The invisible pressure of my Psychokinesis still held Yoko crushed against the wall, a living portrait of humiliation and terror. Every fiber of my instinctual being, the gambler who always went all-in, screamed to finish the job. It would be so simple. A clenching of my fist, a mental twist of the neck. A dry snap echoing in the silent room, followed by a final silence. The revenge would be instant, sweet, and complete.
But... would it be satisfying?
The question echoed in my mind, cooling the initial fury like a bucket of ice water. Killing her would be like winning a bet with an obvious move—bland, without style. It would be the premature end of a game that had barely begun. Besides, her death, especially in such a clearly supernatural way, would bring more problems than solutions. Seiji, my newly acquired father, was already on the edge of the abyss. A murder scandal, even of a hated woman, could be the final push to destroy what was left of him—and, by extension, the inheritance I now had such a keen interest in protecting. How convenient to have to keep her alive.
"W-what are you l-laughing at?" Yoko's voice, broken by lack of air and the pain she must have been feeling in her bones pressed against the wall, cut through my thoughts. She could barely speak, but the spark of defiance was still there, overshadowed by fear.
I released my hand. The mental pressure holding her immobile vanished like smoke. She slid down the wall, collapsing to her knees on the floor, gasping, one hand instinctively going to her neck, her arms, checking if she was still intact.
"Nothing," I replied, my voice as light and casual as if we were discussing the weather. "I just realized how much more useful you are alive. Well, at least more useful than dead."
I turned my back on her in a show of absolute contempt and sat in the only chair left intact amidst the chaos. I crossed my legs, a gesture of pure indifference.
"It's convenient enough for your heart to keep beating and your neck to remain in one piece."
A mocking laugh escaped my lips. It was the sound of victory, not over her life, but over her dignity. Over my shoulder, I could see her eyes. The fear was still there, yes, but it was now overshadowed by flames of pure hatred and scorn. She despised me for sparing her. She despised the humiliation of being a pawn I decided to leave on the board out of sheer convenience. It was exactly the reaction I wanted.
It was then that a notification appeared in my peripheral vision, overlaying the scene of satisfaction.
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[You have taken revenge on the Crimson Empress (Villain Rank A)! Reward: 2 Silver Tickets.]
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The message was so unexpected it almost made me lose my relaxed composure. Villain? Rank A? Crimson Empress?
"Ah..." The sound escaped my lips as a sigh of understanding. ...So that's it.
Fragments of knowledge, belonging to the original Jun, flooded my mind. This wasn't just a world of wealth and family intrigue. It was a world where a genetic mutation, called a Quirk or Meta Ability, had changed everything. Decades ago, the emergence of powers was treated as a plague, a danger. Ordinary people, suddenly armed with extraordinary abilities, used them freely—for evil. Villains. Chaos reigned, until individuals with powers began to fight back. Vigilantes. Slowly, society reorganized itself, controlling the powers, regulating them... and then the most controversial profession in this world emerged: Heroes.
The crime rate in Japan slowly decreased, until it plummeted drastically with the emergence of a beacon of hope: the Symbol of Peace, All Might.
That was the essence of what the memories delivered to me. The rest was logic. If the heroes shone in the light, the villains, like cockroaches, weren't exterminated—they just hid. They adapted, operating in the shadows, discreetly, silently. Underground. The term from my previous world fit perfectly.
And Yoko... Yoko Kusanagi... was the Crimson Empress. A Rank A Villain operating in the shadows of high society, using her marriage to Seiji Kumohari not just for status, but as a smokescreen, a power base for her clandestine operations.
And I, unwittingly, had taken revenge on her. Humiliating her, reducing her to a trembling pile of fear and hatred, was considered "revenge" by the system. And the reward... Silver Tickets. More chips for the roulette.
The adrenaline of the discovery and the power I had just exerted coursed through my veins like a fine wine. That was... Fun. The word resonated within me, precisely right. It wasn't just about revenge or survival; it was about the pure joy of the game, of manipulation, of holding the cards and knowing exactly when and how to bet them.
With a casual motion, I adjusted a strand of my hair, smoothing the black silk that now represented not just wealth, but newfound authority. I turned back to the woman still gasping on the floor, a picturesque vision of tattered red and impotent hatred. My smile for her wasn't one of triumph, but of possession. The smile of a collector admiring a rare artifact he's decided not to shatter... for now.
"Don't forget, Miss Kusanagi," I said, each word a golden nail in the coffin of her dignity. "You're only alive by my whim."
The statement hung in the air, unquestionable. I wasn't threatening; I was stating a fact. Her life was a variable in my equation, and I had decided, for now, that its value was greater than zero.
I turned away, not waiting for a reply—which wouldn't come, except for the silence heavy with her hatred—and walked toward the destroyed doors. As I passed through them, I tossed the final addition to my vitriol over my shoulder:
"Until next time, Harlot."
The insult sounded almost like a term of endearment, such was the icy mockery that accompanied it.
Outside the hall, the corridor was silent. And there was Dunn, standing at attention, his face an impassive mask of professionalism. But his eyes, those eyes that had avoided mine minutes before, now held a new respect... or perhaps just a deeper fear. I remembered, then. He wasn't just a butler of the house. He was Yoko's personal servant. Perhaps more—a henchman, a silent accomplice. I needed more memories to be sure, but... just in case.
Doubt, for a gambler like me, is a luxury one cannot afford.
Without breaking stride, without changing my serene expression, I extended my hand in a swift, brutal motion that left no room for reaction. I grabbed his arm at the elbow and, with a single, precise twisting movement—knowledge from past lives in dirty alleys—dislocated it from its socket.
Crack!
The sound was dry and obscenely loud in the corridor's silence. The cartilage and tendons giving way under calculated pressure.
Dunn jerked violently. His face lost all color, becoming a mask of chalk. A cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead. But he did not scream. His jaws clenched so tightly it must have hurt more than the dislocated shoulder. His eyes, wide and glazed, fixed on a distant point on the wall. He bore the pain incredibly, swallowing the scream, maintaining his composure even as I was already walking away, my footsteps echoing calmly down the hall.
The message was sent. Loyalty has a price. And pain is a great teacher.
In my room, the door closed with a soft click. The luxury around me was now just a silent backdrop. The adrenaline from the confrontation began to fade, leaving behind an expectant calm. My fingers went to my neck, to the knot of the fine tie that was still loosely tied—a remnant of the funeral attire. I felt the fabric under my fingers.
With a sharp motion, I pulled the tie, tightening the knot until it pressed against my throat, not with enough force to suffocate, but enough to feel the pressure, a physical reminder of the control I had almost lost. And then, I released it.
It was time for a new bet.
In the quiet of my room, the roulette screen materialized before me, its white frame glowing softly against the darkness of its interior.
"Use Silver Ticket," I commanded, my voice a silent order in the empty space.
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Rolling...
A rare ability!
[Blink]
|Rarity: Rare|
With a snap of your fingers, you can travel to multiple locations you are aware of or have visited. This applies to people, other types of energy, and objects.
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My eyes widened for a fraction of a second before a slow, genuine smile of appreciation spread across my lips. Teleportation on command? This was... absurdly versatile. It was more than just rare; it was a high-level survival and mobility tool. It already eliminated the need for any secondary flight ability I might aspire to in the future. The best, purest form of locomotion possible. Instantaneous. Undetectable. Perfect for a gambler who needs to disappear or appear exactly where the play demands.
The second Silver Ticket... I would save that one. A trump card tucked away for an emergency, a last-second bet when all other cards had been played.
The urge to test [Blink] was an almost physical itch under my skin. To imagine myself snapping my fingers and vanishing from my luxurious room to reappear... where? On top of Tokyo's tallest building? In the heart of an underground casino? The temptation was strong.
But caution—not fear, but strategy—spoke louder. Using it now, without warning, would be stupid. This world had rules. Quirks were common, but they were also registered, monitored. The emergence of a new ability, especially one so powerful, couldn't be wasted on a moment of pure curiosity.
No. The play was clear. I would reveal Psychokinesis to my father. It was an ability impressive enough to justify my change in attitude, my new... confidence. It would serve as a convenient explanation for what happened in the dining room—a manifestation of near-death post-traumatic stress, a late, dramatic, and powerful Quirk awakening. A perfect story.
And [Blink]? [Blink] would be my secret. My ace in the hole. The ability that no one, not even the astute Seiji Kumohari or the vengeful Yoko, would know I possessed. A gambler doesn't reveal his entire hand at once. He plays with plans behind plans, layers of bluff and truth intertwined.
However, for my plans to truly expand, I needed more than power. I needed knowledge. Of this world. Of its society. Of its shadows and its light. I needed to leave this gilded cage and walk the streets, feel the pulse of the city, understand where the real bets were being made.
Anxiety gave way to focused determination. The next phase of the game required reconnaissance.
...
From a dark alley, between garbage bags and the smell of dampness, a young girl emerged. Her hair was a blond so pale it almost seemed white under the weak twilight. Her eyes, an intense feline yellow, scanned the street quickly, vigilantly. She wore a standard elementary school uniform, a disguise of normalcy broken by one crucial detail: a small but vibrant drop of dark red liquid trickling from a thin cut on her wrist.
Instant, sharp, youthful panic flashed across her face.
"Crap, I can't let anyone see this," she whispered to herself, her voice a mix of frustration and fear.
In a quick, almost furtive movement, she brought her wrist to her mouth, her lips closing around the small wound. But then, something strange happened. The expression of panic didn't deepen. Instead, a smile—small, satisfied, and slightly twisted—stretched her blood-stained lips as she sucked her own blood. It was a gesture of survival, yes, but also of a dark, secret pleasure.
Little did that small girl, with her dirty secret and her bloody smile, know what kind of destiny—what kind of gambler—her life was about to cross.