Chapter Thirteen: Weekly Sign-In.
I sat back against the cushioned outdoor sofa on the rooftop terrace of the penthouse, one arm draped lazily over the side while the city stretched endlessly beneath me.
Skyscrapers pierced the night sky, their lights forming veins of gold and white that pulsed with life. The faint sound of traffic drifted upward, distant and muted, like the city itself was aware it was being watched.
The rooftop terrace patio was expansive—marble tiles beneath my boots, a private pool reflecting the moonlight, and lounge chairs arranged like this was some billionaire's playground instead of a temporary hideout for a supernatural hunter.
Courtesy of Uncle John.
I exhaled slowly and shook my head.
I never thought making money could be this easy.
Destroy a vampire den, submit proof, and get paid nearly a hundred thousand dollars like it was a freelance job. Clear out the city, eliminate the major nests, and suddenly half a million landed in my account. That didn't even include the additional payments per den, per confirmed kill, or the bonuses for eliminating leaders.
It was ridiculous.
Uncle John had been the one handling the collections for me, using his connections with the local hunter association. Apparently, there was one here too—and unlike the mess in Chicago, this one was clean. Structured. Professional. Almost corporate.
They had ranks, payment charts, bounty listings, confirmed kill verification, and even internal intelligence divisions.
They paid five dollars per vampire kill.
Five.
It sounded insulting at first, until you realized the scale. These people weren't expecting one hunter to wipe out an entire city. They were paying for consistency. For numbers. For attrition.
It reminded me of that vampire-killing organization from the Day Shift movie—only this one was real, well-funded, and frighteningly efficient.
Thanks to them, I had access to far more information than I should have. Maps. Territory breakdowns. Feeding zones. Neutral covens. Werewolf packs. Syndicates.
And the first thing that became painfully obvious?
Chicago had been small-time.
This city was infested.
The supernatural population here dwarfed Chicago's by a ridiculous margin. Vampires didn't just exist—they formed gangs. Syndicates. Power blocs. Entire social structures layered beneath human society.
There were even werewolf gangs.
That still pissed me off.
How the hell did Damon and Stefan live their entire lives without realizing werewolves existed until Mason Lockwood practically announced it? The answer was simple: the wolves here stayed low-key. Extremely low-key.
They kept to themselves, lived on the fringes, avoided attention.
And for good reason.
The Originals.
The werewolves' population was pitiful compared to vampires and witches, and they knew it. One wrong move, one careless exposure, and they'd be wiped out.
The witches were worse.
Far worse.
Unlike vampires, witches didn't splinter into dozens of unstable factions. They stuck together. Shared information. Protected their own. Hunting witches wasn't just dangerous—it was political suicide unless you were ready to face retaliation.
I leaned back, eyes flicking toward the translucent blue interface hovering in my vision.
A countdown ticked steadily.
Three seconds.
Two.
One.
[Ding.]
[Weekly Sign-In Available.]
The system's familiar tone resonated directly in my mind.
[Do you wish to sign in?]
[Y / N]
"Yes," I said casually, tossing a grape into my mouth and biting down.
The flavor burst across my tongue as the interface shimmered.
[Weekly Sign-In Successful.]
A cascade of notifications followed.
[Summoning Scroll x1 — System Creation.]
[Super Soldier Serum x5 — Marvel Universe.]
[Exo-Genes Serum x10 — DC Universe.]
[Brixton Lore Triumph Speed Triple RS — Fast & Furious Universe.]
[Extremis Serum x5 — Marvel Universe.]
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
"…Wow."
My gaze swept over the item list, disbelief giving way to something dangerously close to excitement.
Everything here was priceless.
System, will I keep receiving items like this?
If this kept up, this universe wasn't just survivable—it was mine to play with.
[The host was only fortunate due to this being the first weekly sign-in.]
[Future sign-ins may not yield rewards of this caliber.]
I snorted softly.
"I figured as much."
Still, even a single week like this was absurdly broken.
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, scanning the descriptions as the system expanded each item.
[Summoning Scroll: Allows the host to summon one individual from any universe.]
[Summoning is random.]
[Summoned individuals will be useful to the host.]
Useful was vague. Suspiciously vague.
[Super Soldier Serum — Nagel's Optimized Formula.]
[Recipients gain enhanced strength, speed, stamina, agility, reflexes, and accelerated healing.]
[No physical deformation.]
That alone could turn an ordinary human into something capable of standing toe-to-toe with mid-tier vampires.
Then there was the Exo-Genes Serum.
[Exo-Genes Serum — DC Universe.]
[Temporarily grants Kryptonian-level abilities for 24 hours.]
I went very still.
Ten doses.
Ten.
That meant ten people capable of tearing Originals apart—temporarily, yes—but still terrifying.
And then—
[Brixton Lore Triumph Speed Triple RS.]
The bike.
My lips twitched.
I didn't know what was wrong with me, but out of everything here, the bike excited me the most.
Power was great. Serums were broken. But that machine?
That was art.
I stood and moved back into the penthouse interior, away from the open terrace. The space was massive—high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist luxury everywhere.
Perfectly private.
I summoned the bike from my inventory.
Metal materialized with a low hum, and suddenly it was there.
The Brixton Lore bike looked like a predator frozen mid-prowl—black frame, aggressive angles, reinforced chassis. It radiated menace.
I circled it slowly.
"Damn…"
I wanted to ride it immediately—but priorities.
Reluctantly, I stored it back into my inventory. It would need a new paint job anyway. Maybe red. Or green.
Something bold.
I turned my attention back to the remaining items, fingers hovering before settling on the summoning scroll.
It looked ancient—yellowed parchment, dark symbols etched into its surface, like something ripped straight from an Eastern cultivation manual.
"Can I choose where to summon from?" I asked.
[No.]
"The individual?"
[No.]
I sighed. "Figures. How do I activate it?"
[Channel energy into the scroll.]
"What if I summon something that can kill me? Like Titans? Or Saitama?"
[Summoned individuals will not exceed the host's strength.]
[They will also be loyal to the host.]
That made me pause.
"…Then what's the point?"
[The host can empower them.]
Right.
I grinned faintly.
"Well," I muttered, "here's hoping it's someone useful."
Or better yet—
"I wouldn't mind a hot woman," I added.
"Black Widow. Caitlin Snow. Someone like that."
I channeled energy into the scroll.
The parchment lifted from my hand, symbols igniting as it unfurled mid-air. A vortex tore open in the center of the room, space warping violently.
"System," I said quickly, "is this safe indoors?"
No response.
I crossed my fingers.
"Please be hot. Please be hot."
The vortex collapsed.
A figure stood there.
Buck naked.
Middle-aged.
Male.
"…You have got to be kidding me."
The man bowed slightly.
"Good day, Master Jeremy."
I stared.
The face was familiar—disturbingly so.
System… isn't that Andy Serkis?
[Incorrect.]
[Summoned Individual: Alfred Pennyworth.]
[Universe: DC.]
[Status: Deceased in original universe.]
[Memory wiped.]
[Combat expert. Tactical genius. Technological specialist.]
[Extremely loyal to the host.]
I rubbed my face and groaned.
Of all people.
"You couldn't have given me a female version?" I muttered.
[Summoning is random.]
I grabbed a bedsheet and tossed it at him.
"Cover yourself," I said flatly. "I'll get you clothes."
Somewhere deep down, I knew this was only the beginning.
And that whatever came next… was going to change everything.