The hum of the plane was the first thing she noticed — that low, steady vibration under her seat. Then came the realization that she was awake. Too awake. Her eyes snapped open, and for a moment she didn't recognize the world around her.
Seats. Overhead compartments. The faint smell of cheap perfume and coffee.
She blinked. "What the hell…"
The last thing she remembered was sitting at her desk, controller in hand, grinding through her gazillionth attempt at the Cayo Perico Heist. She'd been seconds away from another failure — probably about to get spotted by some guard with X-ray vision — and now she was here.
On a plane.
She looked down at herself. Her clothes were unfamiliar — tight black jeans, a leather jacket, fingerless gloves. Her hands didn't even look like her hands.
"What the—"
She fumbled for something, anything familiar, and her hand brushed against a phone in her pocket. She pulled it out and froze at the logo.
iFruit.
Her brows furrowed. "Isn't it supposed to be Apple? Or Samsung?" she whispered.
She tapped the screen, half expecting it to glitch out or explode, but it worked. Clean interface, contacts, camera. Curiosity got the better of her, and she flipped the camera to selfie mode.
The face staring back wasn't hers.
Long silver hair framed sharp features, flawless skin, and eyes that could've belonged on a billboard. Her jaw actually dropped.
"Holy shit," she whispered. "I'm hot as hell."
She turned her head side to side, touching her cheek, her lips, even tugging lightly on her hair just to be sure. "There's no way. I wasn't even close to this attractive before."
Before she could think too hard about it, the intercom crackled to life.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll soon be landing at Los Santos International Airport. Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for descent."
Her blood ran cold for a second. Then her pulse quickened.
Los Santos.
She sat back in her seat, eyes wide, then broke into a grin. Of all the impossible things, she was sitting on a plane to Los Santos.
Most people would panic at that thought — a city full of chaos, gangs, heists, and psychopaths. But not her. She'd spent years playing in this world. If anything, she was excited.
She leaned back and laughed under her breath. "Of course. I'm the Online character, aren't I? The one who just… shows up out of nowhere."
As if answering her, something flickered in front of her eyes — a faint blue glow, transparent, hovering in midair.
A stat panel.
Her jaw dropped again as she read the labels.
Stamina, Strength, Shooting, Stealth, Driving, Flying, Lung Capacity, Mental State, Health, Max Health.
Every single bar was full. 100%.
Her eyes widened. "No way."
She scrolled through the stats, her grin growing wider with each one.
"Driving, shooting, lung capacity, health— it's all maxed! Holy hell, I'm cracked!"
The realization hit her all at once. In the world of Grand Theft Auto, where people died from one bad corner or a stray bullet, she was built like a super soldier.
She slumped back into her seat, half-laughing, half-shocked. "I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I'll take it."
Her smile faded just slightly. "Well… except for the money part."
The panel flickered away, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She was broke, probably had nothing but a cheap pistol waiting for her, but that didn't matter.
If the rules of the game applied here, she already knew how this worked. Do the jobs, buy the businesses, take over the city.
The seatbelt sign came on with a soft ding. The plane began its descent.
Sera looked out the window. The sprawling mess of Los Santos came into view — beaches, highways, skyscrapers, all glittering under the sun.
She smirked. "Alright, Los Santos. Let's see if you're ready for me this time."
The plane touched down, tires screeching against the runway. When it came to a stop, she unbuckled, stood, and grabbed her bag.
Walking down the aisle, she could already feel that adrenaline hum she used to get before a heist. She wasn't some random player behind a screen anymore. She was in the world — maxed out, alive, and ready to make it hers.
Sera Vega stepped off the plane with a grin.
Time to make her mark
The warm air of Los Santos hit her the moment she stepped out of the terminal doors. Smog, gasoline, and cheap perfume — yep, this was definitely it. The chaotic city she had spent years tearing apart in-game now stretched before her, buzzing with noise and motion.
Sera adjusted her jacket and took a slow breath, trying not to smile like an idiot.
"If this follows the tutorial," she thought, "then Lamar should be waiting right about—"
Her eyes caught a familiar figure leaning against a lowrider painted in bright red and gold.
Lamar Davis.
"Oh, great. The man, the myth, the walking headache." She sighed. "Let's get this over with."
Lamar spotted her immediately, standing upright with that big grin of his. He looked exactly as she remembered him — same attitude, same swagger.
He walked over, eyes flicking up and down as he said, "Damn, girl. You fine as a motherfucka."
Sera blinked, deadpan. "Wow. Straight out the gate, huh?"
Lamar held out a single flower like it was the smoothest thing in the world. "Hey, don't look at me like that, baby girl. We been friends online for a long time — I'm just sayin', maybe it's time we upgraded this relationship, you know? Like, sexually."
She took half a step back, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's not happening."
He froze mid-smile, then laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aight, my bad, my bad. I was just playin'... kinda."
Sera crossed her arms. "Right."
Lamar motioned toward the car. "Come on, let's roll. Got somethin' to show you."
She sighed, "He's lucky I already know this part, or I'd think this was a setup."
They walked over to his lowrider, and Sera slid into the passenger seat. The interior smelled like weed and air freshener. Classic Lamar.
He started the car, music blasting from the speakers. "So listen, I know you just got here, but I got somethin' for you. Consider it a welcome gift."
From under his seat, he pulled out a pistol and handed it to her.
Sera took it without hesitation. Her hands moved on instinct — checking the mag, cocking the slide, and giving it a quick once-over before setting it on her lap. It felt natural, like muscle memory carried over from all those years playing.
Lamar stared, impressed. "Damn, okay. You handle that thing like you was born with it."
Sera smirked faintly. "Something like that."
There was a short silence before Lamar grinned again, leaning a little closer. "So, uh, how 'bout that kiss now?"
Her head turned slowly toward him, her eyes cold and flat.
He immediately put his hands up. "Aight, aight! My bad, damn! You scary when you look at me like that."
"Good," she said dryly.
Lamar chuckled nervously, starting the car again. "Alright, tough girl. Lemme take you to this little event I know. You can make some real bread there. You broke right now, right?"
Sera gave a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Dead broke."
He nodded. "Then we gon' fix that."
As the lowrider pulled out of the airport parking lot, Sera watched the skyline of Los Santos rise in the distance — bright, chaotic, and full of opportunity.
"Alright," she thought, "time to start from zero again. But this time, nobody's gonna push me around."
She rested her hand on the pistol, smirk tugging at her lips as they sped down the highway toward her new beginning.
Lamar's lowrider rolled to a stop in the middle of a crowd buzzing with noise and neon. Music blasted from nearby speakers, people shouted over revving engines, and smoke from burnt tires drifted through the air.
A street race.
Sera smirked. "Perfect time to test my driving stat."
Lamar hopped out, his grin wide. "Alright, girl, check this out. You can't roll around LS without some wheels, right? Pick one of these, and if you win — it's yours to keep."
Three cars sat lined up under a flickering streetlight — all definitely on the starter side of things.
Karin Sultan — matte blue, a little scratched up, but sturdy. The kind of car that could take a beating and still run smooth.
Dinka Blista Compact — red hatchback, clearly seen better days, but nimble and quick off the line.
Declasse Emperor — beige, boxy, and slow as hell. The kind of ride your grandpa drove to bingo night.
Sera circled them, running her hand along each hood. The Sultan immediately caught her eye — balanced, reliable, and something about it just felt right.
She smirked. "I'll take the Sultan."
Lamar whistled. "Oh, you know your cars, huh? Aight, that one's a good pick. Don't disappoint me now."
She slid into the driver's seat, fingers brushing over the wheel. Everything felt… natural. Her foot rested on the clutch just right, and the gearbox shifted like it was an extension of her own body.
"Okay," she thought, "so max stats really do make a difference."
Out front, a woman in a barely-there top strutted to the center of the road. The engines roared louder, exhaust popping.
"Three!""Two!""One!""Go!"
The racers launched off the line, tires screaming. Sera slammed the gas, the Sultan surging forward with perfect traction. She weaved between cars as they tore through the narrow streets of Cypress Flats — warehouses, cranes, and industrial lots flashing by in streaks of orange streetlight.
Every corner was instinct. She drifted perfectly, timing her turns with smooth precision. Her reflexes were unreal — she could feel the grip, the road, even how much the tires would slide before catching.
"Damn," she thought with a grin, "this is too easy."
She blew past one racer who tried to block her, juked another off the inside corner, and took the lead before the halfway point. No lag, no trolls, no griefers spinning her out for fun — just pure racing.
For once, it was her skill on display.
When the finish line came into view, she braked and pulled the handbrake, sliding sideways across it in a perfect drift. The car stopped dead, engine purring, smoke curling up from the tires.
Sera leaned back, catching her breath, a grin spreading across her face.
Lamar jogged up, shaking his head in disbelief. "Yo! You see that? Girl, you was like a damn speed demon out there! Sexy and got skills — now that's dangerous."
Sera laughed, rolling her eyes. "You never quit, huh?"
"Hey, I'm just sayin' facts," Lamar said, still grinning. "Anyway, that Sultan's yours now. You earned it fair and square. Oh, and maybe, uh—" he eyed her outfit, "—get some new clothes before you meet Gerald. You lookin' like you just got dropped from the cloud servers."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll handle it," she said with a smirk.
Lamar clapped her shoulder. "Good. Gerald's got some work lined up — real paper. I'll hit you up."
As he walked off, the race organizer came over with a small envelope. "Good driving out there. You got control — I like that." He handed it over. "Seventeen grand. Don't spend it all on ammo."
Sera blinked. "Seventeen… thousand?"
He just grinned and walked off.
She stared at the cash. "Jesus… I made more in one night here than I did in a month back home."
Then a thought hit her. The Maze Bank app.
She pulled out her iFruit, flicking through the familiar (but slightly off) interface. Balance: $0.
"Figures."
Scrolling down, she spotted it — Deposit.
Her heart picked up. "No way this actually works…"
She typed in the full $17,000, hit confirm — and just like in the game, the cash shimmered and vanished from her hands. Her phone dinged:
Maze Bank Balance: $17,000
Sera let out a breathy laugh. "I love this place already."
Sliding her phone back into her pocket, she started up the Sultan. The engine purred, almost proud.
"Alright," she muttered with a grin. "New clothes, then Gerald. Let's make this city mine."
The tires squealed as she pulled out, neon lights flashing across her windshield. Los Santos — a city that chewed people up and spat them out
The Sultan rolled to a stop outside a SubUrban in Vespucci. The place looked exactly like she remembered — bright lights, clashing colors, loud music, and a clerk who looked like they hadn't cared about anything since 2013.
Sera stepped out, straightened her jacket, and headed in. The bell over the door chimed softly.
"Welcome to SubUrban," the cashier muttered without looking up from their phone.
Sera scanned the racks. "Alright, let's see if I can find something that doesn't make me look like a fresh spawn."
She moved through the aisles, pulling together a look piece by piece. A black cropped leather jacket caught her eye first — slim, clean, the kind that clung just right and left her tattoos visible across her collarbones and arms. Under it, a dark tank top — snug enough to flatter her figure without restricting movement.
She paired it with ripped black jeans, well-fitted and flexible, hugging her hips comfortably without being too tight. For footwear, she grabbed a pair of black sneakers — low-profile, practical, and perfect for running or fighting if things got messy. No heels. Not in this city.
After changing in the fitting room, she looked herself over in the mirror.
The outfit worked — stylish but functional. It showed just enough of her ink, highlighted her curves, and most importantly, felt like something she could actually live in.
She gave a small, approving nod. "That's better."
Gathering her old clothes, she brought the new outfit's tags to the counter.
"That'll be $125," the cashier said without glancing up.
Sera handed over the cash and tucked the receipt away. "That's… cheaper than I expected," she thought, remembering how in the game even a single jacket cost more than a used car. "Guess real life has better prices."
She slung her jacket over her shoulder as she walked back outside. The air was cooler now, the hum of the city filling the night. She leaned against her Sultan for a moment, glancing down at her reflection in the window — confident, dangerous, and ready.
"Alright," she thought. "I look the part. Time to see Gerald and start stacking some real money."
She slid into the driver's seat, the car coming to life with a low purr.
Los Santos stretched out in front of her — loud, chaotic, and full of opportunity.
And Sera Vega was just getting started.