The massive television screen swallowed the image of the tragedy. The room was plunged back into silence, but the horror of what I had just seen lingered like the afterimage of a flashbang.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at my reflection in the dark screen. Aryan Spencer stared back, his expression grim. In this world, morality was a fairy tale told to victims. There were no gray areas. There were only two roles available on the casting sheet. You were either the butcher, or you were the cattle.
And I had absolutely no intention of being herded into a slaughterhouse.
I set the remote down on the bedside table with a deliberate click. The System remained quiet. It seemed to understand that this was a turning point in the sand of my new reality. The initial shock of my transmigration was over. The intoxicating thrill of discovering my new abilities was fading, settling into the jagged calculus of survival.
"My name," I whispered, the words testing the acoustics of the cavernous room, "is Aryan Spencer."
I needed to feel the weight of it in my throat. I needed to own it. This wasn't just a skin suit anymore. This was my name. This was my company. This was my city. And It was time to stop reacting and start acting like the man who owned all of it.
[Couldn't have said it better myself, Boss,] the System's voice chimed in my head, the tone laced with something that sounded like genuine approval. [So, what's the first order of business for the newly minted billionaire badass? World domination? Buying a private island? Finally getting that limited-edition sneaker you always wanted?]
I took a deep breath, steadying the tremor in my hands that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation. "Familiarize," I said aloud. "First, I familiarize myself with... well, myself."
The memories I had inherited were a library, but I needed to walk the halls. I strode out of the bedroom, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and headed toward the entryway. Mounted on the wall was the central nervous system of the penthouse, a sleek console of tempered glass and brushed aluminum.
I pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner. A beam of green light swept across my print, and the device emitted an affirmative chime. The screen flared to life, a cascade of security feeds and contact lists scrolling with fluid precision.
I tapped the first name on the roster: Marcus Thorne, Head of Security.
"Mr. Spencer," the voice on the other end was instantaneous. "Good morning, sir."
The audio quality was crystal clear. My memories supplied the dossier on Thorne: former Delta Force, specialized in close protection and threat elimination. He was a man who viewed the world through crosshairs, fiercely loyal to the Spencer family. He was the commander of my personal Praetorian Guard.
"Marcus," I began. I paused for a microsecond, calibrating my vocal cords. I needed to sound like the man he served. "Status report. Anything unusual overnight?"
"All clear, sir," Marcus replied without hesitation. "The building's perimeter is secure. We have zero flags on the network intrusion systems. There are standard Vought News Network reports of a Supe-related collateral incident in Midtown, but it's well outside our sphere of immediate concern."
He paused, the rustle of fabric audible over the line. "The car is prepped and ready for your 11:00 a.m. meeting with the board."
I had completely forgotten about that. It was a quarterly review of Spencer Industries' R&D division. My presence there was usually more of a formality than a necessity. The company effectively ran itself under a board of directors that my parents had handpicked before their deaths. As long as the profits kept flowing, they were content to let me be the public face of the empire while they handled the logistics.
I considered it for a moment. Going to the meeting would be the normal thing to do. It would maintain the illusion that everything was fine. But everything was not fine. I had just arrived in a new universe, and I needed time to breathe. I needed to strategize, not nod at powerpoint presentations.
"Cancel the meeting, Marcus," I ordered, my voice flat.
"Sir?" The hesitation was slight, a ripple in his professional veneer.
"Clear my entire schedule for the foreseeable future," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "I'll be working from the penthouse. And Marcus? Double the security rotation on this floor. I want eyes on every elevator. No one gets up here without my explicit authorization. Is that understood?"
The silence on the line lasted exactly two seconds. Thorne was recalibrating.
"Understood, sir," he said, the steel returning to his voice. "I'll handle it immediately."
"Good." I ended the call
Now, to inspect the fortress. I moved through the penthouse with the critical eye of a general inspecting a forward operating base. The living area was an exercise in sterile opulence, sharp angles of glass and steel, couches made of leather so fine it felt like skin. It was beautiful, but cold. It felt less like a home and more like a mausoleum for the living.
I drifted into the kitchen. It was gleaming with stainless steel appliances that looked like they had never seen a fingerprint, let alone a vegetable. The original Aryan Spencer probably thought 'cooking' was something that happened to other people.
I bypassed the domesticity and headed down the hallway to the office.
The room was a sanctuary of power. The room was dominated by a massive desk hewn from a single slab of polished obsidian, sitting in the center of the room like a sacrificial altar. One entire wall was smart glass, currently set to transparent, offering a view of the city that I ignored.
My attention was fixed on the computer. It was a custom-built beast from Spencer Industries' cyber-warfare division, a beast of quantum processing and encrypted networking. Multiple monitors were arranged in a commanding semi-circle
I sat in the leather chair, the material sighing under my weight. I ran a hand over the dark surface of the obsidian desk.
[Ooh, shiny!] the System exclaimed, its voice echoing with childlike glee. [I bet you could use this thing to order a pizza and hack into Vought's payroll at the same time. Let's see if we can find Homelander's porn history! My money's on something deeply weird involving milk.]
An involuntary smile touched my lips. The System was absurd, a chaotic sprite in my head, but its presence was strangely grounding.
"Let's focus on staying alive first," I muttered.
I stood up, leaving the computer dark for a moment. There was one more room to check. The memories guided me back to the master bedroom, to a wall paneled in dark mahogany.
To the naked eye, it was just expensive woodwork. To me, it was a door.
I ran my fingers along the grain until I felt the microscopic seam. I pressed a specific knot in the wood.
Hiss.
There was a soft hiss of hydraulics. A section of the wall slid smoothly aside, revealing a chamber bathed in cool LED light.
I stepped inside. The air was noticeably colder here, climate controlled to minimize humidity. The smell hit me instantly with the intoxicating perfume of gun oil, solvent, and ozone.
It was a walk-in vault, a personal armory that would make a Navy SEAL blush.
Rows of firearms were mounted on magnetic racks against the slate grey walls. Pistols, submachine guns, assault rifles, and a high-caliber sniper rifle that looked capable of punching a hole through an engine block.
My Firearm Mastery flared to life. It was a physical sensation, a tingling in my fingertips. I knew their weight, their trigger pull, the specific grain of powder in their ammunition.
My eyes locked onto a matte black handgun resting in a custom molded cradle on the workbench. I picked it up.
It was a Spencer Arms 'Spectre' prototype. Chambered in .45 ACP, with a polymer frame that felt impossibly light yet rigid. It had an integrated suppressor fused to the barrel and a smart scope interface that I knew would sync directly to a contact lens.
It fit my hand like it had grown there. I racked the slide and checked the chamber with a fluidity that belonged to a veteran killer, not a business major.
[Now we're talking!] the System cheered, vibrating with excitement. [Forget the hacking. A few of these and who needs a plan? Just walk into Vought Tower and start blasting! Pew pew!]
I stared at the weapon, admiring the lethal geometry. It was a masterpiece of engineering, but against someone like Homelander, it was a peashooter.
"A plan is why we'll win," I murmured, placing the Spectre back into its cradle with a gentle clack. "Brute force against gods is what gets people like you killed."
[Hey!] the System protested. [I'm an interdimensional Plundering System! My brute force is very classy. Artisanal, even.]
I ignored the banter, stepping out of the vault and pressing the release. The wood panel slid back into place, sealing the violence away behind a facade of luxury.
I returned to the office, the resolve hardening in my chest like a concrete setting. I sat back down at the obsidian desk and touched the power sensor.
The screens flared to life, casting a cobalt glow over the room. The login prompt appeared as a biometric request.
I leaned forward. A red laser scanned my retina while a microphone waited for the voice print.
"Aryan Spencer," I said, my voice steady.
The system processed the data, and with a soft chime, I was in
I navigated through the secure OS, bypassing the corporate fluff and diving straight into the financial overview. The screen filled with numbers, columns of assets and liquid capital that stretched across the monitor.
I leaned back, staring at the bottom line.