The roll-up door of the storage unit clanged shut behind him, a dull metallic thud that severed the last connection to the damp, clamorous Los Angeles dawn. The only light came from his phone's flashlight, its beam piercing the darkness to illuminate swirling dust motes, drifting like lost ghosts in the confined space. Mason Cooper slid down the cold, rough concrete wall, his backpack hitting the floor with a heavy thud beside him.
Sweat dampened his clenched fist, the crumpled note from Samuel peeking through his fingers—"Luck is a trap in disguise. Strength is sweet poison." The scrawled words burned in his mind like a brand. The swollen, cyanotic face of Tom Wills, Elena Voss's penetrating gaze, Lily Walker's honeyed, tempting voice… these images swirled and intertwined, tightening around him like constricting vines. He felt like a fly caught in a web, every struggle only entangling him further.
Despair, like an icy tide, rose past his ankles, his knees, slowly drowning his chest. He needed air, a lifeline to pull him from this suffocating feeling, even if that lifeline was itself lined with thorns.
*Acquire a new ability.*
The thought struck like a match in the darkness—feeble, but offering the only glimmer of light and its accompanying sear. He closed his eyes, pushing aside the chaos, focusing his consciousness on the indescribable sensation of the "system" within. Gradually, a stream of information, cold and mechanical, beyond the five senses, surfaced in his mind:
[Current Status: No Active Ability]
[Next Ability Acquisition: Available upon condition fulfillment (Cooldown period elapsed)]
[Note: Rules are the vessel of power, and the crucible of wisdom.]
The cooldown was over. This meant that since the nauseating experience of "Absolute Taste" had ended, a new window was open. No need to wait for the calendar to turn. Whenever he was willing, he could step onto that absurd and filthy ritual path.
The walls of his morality trembled before the instinct to survive. He remembered the spray of spittle from his boss, Miller; the icy ultimatum in his landlord's text; and, most vividly, the bone-deep shame and powerlessness he'd felt facing a blade in that dark alley. In this dog-eat-dog world, innocence and weakness were synonyms, inviting only ruthless trampling.
Mason's eyes snapped open, bloodshot, a desperate ferocity replacing the brief confusion. He grabbed his backpack, yanked his baseball cap low, and practically shoulder-checked the storage unit door open, striding back into the grey dawn.
He needed a target, an outlet for all his fury, humiliation, and despair.
"Hope Park" in the morning should have lived up to its name, but to Mason's eyes, it was an exhibition of human hypocrisy. Through the mist, a garish figure entered his line of sight.
He didn't even know how he'd ended up in this quiet neighborhood park. He just wanted a corner far from the basement and all his troubles, a place to cool his fevered mind. Samuel's warning, Elena's scrutiny, Lily's deceit, Tom Wills's gruesome death… these scenes spun like a carousel in his head, pushing him toward the edge. He slumped on a peeling wooden bench, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his hair, knuckles white. He was barely aware of his surroundings, lost in his own vortex of pain.
That's when the sound reached him—a sickly-sweet, breathy voice, accompanied by the tinny music from a phone speaker:
"Good morning, my babies~ A morning kiss for you all! Look at this sunshine, just perfect for all the amazing gifts from my babies today! Thank you 'Strongest-in-the-Universe' *dear* for the carnival! Love youuu~ … Oh my, I'm a little out of breath from running, but it's all worth it for my babies!"
A figure was jogging along the winding path. It was a strikingly eye-catching young woman, probably in her early twenties, with a face straight out of the "influencer template"—large, watery eyes (likely aided by colored contacts and meticulous eyeliner), a high-bridged nose (its perfect curve slightly unnatural), full, pouty M-shaped lips, framed by carefully styled wispy bangs and chestnut-colored waves. She wore a set of fluorescent pink high-end workout gear—a low-cut, skin-tight sports bra that strained against the curves of her ample, seemingly escape-ready chest and a cinched waist. The matching shorts were so brief they barely contained the rounded curves of her buttocks, which swayed hypnotically with each step. Most eye-catching were the sheer, skin-tone compression stockings on her legs, emblazoned with the huge, conspicuous double-C logo of Chanel, clinging like a second skin to long, straight, perfectly sculpted legs that tapered to slender ankles. Her feet were clad in limited-edition sneakers. One hand held a phone stabilizer aloft for her **livestream**, the other swung with her rhythm, luxury bracelets jingling on her wrist, glinting garishly in the morning light.
Completely absorbed in her **streaming performance** and finding the best angles for her self-adoration, she twisted her head back to give the camera a perfect over-the-shoulder glance, utterly failing to notice Mason's foot, which, due to his exhaustion and distracted state, had inadvertently extended onto the path from his seat on the bench.
"Ah!"
An exaggerated yelp followed a solid *thump*. The girl tripped hard. The phone stabilizer flew from her grip, landing in the grass. She herself lost balance, emitting a stream of theatrical shrieks as she pitched forward, sprawling into the greenery beside the path. Her carefully arranged hair was disheveled, her face smudged with dirt and grass. Her expensive workout clothes were stained. Worst of all, the pricey stockings were torn in several places by the rough grass and ground—snagged and laddered at the knees and ankles, with a particularly long, nasty rip running up the back of her right thigh, exposing the pale, smooth skin beneath. The ruined luxury logo made for a stark, embarrassing contrast.
Jolted back to reality by the commotion, Mason quickly pulled his foot back and stood up, genuine apology and a hint of panic on his face. "Sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't see you coming! Are you okay?" He took a step forward, reaching out to help her.The girl looked up, saw the state of her ruined outfit—the very ensemble carefully curated to flaunt wealth and attract followers!—and rage instantly drowned all pretense. She slapped his offered hand away, scrambled to her feet herself, and, ignoring her phone, pointed a trembling finger at Mason's face, her voice shrill and piercing, a world away from her saccharine livestream persona.
"Are you fucking blind?! What are those two huge feet for, decoration?! Can't you keep them to yourself?! Lying in the middle of the path like that—are you trying to scam someone or get yourself killed?! Look! Just look at my clothes! Limited edition! My stockings! Chanel current season! Do you have any idea how much they cost?! You couldn't pay for them if you sold yourself, you pathetic loser! You fucking creep! Dressed like you crawled out of a dumpster—did you stick your foot out on purpose?! Trying to get my attention?! Take a piss and look at your own reflection! You bottom-feeding maggot, I wouldn't let you lick my shoes, your tongue's probably too rough!"
Her tirade was vicious, each word aimed at class and character, deeply insulting. Morning joggers and passersby quickly gathered, forming a small circle. People saw the girl's still-striking looks and obvious designer wear, then looked at Mason's ordinary, worn-out clothes. Preconceived sympathy and unconscious biases—"pretty privilege," "wealth displays worth"—kicked in. The murmurs started, mostly directed at Mason:
"Tsk tsk, what's with this guy? Not watching where he's going, making her fall so hard."
"That girl is so unlucky, that outfit looks really expensive. Totally ruined."
"Some guys are so twisted nowadays. Can't stand seeing others do well, resort to cheap tricks."
"I got it on video, miss, in case he tries anything later! Scum like this needs to be exposed!"
"Times are tough, I guess. Some people just have a real problem with anyone successful, huh?"
"Call the police! Make him pay and apologize! Have him arrested!"
Phones were raised, recording. The flashes and the pointed stares from the crowd felt like red-hot needles jabbing Mason's frayed nerves. The immense pressure of recent days, the humiliation with no outlet, the despair over his own situation—all of it was ignited by the girl's abuse and the crowd's prejudice.
He jerked his head up, eyes bloodshot from sheer rage and overwhelm, face contorted, his previously neutral features now twisted into something fearsome. He stared dead at the crowd and the "acting major" of a girl, chest heaving, and let out a suppressed, guttural roar that seemed to tear from his very core. It was hoarse but carried a terrifying force:
"SHUT UP!!!"
The roar momentarily silenced the girl and the chattering crowd.
"Pay?! You want me to pay?!" Mason's face wore a near-hysterical, grimacing smile. "Fine! I'll pay you!! You worship money, don't you?! Think it's everything?! How about I use it to smash that phony face of yours?! Will that be enough?!"
He yanked the worn-looking backpack from his shoulder, the zipper ripping open with a violent *screech*. He wasn't reaching for money; he was unleashing it! He grabbed not one, but several handfuls of hundred-dollar bills, hurling them like sand, again and again, straight at the girl's face and body!
"For your ruined clothes! Your ruined stockings! Is that enough?!"
Thousands of dollars in cash hit her meticulously made-up face, scattering, a green blizzard of ironic condemnation. The girl was stunned into silence. She instinctively raised her hands, but through her fingers, her eyes widened to saucers at the sight of the fluttering, genuine hundred-dollar bills. Shock flooded her expression, followed rapidly by an unmistakable, wolfish greed!
"Not enough?! Here's more!!" Mason, completely out of control, grabbed another fistful and threw it even harder. "To buy your silence! Enough?! Huh?! You like **streaming**, right?! Let your fans see you picking up money!!"
More bills rained down, some hitting bystanders. The crowd fell into a dead silence, broken only by the rustle of falling paper and Mason's ragged, wheezing breaths. Every face was frozen, expressions shifting from disdain and condemnation to utter shock, disbelief, and a primitive, direct awe and fear of sheer wealth. The phone cameras, almost as one, swiveled from Mason to the scattered cash and the dumbstruck girl.
The girl stared at the money littering the ground. The anger and spite visibly melted from her face, replaced by a complex mix—feigned shock and hurt. Sometimes, you had to admire the emotional management, the target fixation of gold-diggers like her... In the split-second after seeing the wealth, in the gap before anyone could fully process it, she wiped her earlier **ferocious expression** clean, replacing it with one of pitiful, **seemingly kind-hearted**, understanding meekness. She even forgot the sting on her cheek. Her lips trembled as she looked at the deranged Mason, her eyes now filled with incredulity and a fawning softness. Her voice performed a 180-degree turn, becoming soft, sticky, laden with exaggerated tears and **ingratiation**:
"I'm... I'm so sorry... *sir*… don't... don't be angry... I... I didn't mean it... I was just hurt from the fall... I wasn't thinking straight..." She babbled apologies, even crouching down on instinct, scrambling to gather the scattered bills, her movements frantic and servile. She subtly tugged her low neckline even lower, offering a deeper view, using her body language to appease.
The crowd's reaction flipped just as dramatically:
"Holy shit! That much cash! The guy's loaded but **flies under the radar**!"
"I knew it! I said he had an aura! **Understated yet sophisticated**!"
"Did you see her face change?! Called him a maggot one second, '*sir*' the next when she saw the money?! Shameless!"
"Ugh! Gold-digger! And she posts all that 'independent woman' crap! Kneels the second money appears!"
"Who was filming? Post it online! Let the whole internet see her true colors!"
"Bro! Calm down! Not worth getting sick over trash like that! She'd call anyone 'daddy' for a buck!"
Mockery turned to awe, **contempt** to admiration. The target of **blame** shifted instantly from Mason to the girl. The fickleness of the world was laid bare in minutes.
Then, a gasp from the crowd: "Holy crap! I recognize her now! Isn't she that 'Miaomiao-chan' influencer with millions of followers on TikTok?! Always flaunting mansions and supercars, pushing that 'rich white-collar girl who doesn't need men' persona!"
"Really?! 'Miaomiao-chan'?! The so-called 'Purity & Desire Goddess,' 'Entrepreneurial Queen'?!"
"Quick! Post the video to Facebook, TikTok! Title it: 'Famous Influencer Berates Stranger, Gets Humiliated by Cash Rain, Gold-Digger Nature Exposed!'"
"Tag all the gossip accounts! Get over here! Drama of the year!"
Suddenly, all the cameras were even more focused, zooming in on the girl as she picked up money, capturing every detail of her **disheveled state** and **sycophancy**. Hearing her online alias, the girl's face went deathly pale. Her scavenging froze. She tried to cover her face in horror, a real sob in her voice now. "Stop filming! Please, stop! It's not me... I'm not her..."
But it was too late. The highly dramatic video was already spreading virally across social media. Hashtags started trending.
Mason, panting, watched the girl's transformation from shrew to sycophant, watched the crowd's hypocritical flip, listened to the new uproar over her "influencer" **identity**. He felt no satisfaction, only a bone-deep chill and emptiness. He had used the very thing he despised—money—to shatter an insult, but it felt like he'd only ripped the scab off a larger, more **hypocritical** world.
He staggered back. He didn't even bother collecting the bills still scattered beyond the girl's reach, as if they were contaminated. With a numb glance at the chaotic crowd, he silently, laboriously zipped his backpack, turned, and pushed through the throng of people now looking at him with awe, curiosity, and shock. He walked away quickly, without looking back, fleeing an absurd theater.
**(Transaction and Turning Point)**
Mason walked aimlessly, for how long he didn't know, until he was far from the park's noise, turning into a quiet alley. He leaned against the cold brick wall, trying to calm his churning emotions and still-racing heart. Today's ritual for the new ability wasn't complete. The absurd "tear the stockings" step loomed over him like a shadow. The mere thought of again violating a **strange woman** with such an act made his stomach churn with **moral discomfort**.
Just then, a cautious, **ingratiating** female voice sounded behind him:
"Um... *sir*… wait, please..."
Mason whirled around, pupils contracting. It was the influencer girl! She had followed him somehow. Tear tracks and smudges still marred her face, though she'd hastily reapplied some makeup. Her eyes held a complex mix—fear, embarrassment, but overwhelmingly, a predator's greed and desperation. She clutched the wad of bills she'd gathered.
"Why are you following me?" Mason's voice was ice-cold, full of **wariness**.
The girl forced what she thought was a seductive smile, leaning forward slightly to emphasize her chest and long legs, despite the glaring tears in her stockings. Her voice was back to soft and sugary, a complete reversal from the harpy. "*Sir*… don't be like that… earlier… it was my fault. I apologize, sincerely!" She gave a slight bow, her neckline doing its work.
"See, your money… I got it all back… every bit…" She offered the cash, though her eyes betrayed her reluctance. "*Sir*… you're clearly not an ordinary person… please be magnanimous, don't hold it against a silly girl like me, okay?"
He wasn't a blindly **kind-hearted** man. He'd assumed the money was gone, thrown away to soothe his **suppressed** psyche, fed to the dogs. Who knew there'd be a silver lining? A spark of cynical interest flickered in Mason as he realized she saw him as a big fish.
Mason naturally took the money. "I didn't expect you to do that. Seems I scared you earlier. My apologies. I have a feeling… you're actually a girl with strong values, **character**, depth at your core."
Hearing this, the girl instantly thought, *This is promising!* She moved closer, lowering her voice to a **blatantly seductive** tone. "*Sir*… actually… I really like men with your kind of edge… the way you were earlier… so **impressive**… I know a quiet hotel nearby… maybe… we could go sit down? Let me… properly… apologize?" Her fingers brushed, almost intentionally, toward Mason's arm.
Mason tightened his arm slightly, but his eyes held a flicker of disgust. Yet, in that moment, an idea struck his mind like lightning!
*A transaction!*
If this gold-digger only cared about money, and he needed to complete that damned ritual… why not make a deal? Use money to get her "consent" to have her stockings torn? And he didn't know her; she still qualified as a **strange woman**, right? It was still despicable, but a consensual transaction seemed to carry a slightly lighter **psychological burden** than outright assault. Moreover, it might open a new door—could he, in the future, use similar methods, finding women who valued only money and were willing to transact, to complete the rituals? This could avoid intense **moral guilt** and reduce unpredictable risks!
The idea made his heart leap. He looked at the girl still trying to be alluring, took a deep breath, forced down his revulsion, and spoke in a calm, firm tone:
"A simple apology doesn't really interest me. I only accept the most sincere apologies, the whole-hearted kind."
The influencer was clearly trying to guess what kink Mason might have. His next move cut her speculation short.
He pointed to the obvious tear on her leg, then gestured to his backpack (hinting at more money inside). "I have a… particular 'interest' in those torn stockings of yours."
The girl was puzzled. "Stockings? These… they're already ruined…"
Mason got straight to the point, his tone as cold as a business negotiation. "Now you can probably guess my preferences."
The girl didn't seem shocked. She considered herself experienced. Many wealthy people paid… to satisfy their… unspeakable fetishes! Like some tycoons paying young, attractive men or women to **role-play** as "dolls" or "furniture"—required to stay completely still, nude, acting as inanimate objects. The wealthy might place objects on them, even step on them. Others paid for specific roleplay, followed by **extreme humiliation** or **extreme worship**. A few even paid women specifically to reject, criticize, or even berate them. They might have grown up with constant **negation**, finding familiarity in "rejection," or gaining a twisted sense of achievement by "conquering" that rejection with money. It was often about venting long-suppressed emotions or **compensating for** psychological wounds. To gain an illusion of "creating and controlling life."
She'd once been invited onto a yacht, an experience that left psychological scars for a long time. People are like that—they **forcefully display** what they lack, just as she crafted her online persona as **independent, self-reliant, self-disciplined, self-cultivating**.
Tearing stockings wasn't an uncommon fetish; she'd indulged clients before. But they were outdoors, and he wanted to tear an already torn stocking? She didn't quite get it. But then again, this was easier and far more lucrative than other services! Almost no real loss!
The **huge temptation** crushed her brief shock and flicker of shame. A fawning smile quickly returned to her face, even tinged with excitement. "Oh! *Sir*… you should have said so! So that's your thing~ Should've said! No problem! Absolutely no problem!" She immediately struck a pose, lifting her left leg to showcase the *un-torn* stocking on that thigh, her tone now flirty. "How do you want to tear it? How big? Do you want me to… pose a certain way?"
Watching her complete lack of **scruples**, her eager **compliance** for cash, the last of Mason's hesitation vanished. With a woman like this, a monetary transaction was perhaps the "cleanest" way.
"Just stand still," Mason said coldly. He stepped forward, and under the girl's expectant, **fawning** gaze, he reached for the intact edge of the stocking high on her left thigh and pulled hard!
*Riiip—*
Another crisp tearing sound. A new hole appeared.
Simultaneously, Mason stepped back swiftly and immediately raised his right hand, snapping his fingers under the girl's puzzled look.
*Snap!*
[Ability Acquisition Successful]
[Congratulations on obtaining new ability: Lie Manifestation]
The ritual was complete. Ability acquired. The whole process was quick and clinical.
Mason took out five hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the girl. "I'll rest here for a moment. Go buy us both something to eat. Keep the change as your tip. When you get back, we'll go to… where we need to go next. Don't worry, I prefer to pay upfront."
The influencer took the money, saying, "*Sir*, wait for me," already gleefully calculating how to extract more "windfall" from Mason as she walked away, completely forgetting the **storm of public opinion** brewing online.
"Five hundred should cover her 'damages.' Hopefully girls like her can see the road ahead clearly."
The method of obtaining the ability this time was still sordid, but the concept of a "transaction" shone like a faint light on that dark ritual path. Perhaps he didn't have to carry such heavy **moral guilt** every time he sought power. In this city where everything had a price, he might have found a way… a way to turn a **sordid ritual** into a **cold transaction**. Was that progress? He didn't know. But he knew he had to survive, to gain strength. And this newly discovered "shortcut" undoubtedly lightened his psychological burden considerably.
On his wrist, the newly acquired "Lie Manifestation" ability hummed with a cold sensation. The road ahead was still shrouded in fog, but at least he'd found a way to make the journey slightly more bearable.