take this pill. And this one. And put this one under your tongue," she instructed.

I sighed and followed her instructions obediently. Why argue and upset her? I won't get poisoned, but if I do, I'll just boost my resistance. Arguing felt a bit scary, considering the influence of "Willpower." Sharon wasn't the type of person I wanted to test my "Will Pressure" on.

Meanwhile, the blonde retrieved a "scanner" and began moving it over my chest, near my heart. Watching the readings, Sharon pursed her lips, her expression a mix of displeasure and concern, and narrowed her eyes slightly. Then she sighed. Apparently, the scan results were bad but not critical, meaning no urgent medical intervention was required.

The silence was starting to weigh on me. "How are the flowers? Did I overwater them?"

"The flowers are fine, unlike you," she replied, handing me a glass of water to wash down the pills.

"And the apartment… Did you even wipe the dust?"

"Of course. You asked me to keep an eye on it," I shrugged, swallowing the pills. Since Sharon had switched to the informal "you," I felt no need to use formalities either.

"I just don't understand what has changed in it. I feel that something has shifted, but I can't quite put my finger on it. No, the furniture has been moved slightly, but that's not the point," she said, pulling out another compact device and quickly pricking my finger. A small drop of blood appeared.

"First positive? Not bad," she remarked, putting the device back in her bag and taking out a cotton swab, moistening it with alcohol before handing it to me to press against the wound.

"That's funny," I smiled. "I thought you were more attentive."

Sharon frowned slightly, her professional pride clearly wounded. He didn't mean the profession of nursing; it was deeper than that.

"I told you: not everything is in its place. The table is shifted a centimeter to the right, but the drawers and cabinets didn't open. In the bathroom, the new soap is on the sink… What else?"

"Hmm… The table. I thought I put it back in its original position. I arranged the things according to the photographs from different angles. I shouldn't have made a big mistake."

"So, it's not about these rearrangements? Then what is it?"

"Try to figure it out yourself. This will test your observation skills," I smiled. This was starting to get interesting.

"Impudent," she chuckled. "But so be it. Challenge accepted. How long?"

"Until morning," I answered, yawning and covering my mouth.

"Um, okay," she measured me with her eyes. Then she pulled out a small device from her bag, attached a suction cup opposite my heart and on my temples, turned it on, and placed it on the nightstand next to the sofa where I lay.

"Don't remove the electrodes—the device will monitor your vital signs and notify me if your condition worsens."

"Okay," I reluctantly agreed, adjusting the pillow more comfortably under my head and stretching out on the sofa.

"Good night!"

"Good night, Tom."

Exactly thirty-eight minutes passed. Yes—I was timing it. Sharon walked in, excitement dancing in her voice and eyes.

"The sink is in the kitchen!" she exclaimed. "You changed the sink in the kitchen!"

"Uh-huh," I replied with a smile. "Comfortable?"

"I don't know; I haven't tried it yet… But how did you manage?! Everything is in its place, no traces!"

"Really? Hmm… So you didn't notice the new windows and radiators? Two, one!" I made a "pistol" gesture toward her.

"Windows? Radiators?" Her eyes widened as she dashed into the apartment to check. Clearly, she didn't take my word for it. What a shame.

"I admit: you got me. I could have guessed anything: hidden cameras, wiretapping microphones, even an explosive device or a radioactive isotope, but the windows!"

"And the radiators," I added smugly. "Don't forget the radiators."

"And the radiators," she admitted with a heavy sigh. "Indeed: two, one. I'm talking about millimeters of displacement of flower pots on the windowsills and paperweights on the desk, and here we have whole windows!"

"By the way, the windowsills are also new."

"You are inimitable, Tom," Sharon said, shaking her head in exasperation.

Attention! You have received 30 experience points. Attention! You have reached a new level! Current level is 6. Attention! You have received 5 attribute points. Attention! You have received 1 skill point.

Level up… Damn it! How untimely! Suddenly, I was wracked with pain mingled with unbearable pleasure. It was like an orgasm, but with more pain and less pleasure. The device Sharon left behind began to beep sharply and shrilly. Apparently, my pulse, blood pressure, and who knows what other parameters had suddenly spiked, triggering its alarm as if an attack was beginning.

Sharon rushed to my side, a tense and worried expression on her face. But… leveling up had restored all my health and energy to the maximum, even eliminating all the debuffs. Now, I was lying on the couch, absolutely healthy and bursting with energy—so much so that my body was practically demanding movement.

And then there were those pesky four units of Libido… in the presence of a truly beautiful girl, who was now touching my skin with her nimble fingers, checking my pulse, body temperature… I couldn't help but groan from the unexpected torture.

"Sharon, you've stolen my sleep," I groaned, gazing at the blonde who was diligently measuring my blood pressure.

"Is this an attempt at flirting, Mister Blank?" she raised an eyebrow.

"It's just a statement of fact," I sighed, closing my eyes.

It didn't help much: the smell of her skin and hair excited my senses, provoking my imagination into creating vivid, tempting scenarios. I couldn't endure this torturous proximity any longer. Apologizing, I got up from the couch and moved into the other room under Sharon's puzzled gaze.

There, I quickly changed into a tracksuit, grabbed my phone and headphones, and headed for the front door.

"Shut the door when you leave," I called to the puzzled girl, slipping on my headphones and turning on the player on my phone as I stepped outside. A difficult night awaited me. A long one. Running alone wouldn't do; I could run until morning. But I had a couple of thoughts on this matter, yes… If only the fifth unit of Libido wouldn't rear its head. If only… then I might just go completely wild.

Running through the streets of New York isn't exactly against the law, even outside designated parks. There's an entire subculture of "city runners" who reject the monotony of park trails, preferring the raw energy of urban streets. As long as you're properly dressed, carrying your ID, and avoiding crowded areas, you're good. The city doesn't mind—just steer clear of shoving through dense crowds or catching the attention of a bored cop.

Sure, running on asphalt can mess up your knees, especially if you're not wearing the right shoes with thick, cushioned soles. It's even worse if you're overweight; doctors would scream "stop" at the mere thought. But for me? None of that matters. I have the System. My health is measured in numbers, constantly replenished by its mysterious mechanics. Without this cheat, I'd be risking my body every time I laced up my shoes. But I have a System, and not just that—I have the "Extreme" achievement, which evolved into the "Suicidal" achievement. That's why I'm not too concerned about my physical well-being.

In life, the real challenge is separating what matters from what doesn't. Right now, what matters to me are the numbers—the growing stats, the increasing power. Health, as an abstract concept, is secondary. Stats rise from extreme exertion, from pushing through pain, blood, and injury. But then, why am I so obsessed with increasing my stats? I already have what I need: a place to live, money, and a steady flow of income. Why do I crave more?

It's not for something as clichéd as "saving the world" or gathering a harem of adoring fans. No, it's for something deeper—for self-respect. So I can look myself in the eye without shame, knowing I pushed myself to the limit. Even if I fail in the end, at least I can say I tried. That's what counts. You can't be afraid of failure. Even if all your efforts amount to nothing, at least you fought. And when the time comes, you'll be able to look at your reflection in the mirror without flinching.

There are no enemies to fight, no wars to wage, but that doesn't matter. I am my own commander, my own soldier. My task is singular, my mission clear. And I make sure my one soldier—me—is as hardened as possible. That's why I push myself so hard. Tonight, I ran through the empty streets of Brooklyn, enjoying the crisp night air. Something by The Rolling Stones was playing in my headphones—old school, but it had its charm. I never really understood the music, but it fit my mood tonight.

Brooklyn Heights was alive, even in the dead of night. There were diners and bars with lights still on, patrons going in and out, the hum of city life never truly stopping. But this wasn't my destination; it was just part of my journey. Soon, I was in Greenway Terrace, and from there, heading toward Brooklyn Bridge Park.

Running wasn't enough anymore. My Libido stat had shot up, and my thoughts kept drifting into…well, uncomfortable territory. Running didn't clear my mind like it used to. But maybe a cold swim would.

The East River beckoned. The "Inventory" feature is one of the best parts of the System. You can store anything—clothes, shoes, electronics—instantly and without them getting wet. I stripped down, stashing everything, and dove in. The water was freezing, biting at my skin, but it was exactly what I needed. My head started to clear as the cold enveloped me.

Then, my System chimed in.

/Attention! Mild poisoning detected: taking 0.5 damage per minute/

The toxicity of the river hit me like a bucket of ice water to the face. Of course, the East River wasn't going to be crystal clear. I cursed my ignorance—this wasn't some clean mountain stream. But I could handle the damage; my regeneration was high enough to cancel it out. I pressed on.

That should have been my first clue that things were going wrong. My second hint came when my "Suicidal" achievement started ticking over—something I wasn't used to seeing unless I was in actual danger. I had swum a good 200 meters from shore when I stopped to catch my breath. That's when I saw it: the bow of a massive barge heading straight for me.

Sure, running on asphalt can mess up your knees, especially if you're not wearing the right shoes with thick, cushioned soles. It's even worse if you're overweight; doctors would scream "stop" at the mere thought. But for me? None of that matters. I have the System. My health is measured in numbers, constantly replenished by its mysterious mechanics. Without this cheat, I'd be risking my body every time I laced up my shoes. But I have a System, and not just that—I have the "Extreme" achievement, which evolved into the "Suicide Bomber" achievement. That's why I'm not too concerned about my physical well-being.

Then, my System chimed in.

/Attention! Mild poisoning detected: taking 0.5 damage per minute/

That should have been my first clue that things were going wrong. My second hint came when my "Suicide Bomber" achievement started ticking over—something I wasn't used to seeing unless I was in actual danger. I had swum a good 200 meters from shore when I stopped to catch my breath. That's when I saw it: the bow of a massive barge heading straight for me.

The river is navigable. Obviously.

Panic gripped me as I realized there was no escape. No way to out-swim it, no way to avoid it. I wasn't Michael Phelps, and this wasn't a race I could win. Before I could fully process it, the barge hit me.

It didn't feel a thing.

System notifications flooded my vision:

/Attention! 100 damage received. Attention! Stun effect applied. Attention! Disorientation effect applied/

The disorientation was real, and I felt myself sinking, losing control. Then came another impact as I hit the underside of the barge. This jolt knocked some sense back into me.

"PROPELLERS!"

The word exploded in my mind. If I got caught in the propellers, I wouldn't just die—I'd be minced. And not even the System could help me if I was torn apart. I needed to get to the bottom of the river, but how? The current was too strong, pulling me straight towards the deadly blades.

With no other option, I pulled out a metal box of M-16 cartridges from my Inventory. Instantly, the added weight dragged me downward, toward the murky bottom. It was working, but I was running out of time. My lungs screamed for air, and the System's oxygen bar was almost depleted.

The barge seemed to stretch on forever, a dark silhouette blotting out the city lights above. I couldn't surface yet—not until I was clear. But the seconds were ticking away, and the health bar was dropping. Finally, as my lungs felt like they were going to burst, I saw the end of the barge. With a final surge, I stowed the cartridges back in my Inventory and propelled myself to the surface.

Breaking through the water, I gasped for air, every breath like a shot of adrenaline. I was alive. Barely, but alive. I started swimming toward Manhattan, each stroke a painful reminder of how close I had come.

Then the System chimed again:

/Achievement Unlocked: "Scumbag" - +30% to stat growth in mortal danger/

"Scumbag?" I muttered, half-laughing. "Status."

/Scumbag: You are no longer constrained by fear or self-preservation. Common sense is a distant memory. People see the madness in your eyes. Punks avoid you. Veterans, drug addicts, and maniacs see you as one of their own. The police are suspicious. Effects: +30% to stat growth in mortal danger; the 'look of a scumbag'; +1% chance of survival in hopeless situations. Next level: 'Complete Scumbag'./

Thomas Blank's limbs moved in perfect rhythm, cutting through the icy waters of the East River. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere, pondering the strange ability he had unlocked. What an odd achievement, with an even more dubious effect. A survival skill, sure, but one that might complicate things, especially for someone like Matt Murdoch, who was currently building a case against the Police Department. The last thing Murdoch needed was a court-ordered psych evaluation. Still, the ability to survive in a seemingly hopeless situation might be worth the risk. A glance at the shore revealed how far the current had carried him, extending the narrow 800-meter gap to nearly double.

His body worked on autopilot: powerful strokes, steady kicks, all the while he kept an eye on the distant shore. His energy was depleting fast—sixty health units and an energy bar that had dipped below half weren't exactly ideal for an extended swim. But he kept going.

When Thomas finally dragged himself onto the pier in Manhattan, he collapsed onto his knees, breathing hard. For five minutes, he lay there, just catching his breath, feeling the cold seep into his bones. The system's notifications pinged in rapid succession, a constant reminder that his efforts weren't in vain.

/ Attention! Endurance +3

Attention! Strength +3

Attention! Agility +3

Attention! Vitality +2

Attention! "Cold Resistance" +3

Attention! "Poison Resistance" +1

Skill Acquired: "Swimming"

"Swimming" +1

Warning! Skill Gained: "Scuba Diving"

"Scuba Diving" +1 /

He couldn't help but smile. A good haul of stat boosts, and a couple of new skills to boot. Slowly, he got up, the cold wind biting into his wet, naked skin. It was late September, with clouds blanketing the sky and temperatures barely reaching ten degrees. The gusts of wind made him shiver, reminding him that this was hardly the time to be flaunting his wet, naked backside in public.

Cold and discomfort, though, were excellent fuel for crazy ideas. And today, he had a particularly wild one—his "Inventory" skill. Anything within 180 kilograms that wasn't alive and that he touched could be stored. And water fell within those parameters. Why not give it a shot? He had nothing to lose.

With a mental command, he felt a rush, and suddenly he was completely dry. One of his inventory slots now held a little under a liter of "Weak Poison: Water from the East River," which he promptly discarded. No need to carry that kind of baggage around. The experiment was a success. He laughed aloud, the giddiness of it all bubbling over. Then, with a renewed sense of purpose, Thomas leapt back into the river.

As he neared the opposite shore, something caught his eye. Was that... a familiar car? A girl, standing beside it, held a pair of high-tech binoculars, her gaze locked on him. Thomas chuckled to himself. If she wanted to watch, let her. He was already in deep trouble with the whole "Level Up" business—what was one more witness? By the time he crawled over the parapet and back into Brooklyn Bridge Park, both the car and the girl had vanished.

His system notifications were less impressive this time, though still welcome.

/ Attention! Strength +2

Endurance +1

Agility +1

"Cold Resistance" +1

"Swimming" +1

"Poison Resistance" +1 /

He repeated the water-drying trick, pulled on his clothes, and fished his phone out of the inventory. His wallet popped into his hand next, revealing around two hundred dollars in cash. He stared at it longingly, the idea of calling a cab home swirling in his mind. Swimming was exhausting, and it wasn't just his "explosive" energy that had taken a hit. His "potential" energy reserves had dropped significantly, leaving him with only about six and a half thousand units out of the twenty thousand he started with.

But no. With a resigned sigh, he tucked the wallet away and broke into a run toward home. Halfway there, another notification appeared, and this one gave him pause.

/ Attention! Will +1

One of your characteristics has exceeded the human limit of 30 units /

Thirty units. That was the threshold—the limit of human capability. Thomas blinked, absorbing the news. His Endurance sat at 24, and Strength at 20. He was nearing the level of the world's most resilient athletes. Champions, even.

"Cool," he muttered, though a part of him wished his body looked the part. Despite his increasing stats, he still felt like a walking wineskin—soft and a little unremarkable.

"Well, that's tomorrow's problem," he decided aloud. Exhaustion weighed him down as he reached his apartment. He stumbled into the shower, relishing the warm water. By the time he hit his bed, he could barely keep his eyes open.

Sleep pulled at him, but one last thought flickered in his mind. He smiled faintly, knowing he had crossed another line in this strange, ever-evolving game. Tomorrow, there would be more to learn, more to explore, but for now...

It was time to slee-e-e...

Name: Thomas Blank

Class: Funny Fat Man

Level: 6 (1010/5000 XP)

Health: 240/1800 (Recovering 1.8 per minute)

Explosive Energy: 2400/2400 (Recovering 240 per minute)

Potential Energy: 23,500/24,000 (Recovering 24 per minute)

Attributes:

Strength: 20

Dexterity: 17

Endurance: 24

Vitality: 18

Intelligence: 7

Wisdom: 2

Willpower: 31

Intuition: 3

Libido: 4

Undistributed Attribute Points: 30

Skills:

Electricity Resistance: 2

Poison Resistance: 7

Cold Resistance: 5

Running: 3

Swimming: 3

Scuba Diving: 1

Handy Man: 4

Observation: 2

Free Skill Points: 1

Achievements:

"Iron Balls," "Frostjob"

Pain Level: 110%

+25% to experience gain and stat increases.

Debuff: "Hunger" – Life and Energy recovery slowed by x5.

This status screen flashed before me as I was doing my morning push-ups. After weeks of hard work, the numbers were finally starting to look promising. Even the persistent "Hunger" debuff had become somewhat familiar.

I breezed through two hundred push-ups, grinned through one hundred and fifty crunches, and felt a surge of pride after completing thirty pull-ups. In just over a month, I'd transformed from a weak, chubby mess into... well, a stronger, athletic mess. Progress.

A glance in the mirror wiped the smile from my face, but completing a full side split and a handstand in the middle of the room brought it back. I was in the zone.

Dressed in a clean tracksuit, headphones in place, I started my daily run. My "Endurance" stat had risen so high that jogging had become effortless. But running wasn't just about improving stats—it gave me a sense of calm and freedom. For a while, all my worries melted away.

That was until I spotted a bald man in a high-tech wheelchair rolling toward me down a strangely deserted street. Instead of ordinary spokes, the wheels had giant crosses embedded in them. Weird. But what was even weirder was that he was alone. No Cyclops, no Jean Grey, no Wolverine. Just him.

/Warning! You have been subjected to telepathic influence. Your high Willpower has allowed you to block the attempt/

Yup. That confirmed it. This wasn't a chance encounter. I took out my headphones and slowed to a walk, stopping the music on my phone.

"Excuse me, young man," the bald figure called out. "Could you help a disabled man?"

He pointed to one of the wheels of his chair, stuck in the grate of a storm drain. I shrugged and approached. There was no way this meeting was an accident.

"Thank you kindly," the man said with a warm smile. "I'm Charles Xavier. And you are?"

"Thomas Blank," I answered after a moment of hesitation.

"Please, just call me Charles."

"Then you can call me Thomas."

I freed the wheel from the grate and placed the chair back on flat ground.

/Warning! Mental influence: blocked/

"Where are you heading, Charles?" I asked, wincing from the uncomfortable sensation that accompanied each blocked mental probe.

"To Brooklyn Heights, if it's not too much trouble," he replied softly.

"Five blocks, huh?" I said, looking around. "That's quite a detour."

"Sometimes these things happen," Charles responded with a small, guilty shrug.

/Warning! Mental influence: blocked/

"Are you giving a lecture or something?" I guessed, feeling the mental pressure increasing. This guy didn't look much older than thirty.

"Thank you for the compliment, but no," he smiled. "I'm here to give some public talks on genetics and biology."

"Lectures, huh? You're a doctor or something?"

"I have a PhD in genetics, biophysics, and psychology."

The pressure in my head grew more intense. I winced, but I wasn't going to let him break in so easily.

"That's impressive," I said with a hint of envy. "I never even finished high school."

"It's nice to be smart," Xavier replied, "but it's not quite the same as running with such ease and grace, Thomas."

"You're right about that. I wouldn't trade my legs for anything."

"I used to feel the same way," Xavier said with a sigh.

I paused. "So, you weren't always disabled?"

"No, it was... an accident," he admitted softly.

"I wouldn't have given up," I said firmly. "I would've done whatever it took to walk again. Crawled, even, if I had to."

"It's not that simple, Thomas," Xavier replied, his tone filled with quiet frustration.

"For smart people, nothing's simple," I said. "But for people like me, if you want something, you go for it. No excuses."

"Your words are harsh, Thomas. Do you realize that?"

"You're smart, Charles. You probably know better."

"There are things in life that are impossible, Thomas. No matter how hard you try."

I shook my head. "I don't believe in that. I knew a guy who broke his back, doctors said he'd never walk again. But now, he's playing basketball, dunking over people."

"In a wheelchair?" Xavier asked, his voice suddenly flat.

"Nope. On his own two feet."

/Warning! Mental influence: blocked! Mental resistance skill acquired. Willpower +1/

I winced, holding my head as the mental pressure intensified. It was clear that Xavier had increased his efforts, though he was still holding back. Even though my Willpower stat was maxed out, it barely kept him at bay. This man wasn't just powerful—he was a telepathic monster.

"Charles, could you stop trying to break into my head?" I muttered.

"Oh! I'm sorry, Tom," Xavier quickly apologized. "I didn't realize you could feel it. I just wanted to see that basketball player through your eyes."

"Did you manage to?"

"I did. And I also heard the name of the place where he was healed. Thank you, Thomas."

"You're welcome," I said with a shrug.

As I pushed his wheelchair down the sidewalk, Charles broke the silence. "You know this meeting wasn't an accident, right?"

"Well... that much was obvious."

"My name really is Charles Xavier. And I really am a doctor. But I'm also a mutant. Just like you, Tom."

"A mutant?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Completely. You have an active x-gene in your DNA."

"X-gene? DNA? You ran a test on me?"

"Yes. Your friend Sharon asked me to. She was worried about you, said you might be confused or scared by what's happening to you. Afraid you might hurt yourself."

I groaned. "What nonsense! I wasn't trying to drown myself. I was just swimming!"

"At night? In the East River? Nearly colliding with a barge?" Xavier smirked.

"I didn't see it!" I admitted, feeling embarrassed. "It was dark, windy, and then—bam! A barge!"

"You could've died, Tom."

"Understanding is for smart people," I replied. "I just dived, waited, and swam on."

Xavier chuckled softly. "You're something else, Tom."

"Come by sometime, Charles," I said, pushing his chair to the door of Brooklyn Heights. "When you get better, we'll go running together."

"Certainly, Thomas," Xavier smiled, shaking my hand. "Certainly..."

I didn't rush home after my encounter with Xavier. Instead, I took a leisurely walk from Brooklyn Heights, opting to go without music for once. The meeting left me lost in thought—about Sharon, about SHIELD, and about mutants. My mind was buzzing with a jumble of thoughts, but none of them were particularly alarming or depressing. They sat squarely in the middle of the emotional spectrum, just floating there.

After all, if I stripped away the unnecessary anxiety, nothing truly bad had happened. No one had threatened me, forced me to do anything, or even tried to detain me. Sharon simply asked a specialist she knew to help her confused friend—a mutant—figure out his powers and new place in the world. She may have done it privately, not even involving her organization. If that's true, then I owe her a big thank-you. It shows that she cares, even if she did go behind my back.

As for Professor Xavier? I didn't dislike him. Sure, he tried some mental probing, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I gained a new skill from it—one that could prove invaluable in a world teeming with telepaths, some of whom might not be as friendly or cautious as he was. In fact, I kind of wish I'd invited him for tea. But as they say, hindsight is 20/20.

Too bad I can't exactly stroll back into Brooklyn Heights. That place isn't exactly welcoming for someone like me. Should I try waiting for Xavier at the entrance? Problem is, there are at least three gates, and I can't cover them all at once. Besides, it's not like I'd be meeting just him. Cyclops and Wolverine are notoriously unfriendly, and if I'm unlucky, Jean Grey could show up, too. She's no pushover—an omega-level mutant who's still getting a handle on her powers. Meeting her would practically guarantee the "Scumbag" icon popping up next to my name in the System.

Two telepaths at once? Yeah, not today.

But Xavier's revelation that I'm a mutant—that's what really threw me off. I'd assumed the "System" was something alien to this world, a separate entity altogether. But why did I think that? There was no evidence to support it. No divine being showed up to claim authorship of the System, and I certainly didn't undergo any specialized tests to confirm what it was.

And let's not forget—mutant abilities in the Marvel universe come in all shapes and sizes. So why couldn't the System just be another manifestation of mutant power? How's it any more outrageous than Domino's luck manipulation or Legion's reality-bending abilities?

Curiosity got the better of me. I mentally issued the command: "Status!"

The familiar canvas popped up, and my eyes honed in on the third line, where a series of question marks had once been:

/Mutant/

That's it, plain and simple.

Total:

Name: Thomas Blank

Player Class: Jovial Fat Man

Mutant

And that's that.

There's a chance I only became a mutant after surpassing the "human limit" in one of my attributes. But here's the catch—Sharon had taken my blood sample before that happened. And the x-gene was already present. So yeah, I was a mutant from the start. The local equipment confirmed it. Regardless of what I might think of myself, to everyone else, I'm a mutant now. There's no escaping it. No one's going to care about my personal opinion on the matter. Any manifestation of the System will just be chalked up to my mutant powers.

That's essentially what Xavier told me—mutants occupy a precarious position in the Marvel universe. People fear us, hate us, but—thankfully—this hasn't yet been codified into law. For now, I've got nothing to worry about. No obvious signs of mutation here; I just need to avoid showing off my powers.

Training? Only at night from now on. As for boxing, well... I'll have to dial it back. No more competitions or full-contact sparring sessions. Too bad, really. My Vitality was improving nicely because of it. But I'll make up for it in other ways.

The mutant conflicts are just around the corner. And if the comics and movies are anything to go by, there'll be plenty of them.

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I eventually made it back home, almost without realizing it. My enthusiasm for training had evaporated, replaced by a dull sense of unease. There was no need to push myself physically today. Plus, there were more pressing matters—paperwork, bills, rent to collect. The end of the month was fast approaching, and I needed to budget for both expenses and income.

Murdoch had called earlier to let me know the hearing for my claim was scheduled in two days. I thanked him and decided it was time to brush up on my legal knowledge. I ordered a dozen books on federal and state law, and thanks to the wonders of living in a big city, they were delivered within half an hour.

With the books at my door, I paid the courier, thanked him, and set about studying.

Legal jargon isn't the easiest thing to digest. It felt like my brain was creaking under the weight of all those dense, convoluted phrases. Just to be safe, I copied everything I read into the "Journal" section of the System. You never know when that might come in handy.

I slogged through the material until lunchtime, managing to raise my IQ by one point. I was pleased with myself but also on the verge of a mental breakdown. Time for a break, before I ended up snapping at someone.

After fixing the photo sensor on the streetlight outside my building's second entrance, I felt somewhat better. But with no more immediate tasks to occupy my time, I returned to my books after lunch. I endured another two hours of legal torture before finally giving up.

Putting the books aside, I stood up and brewed myself a three-liter thermos of tea—strong, aromatic, with a squeeze of lemon. Grabbing my mug, I headed out to the bench I'd recently installed near my building. From there, I had a clear view of the sun setting beyond the nearby basketball court. The space between the houses created a perfect gap through which I could watch the sun sink toward the horizon.

Leaning back on the bench, I sipped my tea slowly, letting the warmth seep into my body as I relaxed. It wasn't traditional meditation—not in the Japanese, Chinese, or Indian sense. I wasn't focused on channeling energy, chanting mantras, or merging with the universe. I simply emptied my mind and enjoyed the moment, savoring the delicious tea.

It felt good. For the first time in a while, I wasn't worrying about what came next. I was just... there.

At some point (I didn't keep track of time), Sharon arrived, looking visibly tired, likely from a long day at work. She paused and greeted me casually.

"Would you like some tea, Sharon?" I asked, still in my relaxed state, feeling pretty content.

She glanced at my thermos with a bit of suspicion and gave it a sniff. "I hope this isn't some pseudo-Chinese weight-loss concoction?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope," I chuckled, taking a sip and savoring the warmth. "Just plain black tea with sugar and lemon. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Well, in that case, I wouldn't say no," she smiled and took me up on the offer.

I patted the bench beside me, inviting her to sit down. She straightened her pencil skirt, then sat down, leaving almost half a meter of space between us. I poured some tea into the thermos lid, which doubled as a cup, and handed it to her.

Sharon took the cup with care, sipping the tea cautiously. We both sat there in silence. It wasn't awkward or heavy—just peaceful. I was simply enjoying the quiet, not thinking about much. As for Sharon's thoughts? I couldn't say, and frankly, I wasn't concerned.

After about ten minutes, she broke the silence.

"What did you do to Charles, Thomas?" she asked, her tone casual but curious.

"I called him a weak-willed pushover," I shrugged nonchalantly. "Why? What's up?"

Sharon sighed, taking another sip of her tea. "He dropped everything, handed over his responsibilities to his students, and flew off to Tibet. He turned off his phone and completely disappeared."

"Huh," I mused, taking another sip of my tea. "I didn't expect such impetuosity from him. I thought he'd be squeezing boobs for another month or so… oh! "

I stopped, realizing I was about to say something inappropriate. "Oops, sorry about that. Didn't mean to swear," I quickly covered my mouth, trying to sound apologetic.

Sharon giggled, her face showing a mix of amusement and curiosity. "That's an odd phrase. What's the story behind it?"

"Um… it's a rough translation of a Russian saying," I explained, blushing slightly. "It's used to describe someone who's hesitant, like a lover stuck in endless foreplay, unsure whether to proceed to the next step or not."

Sharon laughed softly, a light blush coloring her cheeks as well. "I'll have to remember that one. Might throw it at Clint or Philip the next time they're being indecisive. I think Natasha would appreciate it too."

"Natasha?" I raised an eyebrow in mild interest.

"Yeah, she's a friend of mine. We work together. She's Russian," Sharon clarified.

"Are you two close?"

"I think so. You might've seen her before. She's visited me a couple of times."

"The redhead?"

"That's the one."

"I bet when you two walk down the street, every guy freezes in his tracks. But...," I trailed off, smirking slightly.

"But what?" Sharon asked, narrowing her eyes playfully.

"So, which one of you is the 'ugly friend'?" I teased.

"Jerk!" Sharon playfully swatted at me, her free hand lightly slapping my shoulder. It wasn't serious, just for show. I ducked my head and pretended to wince.

"I'm just saying! You're both stunning. How do you manage to hang out without competing with each other?" I grinned, clearly enjoying my little joke.

"Thankfully, that hasn't come up," she replied, rolling her eyes and sipping her tea again.

We fell into another stretch of comfortable silence. The evening air was peaceful, and the city's usual hustle seemed distant. For a moment, it felt like we were in our own little bubble, far from the problems of the world.

"Sharon," I began, carefully picking my words, "how do you... feel about me being a mutant?"

Sharon didn't look at me, but her voice was thoughtful. "Honestly? I don't care much. Mutant or not, it doesn't make a difference to me. There are good people and bad people, no matter where they come from."

"That's an interesting perspective," I mused. "It's too bad not everyone feels that way."

Sharon glanced at me, her curiosity piqued. "So, what's your power? What can you do?"

"Hm, I'm not entirely sure yet," I admitted. "Up until this morning, I thought I was just a regular guy. I guess I'm stronger and tougher than I look, and I heal pretty fast. That's about all I've noticed so far. Maybe there's more to discover."

"It's not exactly Magneto-level," she commented, though not unkindly.

I chuckled. "Definitely not."

"So, why'd you try to drown yourself?" she asked suddenly, her tone confused.

"I didn't!" I protested, flushing with embarrassment. "I was just going for a swim."

"At night? In the East River?" she raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

"Exactly," I nodded, trying to look as innocent as possible.

"But why at night, and why so suddenly?" Sharon wasn't letting it go.

I looked down, feeling my face flush even more. Then I pulled myself together.

Warning! The effects of "Silence" and "Tongue-tied" have been ignored.

"I was... too excited by your closeness and your... charm. I needed to cool off," I said, my voice steady and firm. Sharon froze. She didn't blush exactly, but her cheeks did turn a soft pink.

"Did it help?" she asked after a pause, her tone a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"It did," I nodded. "At least, enough for me to get some sleep."

"And now?" Her gaze turned playfully teasing, her back straightening slightly. The movement caused her light jacket to shift, accentuating her figure in a way that was both unintentional and undeniably enticing. I closed my eyes and mentally counted to ten. It didn't help.

Without a word, I pulled a small knife from my "Inventory," flipped it open, and drove the blade into the palm of my left hand.

Warning! 50 units of damage received. Warning! "Bleeding" effect activated. Damage: 2 units.

"Now it's better," I said through gritted teeth, enduring the pain as I bandaged the wound with materials I'd taken from my pocket—or rather, my "Inventory." Sharon, meanwhile, stared at me wide-eyed, stunned by what she'd just witnessed.

Warning! 1 unit of damage received.

"Are you out of your mind?!" she exclaimed, reaching for my injured hand.

"Maybe. But just a little," I shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "Don't worry, it'll heal by morning. I'm... different."

Warning! 1 unit of damage received.

"That's no reason to hurt yourself," Sharon snapped, taking my hand and redoing the bandage—much more skillfully than I had. Her touch was gentle but firm.

Attention! "Bleeding" has been stopped.

"Thank you, Sharon," I smiled, though her touch stirred something in me that I was desperately trying to suppress. The heat, the tension, it all came flooding back. Even the pain in my hand couldn't fully distract me from the growing fire inside.

"Please," she said softly. "Did you at least learn something useful?"

"I learned I am a mutant," I said, referring to my earlier encounter. "And I can sense mental influence, even block it to some extent."

"That's not quite what I meant," Sharon chuckled, finishing the last neat knot in the bandage.

"If you're talking about my... less-than-healthy tendencies, well, maybe I have a tiny problem," I admitted, holding my thumb and forefinger millimeters apart. Sharon folded her arms and gave me a look that poured skepticism all over my excuse. I sighed, spreading my fingers wider. "Okay, maybe it's a bigger issue."

"Xavier isn't available right now, but I could find another therapist—someone less specialized in mutants, but just as competent," she suggested.

"I don't trust therapists with their degrees," I said, turning my gaze to the crimson horizon. "I have two problems, and they're connected. First, I can't stay idle. When I do, I fall apart and start spiraling. To avoid that, I train."

"And what's the issue with that?" Sharon asked, clearly confused.

"The stronger I get, the worse my... urges get," I admitted. "So I train harder to ignore them. But the more I train, the stronger I get, and the cycle repeats. It's a vicious circle."

"Have you tried... finding a girlfriend?" Sharon giggled.

"With this?" I gestured at my stomach.

"Well," she looked away awkwardly, "not all girls are picky..."

"Maybe, but I am," I said, my brow furrowing. "And I'm definitely not interested in anything... transactional."

"Fair enough. But what does any of this have to do with your self-destructive behavior?" she asked, genuinely curious now.

"I'm already strong. Normal training doesn't cut it anymore—it doesn't distract me. So I push myself harder, to the point where it feels... like I'm tempting fate."

"You really need to meet Natasha," Sharon chuckled.

"Are you trying to get me killed?" I asked, nearly choking on my tea in surprise. Sharon laughed and patted my back to help me recover.

"Her training might be exactly what you need. It's intense. Like... borderline murderous," she teased.

"That sounds like a challenge I might actually enjoy," I mused aloud.

"I'll try to set something up," she said with a mischievous smile. "But try not to break your neck before she has the chance to."

"It's in my best interests too," I grinned, pouring myself another cup of tea. "What kind of training does she do? Karate? Boxing? Ballet?"

"A bit of everything," Sharon smirked behind her cup. "Would you do ballet with her?"

I set my cup aside, stood up, and with a completely straight face, pulled out my phone, cranked up some classical music, and started imitating the "Dance of the Little Swans" from Swan Lake. My memory of it was fuzzy, so I had to improvise. At first, Sharon stared in shock. But soon, her laughter filled the air, and she pulled out her phone to record me.

I kept going until the music ended, maintaining my serious expression the whole time. "It would've been better with a pink tutu," I said, deadpan.

Sharon was too stunned to speak. But then I couldn't hold it in anymore, and I broke into a fit of laughter. Sharon followed suit. It took nearly ten minutes for both of us to calm down.

"I didn't think you were that flexible," Sharon said, wiping a tear and touching up her makeup in a small mirror from her purse.

"I told you, I'm stronger and more agile than I look," I said, lounging back on the bench with my tea.

"And how strong are you?" she asked, not expecting much.

"I can bench over two hundred pounds. Thirty pull-ups, easy."

"Yeah, right," she raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I can prove it," I said, checking the time on my phone. "Mr. Sullivan's gym closes in about twenty minutes. I have the key—no one will bother us."

"Let me get this straight. You've just admitted to being... distracted, and now you're inviting a girl, at night, to an empty gym in a soundproof basement?" Sharon's grin was wicked.

"Oh God, don't say it!" I groaned, covering my nose. "I swear I'm about to get a nosebleed like one of those anime characters!"

Sharon laughed. "Okay, strongman, as fun as this has been, it's time for me to head home. I've got work tomorrow, and I still need to eat and take care of some things."

I waved as she stood, straightened her skirt, and headed toward the entrance. "Our motto remains undefeated—we'll excite but never yield," I muttered with a grin as the door closed behind her.

Once she was gone, I packed away my thermos and mug into the "Inventory" and slapped my knees. "Well, now I'll have to deal with... all of this." I sighed. "Maybe a few hours of training will help me sleep."

I swam until four in the morning. My routine was simple: I swam three times across the East River, much like the day before. This time, however, I managed to avoid getting hit by any passing barges. Despite my efforts, the results were underwhelming. My Strength increased by just two points, Dexterity by another two, and Endurance by a single point. Cold resistance climbed to seven, but Poison resistance stayed flat. Swimming gained a point, and Running finally hit four—probably accumulated from all the city sprints I'd been doing without much visible result.

But even in the water, I couldn't distract myself from thoughts of Sharon, thoughts of a particular nature. My mind was ablaze. To shake it off, I decided to switch up my approach and swim along the current this time, heading downstream toward the bay. I began aimlessly, merely pushing my muscles harder over a longer distance. But then, the Statue of Liberty came into view, and it became my guiding beacon. Later, when I checked the distance on a map, it turned out I had swum about five kilometers—thanks to the favorable current. It wasn't easy, though.

On the way back, exhaustion hit hard. I barely made it to shore before passing out. I'd drained every last bit of my "potential" energy—down to zero. For the first time ever. And it wasn't in some fight; it was in the water, nearly a kilometer from the shore. That was far scarier than depleting my "explosive" energy reserves. When those ran dry, I could still switch to burning health. But this time, sleep came over me like a heavy blanket. My limbs turned into dead weights, unresponsive. I nearly drowned, and this time no barge was needed to put me at risk.

As my body fought to keep going, I experienced a slew of unwanted effects: a leg cramp, intestinal spasms, hypothermia, and loss of consciousness. The disorientation was particularly rough, but somehow, through sheer force of Will, I kept swimming. Ignoring these effects didn't mean they disappeared—it just meant I could keep pushing forward. But running out of energy wasn't something I could simply will away.

How did I even manage to survive? I don't fully recall, but I do remember shocking myself back to action. Yeah, electric shocks. I used a stun gun I had in my inventory—a simple one I'd picked up after my last run-in with the cops. I wasn't planning on a "Taser," just something cheap with replaceable batteries. I had been meaning to practice "Electricity Resistance," but hadn't gotten around to it. Lucky for me, I had it stored away. Somehow, with a mix of electric shocks and Berserker Rage, I swam back to shore and promptly passed out.

Thankfully, before I hit the ground, I managed to command my body to spit out any swallowed water and get dressed. I woke up just before the police could find me—which was fortunate because I had no explanation ready if they had. By the time I regained full consciousness, I'd only recovered about 1,500 points of "potential," so I wisely called a taxi home and ordered enough Chinese food for two days. Diets be damned.

I woke up in the evening, cleaned up, ate, made myself some tea, and settled into a chair with a steaming mug in hand. Only then did I check my status. And to be honest, the night's ordeal wasn't wasted. Almost all my physical stats had jumped by four or five points, and Endurance rose by six.

However, there was a price. My Intelligence took a hit, dropping by three points to five. Wisdom didn't fare much better and slid down to one. Can you go negative in these stats?

Here's the breakdown:

Name: Thomas Blank

Player: Mutant

Character Class: Funny Fat Man

Level: 6 (1010/5000)

Life: 2200/2200 (2.2 recovery per minute)

Explosive Energy: 3000/3000 (300 recovery per minute)

Potential Energy: 30000/30000 (30 recovery per minute)

Strength: 27

Dexterity: 24

Endurance: 30

Vitality: 22

Intelligence: 5

Wisdom: 1

Will: 32

Intuition: 3

Libido: 6

Unallocated Attribute Points: 30

Skills:

Electricity Resistance - 5Poison Resistance - 8Cold Immunity - 3Running - 4Swimming - 7Scuba Diving - 2Handy Man - 4Observation - 2Free Skill Points - 1

Achievements:

"Iron Balls""Finished Bastard"

(Pain Level 110%, +25% to experience and stat growth rate)

It seems Endurance had reached the human limit. Meanwhile, Libido ticked up a notch, probably due to Vitality hitting 20. If Vitality reaches 30, I'll probably get another bump in that stat. Brutal. A vicious cycle, indeed.

I noticed my achievement "Finished Bastard" had leveled up too. Now it offered a 35% bonus to stat growth. And with that, people now actively avoid me—police, psychiatrists, you name it. Even hardened individuals recoil from my direct gaze. Nice perk.

The next step? Get my Strength and Dexterity up to 30. Then I can dive into a dungeon. Judging by my Will stat, raising stats above human limits is going to be tough.

Matt called me to remind me about the court hearing tomorrow. I thanked him, sighed, and stared at the mountain of unread legal literature. I had no choice but to dive back into it.

The hearing went as expected. Matt did all the talking while I sat with my head down, playing the part of a sad, confused idiot—something that, judging by my Intelligence stat, I wasn't really pretending. I answered questions exactly as I had in previous interrogations, word for word. Sharon's presence in the audience was unnerving. She was dressed completely differently, sporting a black wig and expertly applied makeup that transformed her into almost another person. If it weren't for my "Observation" skill, which clearly labeled her as "Sharon Carter," I wouldn't have recognized her. Handy skill. I'd have to work on it more.

By the end of the hearing, my "Observation" had gained another point, making it 3 now. I could see more than just name tags and health bars; there were numeric values next to them. What shocked me was the disparity in power levels: Matt had 1,000 points, Sharon had 750, and the others didn't even break 400—not even the security. And my own health was at 2,200. I was a mutant, alright.

The court's decision passed by in a blur. In the end, I was awarded nearly $300,000 after fees, taxes, and legal costs were deducted. I gave Matt his due—$75,000. For representing me, he took another 30% of the settlement, which I'd already set aside. I was left with about $200,000 and the weapon itself. Not bad.

But I'd have to be careful. As tempting as it was to expose myself to Tasers again for practice, this stunt wouldn't work twice. It's better to play it safe and lay low.

Sharon was waiting for me outside after the hearing. She had a thermos and was holding a steaming mug, clearly expecting me.

Sharon unscrewed the thermos lid, poured some tea, and handed me a cup. We sat in silence for a moment, both tasting the tea. This time it had a hint of mint, and maybe some bergamot. Mint... they say it affects men's potency—not in the best way. Was this a hint? Or an attempt to help?

"Why do you need a weapon, Thomas?" she asked after a while.

"Still don't believe I'm innocent?" I smirked.

"Not a bit," she replied, smiling. "You were too convincing in court. Too different from the person I've been talking to. You could be a great actor."

"Maybe the money was enough motivation?" I offered.

"Not with your character. You're not interested in money for its own sake."

"Then consider it training," I sighed. "Boys like guns, Sharon. Big boys like cool guns."

"That explains the ammo stockpile," Sharon said thoughtfully. "You don't buy that much for one job."

"Well, yeah. One and a half ammo packs per gun is usually enough," I replied, just as thoughtfully. It was knowledge from a 'past' life, resurfacing for some reason. My life must have been pretty interesting...

"Ammo pack?" she clarified.

"Combat kit. Ten magazines per weapon. Four loaded, the rest packed in my pockets and the 'marauder's bag'... Damn, what am I talking about?" I pressed the warm mug to my forehead, embarrassed. What must Agent Sharon Carter be thinking right now? This level of specific knowledge... and it's a little too 'nationally specific.' That's the standard for the AK. The NATO standard for the M16 is different—and I don't know it. Great, I'm giving myself away.

Sharon stayed quiet, and so did I.

"So, what's your plan?" she asked after a while.

"Well, after we part ways, I'm going to shower and then head to Sally's for a workout. In the broader sense, I'm planning to upgrade the energy efficiency of the house now that I've got the money. It'll save on heating in the long run."

"See? I was right about your attitude towards money," Sharon laughed. "You only care about it as a means to an end. Nothing more."

"But admit it—it's more satisfying to see the tangible results of how your money works than to stare at boring digits in a bank account."

"Maybe. Though I have to say, large digits in a bank account are pretty nice too. Especially when there are more than five of them... and when the first number isn't a one," she said dreamily, gazing up at the sky.

"Oh, Americans!" I shook my head mockingly. But that was hypocritical—I'm American now too. I should start getting used to it.

We fell into silence again.

"Aren't you worried about training with a 'dirty' weapon?" Sharon asked, breaking the silence. "By the way, the dealer who sold it to you was caught. Him and his police accomplice. The gun was stolen from an evidence locker."

"So every gun is marked and in the system," I finished her thought with a chuckle. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"And don't you find it strange that a 'simple nurse' has this information?" she added, narrowing her eyes slightly.

Was this an attempt to recruit me?

"You're clever," I said, switching to my 'oblivious' mode. "Clever people know things."

"Uh-huh." Sharon sighed. "You're not in the mood for a serious conversation, I see."

"Nope," I replied, smiling. "Serious conversations happen in serious organizations. I'm just a young, carefree guy. Not ready to grow up yet. Let's just enjoy some tea, shall we?" I gave her a pleading look.

"Fine," Sharon gave in with fake reluctance, hiding a smile behind her cup. We lapsed into silence again.

"But seriously," she finally asked, "doesn't it bother you? You've known for a while now, haven't you?"

"Sharon Carter, my tenant, a wonderful person, and hopefully a friend. What difference does it make what you do at your 'hospital'? If you want to tell me, go ahead. But I'm not looking for a job. I like my life. I'd help you out personally, but I'm not becoming a 'nurse.'"

"You're strange," she said, shaking her head.

More silence followed.

"Will you come with me to the Stark Expo?" Sharon asked suddenly. "Just as friends?"

"Stark Expo?" I nearly jumped, spilling my tea. "When's that?"

"Saturday. Four days from now," Sharon replied, surprised at my reaction.

"Of course I'll go!" I shrugged and smiled. "How could I miss a chance to go out with a stunning girl? Might be my only chance ever!"

"Joker," Sharon laughed. "And it's not a date."

"Call it whatever you want, as long as the girl is beautiful!"

"Alright," she snorted. "I'm sure we'll see each other before Saturday."

"Probably," I agreed, finishing off my tea and handing her back the thermos lid. "Goodnight!" I gave her a playful salute.

She saluted back, just as playfully.

As we parted, I couldn't help but wonder why Sharon had started playing openly with me. Still, I wasn't going to pass up the chance to explore Stark Expo—a treasure trove of the coolest modern tech! Sorry, Sharon. Thanks for the invite, but... "nothing personal—it's just business, baby!"

-----------------

POV Sharon

Natasha rarely asks for help. She's a super agent, after all, and usually handles her challenges with remarkable skill and grace. But even the best can find themselves in situations where a little assistance is needed, and today was one of those rare occasions. She turned to me, Sharon Carter, niece of the legendary Peggy Carter—one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D. Perhaps it was our friendship that influenced her decision. At least, I hope it was. With Black Widow, it's hard to be completely certain of anything; she's an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and beneath her tough exterior, there's a vulnerable side.

We've known each other for about five years now. I suppose that doesn't sound very long to some, but when you're only twenty-one, it feels substantial. Thanks to my "pedigree," I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. at sixteen, but my journey began at ten, training at their bases and camps. By sixteen, I completed my first solo mission successfully, earning the full rights and responsibilities of an agent. That same year, I moved into my own rented apartment, embracing independence.

Yes, I had the option to buy a place, but with our unpredictable work—constant travel, sudden departures, and uncertain return dates—renting seemed simpler. I could pay in advance and avoid the stress of tax deadlines, filing declarations, and the complexities that come with property ownership. My landlord, Stan, was a pleasant guy in his forties. He was cheerful and understanding, making our arrangement easy. I would leave him the key when I had to leave in a hurry, and when I returned unexpectedly, I would reclaim it. He even watered my plants when I was away.

It was during that time I met Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow. Our first encounter happened on a mission where we pretended to be sisters—she was the older sibling, and I was the younger. The operation concluded, but we stayed connected, forming a bond that felt more like family.

Now, Natasha needed my assistance on a sensitive case. She had infiltrated the company of Tony Stark, the younger son of Howard Stark, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s founders. Everything was going smoothly until a few complications arose. First, Tony Stark is a genius. Second, he possesses a hero complex. Third, he's facing a dire situation—he's dying. And lastly, he has an enemy, a ruthless adversary who wouldn't hesitate to create collateral damage. It's a dangerous game, and though this enemy was presumed dead, the threat lingered.

Natasha asked me to provide backup at an event where many people would gather. Not because she feared for her life—she's more than capable of handling herself—but because she needed to keep an eye on Pepper Potts, Tony's confidante, in case things went awry. With me there, Natasha could act without reservations, using her signature blend of boldness and efficiency.

She handed me a personalized invitation to the Stark Expo's grand opening, meant for two. I wondered what her reasoning was in choosing me. Perhaps securing another invitation wasn't feasible. Regardless, I now had an invitation for two and needed a suitable escort.

Finding someone to accompany me wouldn't be too hard; I could easily meet a guy and persuade him to take me to the Expo under the guise that it was his idea. The challenge, however, lay in ensuring he wouldn't become a liability in a situation that Natasha was preparing for. Assessing someone's reliability in a short time is tricky, and the last thing I needed was unexpected complications during a critical moment.

Of course, I could ask someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. to join me, maybe even Brock Rumlow from the combat wing. Yet, I had complicated relationships with the male agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. They often treat me like one of their "prizes," engaging in competitions over who can charm the most women. Despite being one of those "chicks," I've managed to maintain a professional distance and keep the attention at bay, but if that fragile balance shifted, things could get messy. I've worked hard to build my reputation—five years' worth of effort.

As I stared at the invitation in my hands, my thoughts drifted to the candidacy of Thomas Blank as my escort. Thomas Blank... the nephew of my landlord, Stan Peters. We're the same age, and he had spent considerable time living with his uncle. Unfortunately, Thomas had always struggled with severe mental challenges. A true enigma! More accurately, he resembled a living automaton: devoid of smiles, fear, tears, or screams—just pure robotic compliance. If given a task, he would execute it endlessly, as long as he wasn't told to stop. Whether it was hammering nails at precise intervals, lugging bags up four flights, or even harming himself, he would carry it out. Brrr! The thought of him was unsettling!

The only comfort was that he listened solely to his uncle and parents. It felt as though he didn't register anyone else's presence; he simply stared blankly at people, as if they were nothing but empty space. After our first encounter, I experienced nightmares involving him for a month. Very unsettling nightmares. And this was despite the fact that I was already a full-fledged agent in an international anti-terrorist organization, having faced real danger multiple times! Over time, however, I grew accustomed to him, like a piece of furniture—just another fixture like the front door or a street lamp, especially since he held no significance in my life.

Then, a couple of months ago, tragedy struck. Stan died in a car accident, along with his sister and brother-in-law. Thomas was left all alone. I couldn't fathom the disaster it must have been for him! He didn't leave his apartment for nearly a week. I knew this because I attempted to check on him three times, pretending my hot water was out. And, indeed, it was! After an exhausting day of training, coming home to a cold shower was no picnic!

On my first two visits, the door was opened by the same "robot." He stood there, staring straight through me with that empty gaze, ignoring everything I said, before the "program" kicked in and he closed the door. The third time, he actually listened and followed me. I was so bewildered that I regained my senses only when he brought out the tools and began fixing the pipe. To my surprise, he acted with remarkable competence! And then he started talking! No one had ever heard him speak before! It was rumored that he hadn't cried when he was born, nor during his infancy. Yet there he was, conversing meaningfully, even smiling!

I snapped back to reality and offered to feed him. I even managed to bake a pie (I enjoy cooking, though mostly for myself since I live alone). However, he politely declined, citing his strict diet. Truth be told, a diet wouldn't hurt him—while he wasn't overly obese, he certainly wasn't slim. Then, unexpectedly, he invited me over for dinner. Specifically to eat, not in any vague sense. I must admit, he cooked just as well as I did! Watching him eat was something else—he didn't simply eat; it was a ritual! Overall, it was a peculiar experience. Thomas genuinely invited me to share in the joy of dining. The atmosphere was relaxed, friendly, the food was delicious, and the conversation flowed easily. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I considered the possibility of a sequel to that evening… but of course, it was just a fleeting thought.

After that day, Thomas changed. I went away on a business trip and missed witnessing the changes firsthand, but when I returned... I found him unprepared for my visit. He greeted me at the door, wearing nothing but a towel. And he looked dreadful! At first glance, it didn't seem apparent, but upon closer inspection—and after I fetched a first aid kit with diagnostic tools—it became painfully clear. His body bore numerous marks from police tasers, and his vital signs were alarming: erratic blood pressure, an uneven pulse, burst blood vessels in his eyes, arrhythmia... a pre-infarction state. Yet despite this, there was an intense determination in his gaze, reminiscent of Director Fury—not a mere boy on the verge of collapse.

Then something changed, and his near-death state vanished! He stood up, changed clothes, and left to go for a run, leaving me alone in his apartment. Of course, that was a mistake. My eyes and ears remained on him through hidden cameras in his home. I followed him as he ran, and he moved with an effortless grace, defying the fact that he weighed over a hundred kilograms. He leaped into the East River, swam, collided with a barge, submerged, then resurfaced. He swam all the way to Manhattan and back to Brooklyn, emerging half-dead, gasping for breath before sprinting home.

As an agent, I know how to extract information. I employed my skills to gather intel and discovered something remarkable: Thomas Blank is a mutant. This explained many of his peculiarities: the dormant X-gene, mental illness, and the traumatic experiences that triggered his mutation. He had "awoken" to this realization. It was a common feeling among newly empowered mutants, like the ground collapsing beneath them. If psychological support isn't offered during such turmoil, it rarely ends well. So, I turned to the most qualified person I knew—Charles Xavier, the head of a special "school for gifted youngsters." I had encountered him several times in my work, and we had developed a decent rapport. I asked him to assist this young mutant discreetly, without drawing unwanted attention. Charles agreed.

They arranged to meet, but while Charles traveled to Tibet, Thomas took off again—to drown himself! It wasn't immediate, but he bolted! When conversing with him, one gets the impression of a calm and sensible individual, an intelligent conversationalist... until you lock eyes with him. That gaze triggers my childhood nightmares all over again.

If I set aside my emotions and evaluate him strictly as a development subject, what do I find? A mutant. Strong, fast, flexible, and incredibly resilient. During that first encounter with him in just a towel, I had the chance to assess his physique closely. Despite his appearance, he's not flabby. Yes, he's overweight, but beneath that exterior lies remarkable muscle. His belly rolls and flabby skin may deceive, but his muscles are as strong as steel.

He may seem soft, but a single blow from him would leave you shattered. The hidden cameras faithfully broadcast his morning "workouts," showcasing his strength through pull-ups on a doorway bar, lifting his body weight, and performing push-ups in a handstand position. He's a dangerous adversary; with his abilities, if he survives the first bullet, he'll surely reach his target, regardless of the obstacles—be it fire, poison, or anything else.

Yet, despite all this, he remains calm, friendly, and collected. His reckless endeavors do not lead to unfortunate outcomes for him. Yes, they're risky and perilous, but he perseveres. Once might be an accident, twice could be luck, but three times or more indicates a system. And he doesn't linger or act out; he doesn't seek my approval or affection… I glanced back at the invitation and made my decision.

Let it be Thomas Blank. If the situation turns dire, it's better for me to take him down than for him to end his life and be laid to rest like some forgotten stray. But as I voiced my proposal, a fierce determination ignited in Blank's eyes, and I felt a fleeting urge to backtrack, but it was too late. Whatever will be, will be. I can only hope Stark Expo survives…

--------------------------------------------------------------

The morning began with the pleasant chimes of incoming text messages notifying me of my bank account's replenishment. Landlord's Day was here, the day tenants typically paid their rent. Of course, it wasn't mandatory for payments to be made on this day. For example, Sharon, my neighbor, preferred to pay for the entire year in advance, a detail clearly noted in her uncle's records. But for many, including me, it was simply convenient to celebrate this day. I indulged in the joy brought by those notifications while performing my daily exercise routine.

I was in high spirits, especially after another successful swim in the East River the night before. This time, the experience felt much easier because I knew what to expect. The improvement in my physical abilities was apparent. I managed to swim around Liberty Island without needing to climb onto the shore. My stamina lasted until I decided to push my limits by swimming from the Bronx to Manhattan and back. I didn't gain any bonuses to my Will, and my Endurance remained at thirty, but my Strength hit the human limit. Naturally, my Libido took a slight hit, which was... eh, oh well.

My Dexterity increased to twenty-six, and my Vitality climbed to twenty-four. My Resistance grew too, alongside my swimming skill. The most important part: I didn't suffer any penalties, and I didn't evolve into anything completely outrageous. Expo or not, my plans had to be fulfilled. So, what were those plans? Answer: procuring materials and employing some out-of-work superheroes. The first half of the day was dedicated to materials, while the second would focus on finding help.

However, I hadn't anticipated that the trek to the architectural department to get approval for changes to the exterior of my building would take so long. What seemed like a simple task turned into a labyrinth of paperwork. I had to stamp forms, gather certificates, obtain signatures, and negotiate with various officials. I felt incredibly fortunate to have completed this in just one day.

Then came a quick visit to the building materials database. Well, not exactly quick—I got too absorbed in leveling up my Observation skill while selecting products—but I managed to raise it by two whole points. As a result, the people I encountered no longer appeared as "strangers" in my view. Everyone had a first name. Their last names were added only for those I already knew, but everyone had names! And a mini-map appeared! Yahoo! Observation is fantastic! I loved it already and planned to level it up whenever I could!

Upon returning home, I didn't precisely level up my skills but rather developed what I had already acquired. It turned out the mini-map was linked to the "Journal." Through my experience, I discovered that from the "Journal," I could connect to the mini-map, as well as a larger map found under its own tab in the Journal, with various maps "downloaded" into it. Consequently, I started loading a variety of maps and atlases into my Journal, first using those stored at my uncle's and then those I had ordered, which were delivered by courier.

By ten o'clock that evening, I even managed to raise my Intelligence by a whole unit. Feeling joyful and accomplished, I prepared for another swim.

The following morning, after my usual exercise, I was thrilled with my new stats: twenty-eight in Dexterity and twenty-six in Vitality. I changed into my work clothes and made my way to the second floor, stopping at door number seventeen. It was time to focus on the second point of my plan to improve the energy efficiency class of my building.

"Ah... Mr. Blank! How wonderful it is to see you!" A disheveled and overly excited Peter Parker, the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, greeted me with a feigned smile that hardly masked his nervousness.

"Good morning, Peter," I replied with a similarly forced grin, slowly crossing the threshold and raising my gaze to meet his shifting eyes. Someone's going to have nightmares today, I thought.

"Please, I have a small problem with my phone. You're a smart guy," I said, handing him my smartphone.

"Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Blank! Of course!" Parker exclaimed, his mood lifting as he took my unlocked device. "What seems to be the issue?"

"You see, Peter, I can't find a text message from the bank notifying me that you've paid last month's rent, let alone for next month," I stated, finally locking my gaze onto Parker's. He visibly shuddered, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

"B-b-but... but... Mr. Blank! There..."

"What, Peter? I didn't hear you. Speak up: what's 'there'?" I raised a hand to my ear.

"It's not there," Parker admitted, his face falling. "Because I can't pay right now... I have—"

"Temporary financial issues and work troubles? Is that what you wanted to say, Peter?" I asked, tilting my head and lowering my hand. He nodded silently.

"Well, then come with me!" I said, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him out of the apartment and onto the stairwell. All his superpowers didn't help him here; he looked completely flustered.

"You'll work it off!" The "patient" was genuinely frightened and started to scream, but his fear rendered him nearly speechless.

"Ah!" he squealed. "M-Mister Blank! I'll give you everything! Honestly! No need to work it off!"

At that moment, the door of apartment eighteen creaked open, and a curious Sharon poked her head out, intrigued by the commotion.

"Listen here!" I turned Peter to face me, locking eyes with him.

Attention! The look of a scumbag: success! Attention! A crushing look: success! Attention! Strong-willed pressure: success! Attention! The strong-willed look of a complete scumbag: success…

"Do you want to live?" I asked, letting the question hang in the air.

There was a simultaneous sound of two gulps: one from Parker and one from Sharon. Then came the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut from apartment eighteen. Peter glanced toward it, then back at me, swallowing hard again as he shrank further into my grip.

"…in this apartment and beyond?" I concluded, softening my expression slightly.

He nodded frantically, doing so with such fervor that I half-expected his head to shake loose. "Then stop shaking and come with me. I need your help," I told him in a calm tone, setting him down. Before, he had been dangling from the collar of his sweatshirt, which was surprisingly sturdy; his feet had barely touched the floor, like a small kitten. The difference in our sizes and my additional thirty pounds of strength was evident—I hardly felt his seventy kilograms.

"So, what should we do?" he asked, finally calming down a bit.

"Do you know what 'industrial mountaineering' is?" I inquired.

"I've heard of it," he replied, a hint of hesitation in his voice.

"We're going to insulate the house from the outside. We'll cover the walls with rock wool, and then plaster them while the weather still allows it. I've already purchased all the gear and materials. I just need a partner—another pair of hands. You're a dexterous guy, right? Or are you afraid of heights?"

"Of course not!" Even Spider-Man bristled at the suggestion.

"That's good," I said, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "We'll have time to cover the whole house in a week—I'll forgive you for a month's rent. How does that sound?"

"Absolutely!" Peter exclaimed, his spirits lifting. "You're even asking!"

"Let's move quickly; time is of the essence!" he added, bursting with enthusiasm.

Working with emergency services is a pleasure: agile, strong, smart, understanding, quick, and never boring. In just one day, Peter and I managed to cover almost the entire first floor with stone wool insulation. We decided against tackling the second floor at night, opting for a sensible break. The funny thing was, Sharon provided us with lunch! She simply looked out the window and called, "Boys! Time for lunch!" Her tone was completely authoritative, without any attempt to justify her generosity.

Peter and I exchanged surprised glances and shrugged our shoulders in unison. Why refuse free food? As we approached Sharon, I let Peter go first, completely distracted by her appearance in a short robe. The sight left quite an impression, causing me to punch myself in the iron part of body to calm myself I think I even heard a metallic clang resonate through my skull before stars began to dance before my eyes from the unexpected pain.

Warning! Critical hit: 450 damage received.

The system coldly noted my blunder. However, things became easier from there. So much so that I could joke around and focus on Sharon's face instead of where my eyes would naturally gravitate. Peter certainly didn't notice anything amiss, but Sharon... she shook her head reproachfully, which prompted me to respond with an embarrassed smile. Surprisingly, I didn't even limp as we made our way to the dining table.

Sharon had prepared a feast for Peter and herself, with hearty dishes laden with meat, cheese, and fried delights. In stark contrast, my meal consisted of a sad low-calorie option. Their food smelled so intoxicatingly delicious that I contemplated the foolishness of clanging the metal again, but I dismissed the idea, recognizing it as already "too much."

Later that evening, we had dinner at Sharon's again. Anticipating this turn of events, I had run to the store beforehand to pick up a cake, a bottle of red wine, fresh fruit, and a pack of quality tea. And, of course, I didn't forget the flowers. Just to set the mood. Without any hints, women love flowers, right?

I poured Peter a glass of wine, while Sharon and I only sipped the beautifully fragrant ruby liquid. I generally avoid alcohol (not that it matters much; my character class grants significant resistance to poisons, and I've leveled it up to twelve, meaning I could probably handle gasoline without too much trouble). As for Sharon... I suspect her avoidance of alcohol might stem from her professional demeanor or perhaps from knowing about my unique issues with libido. She likely recalled the old adage about "a drunk woman is not a good housewife." A fair assumption, really.

On another note, I should stock up on a couple of boxes of the cheapest booze—I'd use it to boost my poison resistance, starting with something harmless, not cyanide, right? Then I could claim I was drowning my sorrows. After all, maybe they'd feel sympathy for the unfortunate, awkward guy drowning in his own issues.

We parted around nine in the evening; after all, this wasn't a social gathering but merely dinner. That night, I went for my traditional swim—aiming to catch up with my Dexterity cap. I swam for what felt like ages, almost until dawn, but I managed to hit that Dexterity cap. My Vitality only increased by one, Scuba Diving skill saw a slight rise, Cold Resistance grew a bit... but what upset me the most was that my Libido reached eight! Nasty!

Should I expect the same unfortunate turn with my Vitality cap now? In the morning, I went to fetch Parker, and together we headed up to the second floor. In a fun twist, lunch was at Miss Carter's again, just as dinner had been the night before. This time, instead of wine, I brought juice and more fruit. Since she was all about sobriety, it seemed pointless to insist otherwise. Peter, however, was determined to drink himself under the table again—there was no need for that.

I hadn't gone swimming the previous night. Instead, I'd been drinking—consuming that same "cheap disgusting swill." Bottle after bottle, I polished off both boxes. It was as unpleasant as it sounds. I felt sick, and everything around me became a blur. My health was deteriorating rapidly, but it seemed to bounce back just as quickly after a quick snack. I experienced many effects, but I couldn't recall most of them; nearly all were disregarded due to sheer Will.

All… except for the hangover. And the lingering effects of alcohol...

In the morning, I felt like I could kill someone for two reasons: the dreadful hangover that had taken root in my skull and the aftereffects of my reckless drinking.

Attention! Libido +1

Attention! Four main physical parameters have reached the maximum values for a human:

Your senses are heightened

Attention! The "Heightened Hearing" characteristic is unlocked

Attention! The "Heightened Vision" characteristic is unlocked

Attention! The "Heightened Sense of Olfaction" characteristic is unlocked

Attention! The "Heightened Taste" characteristic is unlocked

Attention! The "Heightened Sense of Touch" characteristic is unlocked

Attention! The "Heightened Sense of Balance" characteristic is unlocked

Heightened Hearing +1

Heightened Vision +1

Heightened Sense of Olfaction +1

Heightened Taste +1

Heightened Sense of Balance +1

Libido +1

Attention! Libido has reached 10 units: Permanent "Satyr" effect received.

"Satyr effect status!"

Permanent "Satyr" effect: your Libido is enormous, as is your physical ability to receive sexual satisfaction (Your Strength, Dexterity, Vitality, and Endurance allow you to continue intercourse for more than 24 hours. The size of your genitals has increased). The intensity of such desire can no longer be hidden, and it is clearly visible in your gaze.

Chapter 169 - 2

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