It was a quiet night in 2025, the kind where the world outside Brandon Heat's home felt distant and irrelevant. At 24, a college junior pursuing his Ph.D. in Computer Science, Brandon lived a structured life. By day, he worked as a mid-level programmer, tapping away at code that paid the bills. By night, he indulged in his solitary hobbies—devouring books like The Art of War, 1984, To Kill a Mockingbird, Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, The Lord of the Rings, Brave New World, Crime and Punishment, The Alchemist, and East of Eden, along with memoirs such as Man's Search for Meaning and The Diary of a Young Girl. His shelves were lined with old-school comic books, the ones from before modern writers twisted the lore of Marvel and DC into unrecognizable shapes. He knew every arc, every retcon, every hero and villain. Figurines and merchandise from Marvel, DC, Fallout, and other franchises cluttered his space, a testament to his loner nature. Friends? He didn't believe in them—acquaintances were enough. Crowds made him uneasy, and women? Forget it. His high libido simmered under the surface, but he'd never gotten laid. College women, especially, repulsed him; just thinking about where they'd been made his stomach turn. He was kind, calm, loyal, and naturally good-hearted, but trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Brandon lounged on his bed, his long black hair tied back, brown eyes focused on his phone screen. At 5'11" with an average physique, the only part of himself he took quiet pride in was his 8-inch dick—though it had seen more action in his fantasies than in reality. He was grinding through Clash of Clans, upgrading his base one tedious level at a time. Finally, satisfied with his progress, he set the phone aside, turned off the light, and drifted into sleep.
Two hours later, a ringing noise—like distant bells—jerked him awake. He bolted upright, heart pounding, scanning his room. There, in the middle of the floor, sat a giant human-sized box, wrapped in nondescript paper with a letter perched on top. Brandon's IQ of 140 kicked in immediately. He glanced around for cameras, then at the taped paper on his door—a makeshift alarm he'd set up to detect intruders. It was unbroken. How the hell did someone get in here, drop off a massive box while I slept, and leave without me noticing? That's impossible.
He eyed the box warily, then the letter, which seemed to glow faintly. Stepping to the side, away from it, he muttered, "Nope. Seen this shit in movies—the killer jumps out and stabs your ass with a kitchen knife. Not gonna happen, Ghosty." He backed away, sliding against the wall.
Suddenly, a voice boomed from nowhere, echoing with amusement. "CONGRATULATIONS, Brandon Heat! You just won the Cosmic Lottery—as well as keeping your life for not opening the box. You are the first out of 1,655,233,848 people who tried to open the box. CONGRATULATIONS!"
Brandon's jaw dropped at the number. What the hell? Are people that stupid? Have they never watched a horror movie?
The voice chuckled. "You'd be surprised, chap." Then, as if speaking to someone else, "Sorry, Ghosty—seems like this one's the smart one."
The box creaked open on its own. Out popped a figure in a Scream mask, the iconic Ghostface from the movies. Brandon recognized him instantly. "Ghosty? That you?"
Ghosty looked up, pointing finger guns at him. "Wazzup!"
Brandon couldn't help but grin, returning the gesture. "Wazzup."
The voice interrupted. "Well, Ghosty, thanks for agreeing to help with the culling of stupid people. But it seems like THE ENTITY is waiting for you. She said the survivors are crying about how impossible it is to survive against the killer again—complaining that 16 perks against 4 perks the killer has isn't enough of an advantage. They're throwing a tantrum like children, wanting killers to not have a weapon to hit them with now."
Brandon's mind raced. The Entity? From Dead by Daylight? He stared at Ghosty, who shrugged nonchalantly.
"The usual shit. Like it matters anyway—these hands will still kill them, and they'll complain about how OP it is. Then I'll lose my hands, start using my legs to kill 'em with, and lose those too. Anyway, it was fun." Ghosty laughed maniacally and vanished in a puff of smoke.
The voice returned, addressing Brandon directly. "Okay then, Brandon—as I said before, congratulations! You won the Cosmic Lottery. This box here has your reward. See you never. Bye."
"Wait, what—" But the voice was gone before Brandon could ask anything.
He stared at the open box, heart still racing. Inside lay a woman—or what looked like one. Blue-skinned, with yellow eyes and red hair, she was unmistakably Mystique from the X-Men comics he knew inside out. But she was motionless, her eyes vacant, like a husk without a soul. A note fluttered down: Your prize: Mystique. No soul, just a perfect shapeshifting vessel. She'll impersonate anyone you desire—animated, manga, comics, real-life. Flawlessly. Enjoy.
Brandon's mind whirled. His high libido stirred at the possibilities. This was insane... but real. He approached cautiously, touching her arm. Her skin shifted under his fingers, warm and alive, waiting for commands.
Brandon stood there in his dimly lit room, the weight of the impossible settling over him. Mystique—or whatever this husk was—lay curled in the box, her blue form breathing softly but otherwise inert. No personality, no will of her own. Just a blank canvas for his desires. His 140 IQ parsed the implications: infinite possibilities, zero strings. But where to start? His loner instincts screamed caution, but his pent-up libido whispered temptations from his vast knowledge of comics, books, and beyond.
He cleared his throat, voice tentative. "Uh... wake up?"
Her yellow eyes snapped open, locking onto him with eerie obedience. She rose fluidly, standing naked before him, her body a perfect replica of Mystique's athletic, curvaceous form from the old-school comics—before they ruined her with reboots.
"Command me," she said in a neutral tone, devoid of emotion.
Brandon's pulse quickened. His average physique felt inadequate next to her perfection, but his pride in his 8-inch cock surged. He could make her anyone. Anyone. A comic heroine? A literary figure? A real-life celebrity? Even animated waifus from manga he'd fantasized about in secret.
But first, a test. "Shapeshift into... Rogue. From X-Men, classic version."
In an instant, her blue skin faded to pale, green bodysuit with yellow accents forming over generous curves, white streak in her auburn hair. She was Rogue, down to the Southern drawl when she spoke: "What now, sugah?"
Brandon swallowed hard, his dick twitching. This was real. Smutty fantasies flooded his mind—he'd never trusted a woman enough to get this far, but this? This was safe. Controlled.