Devon slid the menu across the small table with practiced ease. "What'll you have? The usual?"
Marcus's eyes tracked down the laminated page, and his internal alarm system immediately started blaring. The prices were astronomical—triple what he'd been mentally budgeting for. Even the basic drinks cost more than a decent meal elsewhere.
His expression must have betrayed him because Devon was already grinning with malicious amusement.
"You're buying, right?" Marcus tried, injecting just enough hope into his voice to make it plausible.
Devon barked out a laugh that turned several heads in the coffee corner. "Me? Treat you?" He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "Marcus, you're getting more miserly by the day. Actually, scratch that—you've always been like this!"
He wasn't letting up either, warming to his subject with relish. "You walk around spouting that 'Shanxi coal mining heir' backstory like you're made of money, but the moment a bill arrives? Suddenly you need the bathroom. Or you've got an urgent call. Or you remembered you left your wallet in your other pants. You vanish faster than a magician's assistant!"
Marcus opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Maintaining the original owner's stingy reputation actually worked in his favor—it explained why he was job hunting despite marrying into wealth. No additional effort required; just lean into the established pattern.
"Fair enough," he conceded with a theatrical sigh. "Black coffee. Nothing fancy."
Ten minutes later, a sweating glass of iced americano materialized in front of him, the condensation already forming a ring on the scarred wooden table. Marcus took a cautious sip and immediately regretted it—the bitterness hit his tongue like a slap, making him suppress a wince. How did people drink this willingly?
Devon, meanwhile, had settled in for what was clearly going to be an interrogation, his cappuccino forgotten as he studied Marcus with unconcealed curiosity.
"So," Devon began, drawing out the word, "let's get back to this job hunt situation. You married into the Nightshade fortune. They could buy this entire city block as a casual investment. Why exactly are you out here slumming it with the working class?"
Marcus had prepared for this question during the drive over. He set down his coffee and assumed the expression of a man who'd given serious thought to his future—earnest, slightly sheepish, determinedly practical.
"Look, the Nightshade business empire might be massive, but at the end of the day, it's the Nightshade empire, not the Chen empire." He rotated that cheap metal ring on his finger, the gesture unconsciously nervous. "Elena and I are good right now—great, even. But who knows what the future holds? Relationships change. People change."
He was getting into his stride now, the words flowing with surprising ease. In his previous life, Marcus had been the strong, silent type—communication through action rather than words, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Apparently, reincarnation had unlocked some latent gift for bullshitting that he'd never known he possessed.
"I can't just waltz into Nightshade Corporation expecting a cushy executive position based on marriage credentials. That's how you get labeled a gold-digger and generate enough gossip to fuel the company water cooler for years." Marcus leaned forward, warming to his fictional narrative. "And going back to my own family business isn't an option either. You know they're up in Shanxi, right? Coal mining operations."
Devon nodded, clearly familiar with this cover story.
"Even if I didn't go down into the mines—and let's be honest, I wouldn't—just managing the surface operations means spending twelve-hour days breathing coal dust. You come home looking like you crawled out of a chimney." Marcus wrinkled his nose for emphasis. "Plus, Shanxi is what, fifteen hundred kilometers from here? I just married a woman who looks like she stepped out of a classical painting. You really think I'm going to abandon her to an empty house while I play mine supervisor in another province?"
He caught himself before finishing the thought he'd started—can't hold her hand, can't kiss her—and smoothly redirected. "What kind of marriage would that be? So I need something local. Respectable enough that I'm not embarrassing the family name, safe enough that I'm not risking life and limb, and flexible enough that I can actually go home to my wife at night."
The speech concluded with what Marcus privately considered impressive conviction. He'd almost convinced himself of these noble motivations, rather than the darker truth: he needed an escape route and independent income for when Elena inevitably decided he was more valuable as an organ donor than a husband.
Devon absorbed this explanation with an expression that cycled through skepticism, surprise, and finally something approaching respect. "Damn, Marcus. Marriage really did mature you. You actually sound like you've thought this through instead of just winging it like usual."
Marcus picked up his americano again, projecting the calm wisdom of someone who'd found enlightenment through commitment. "When you take on a family, your priorities shift. Those carefree bachelor days? Over. Time to be responsible."
Time to not get murdered, his brain supplied helpfully. Definitely time for that.
"So what kind of work are we talking about?" Devon stirred his cappuccino absently, the foam already half-dissolved. "You must have something in mind. You didn't drag me out here just to philosophize about marital responsibility."
Marcus glanced around the coffee corner, confirming no one was paying attention to their conversation. The nearest occupied table was three meters away, its occupants absorbed in their own discussion. Still, he leaned forward and lowered his voice, half-covering his mouth with one hand in a gesture of conspiratorial secrecy.
"I heard through the grapevine," he began, letting the words carry weight, "that you've got connections to Director Zhang. The martial arts film guy."
The effect was immediate and gratifying. Devon's eyes went wide as dinner plates, his spine snapping straight like someone had run an electric current through his chair. His voice climbed half an octave: "How the hell did you—who told you that?!"
He'd been so careful, keeping his side ventures separate from his public persona as a billiard hall owner. The film industry connections were supposed to be completely under wraps.
Marcus allowed himself a knowing smile, the kind that suggested depths of information he didn't actually possess. He reached over and patted Devon's shoulder with false reassurance. "Relax. We're friends, aren't we? Your secrets are safe with me. I'm not going to go broadcasting your side hustle to the world."
The truth was considerably less impressive than he was implying. The original owner's fragmented memories contained some vague impression of Devon doing freelance talent scouting or connection-making for film productions. Marcus had taken that wisp of information and turned it into a confident assertion, gambling that it was accurate enough to be believable.
Apparently, the gamble paid off. Devon was still staring at him with the expression of someone whose carefully maintained cover had just been casually blown.
So our friend Devon is working as a broker or talent scout on the side, Marcus filed away mentally. Interesting. More connections than his public face suggests.
Devon's face had settled into a mask of reluctant resignation, his frown deepening. Marcus recognized that expression—it was the look of someone about to say no but feeling guilty about it.
Time to deploy the charm offensive.
Marcus let his lower lip jut out slightly in an exaggerated pout, injecting wounded pride into his voice. "What's that look for? Come on, seriously examine the evidence here." He gestured at himself with both hands, framing his face and body. "This face? Camera-ready. This height? Perfect proportions. This physique? I'm a human clothes hanger. And we haven't even discussed my actual marketable skills yet."
He could see Devon's resistance, read the skepticism written across every line of his face. Time to lower the bar and make the pitch more reasonable.
"Look, I'm not asking to be the next action star. I don't need my face on posters. I don't even need my face on screen, period. I'm talking about stunt work—martial arts double for the actual actors. I can handle choreography, I can take hits, I've got legitimate fighting experience."
From being an actual bodyguard who dealt with actual threats, he didn't add. From having literally killed people when contracts went sideways. "Just give me a chance to prove it."
Devon looked like he might choke on his cappuccino. "Stunt double? You?" He didn't even try to hide his disbelief. "Marcus, I've seen you in a fight. That flashy bullshit you call martial arts is all show and no substance. You'd get someone killed on set, probably yourself."
The assessment stung precisely because Devon was evaluating the original owner's abilities, not Marcus's actual skill set. The man whose body he now inhabited had apparently been all swagger and no follow-through, someone who'd learned just enough moves to look dangerous without actually being competent.
But Marcus Chen—the real Marcus, the one with years of professional bodyguard experience from another world—that was a different story entirely.
"I'm completely serious," Marcus said, dropping the playful tone for genuine sincerity. "I know what I can do. I'm not walking in there unprepared or unqualified."
He'd already mapped out his strategy: secure the stunt work as a goal, but find transitional employment first. Something that leveraged his actual skills—maybe private security, maybe personal training, maybe something else entirely. Whatever paid legitimate money without requiring him to constantly beg the Nightshade family for an allowance like some kept house pet.
The independence mattered almost as much as the survival aspect. Almost.
Devon shook his head slowly, his expression mixing fondness and exasperation. "I'm serious too, man. You're not cut out for it. Trust me on this."
"Why not?" Marcus pressed. "Give me one concrete reason. Look at these legs—are they not long enough? This face—is it not symmetrical enough for film? This build—this is textbook athletic proportion! Plus—"
"The tattoo," Devon interrupted flatly, pointing at Marcus's forearm where the edge of ink peeked out from beneath his jacket sleeve.
Marcus froze. He'd completely forgotten about that.
"Martial arts scenes are all about physicality," Devon continued, his tone that of someone explaining basic facts to a particularly slow student. "Shirtless fights, tank tops, shorts—maximum skin exposure for impact shots. Your tattoo would be in every frame, and unless it's plot-relevant, it's a continuity nightmare. Directors hate that shit. Post-production has to paint it out frame by frame, which costs time and money. You'd be rejected in the first five seconds of any audition."
The logic was ironclad and completely deflating. Marcus sat back in his chair, the wind thoroughly removed from his sails.
The original owner's body did indeed sport a tattoo—nothing massive, but prominent enough in certain contexts. He'd honestly forgotten about it until this exact moment, too focused on his grand employment plans to consider practical obstacles.
Just as his mind was spiraling into contingency planning, a familiar chime resonated through his consciousness.
[Ding!]
The system's blue interface materialized in his mind's eye, displaying an ornate white jade bottle with characters flowing down its side. Inside the translucent vessel, he could make out a pearlescent cream that seemed to glow with inner light.
[Host, your needs have been detected. May we recommend the following product: "Jade Muscle Scar-Removing Spirit"]
[This medicinal ointment not only removes scarring but can lighten or temporarily alter superficial skin pigmentation. Results appear natural and cause no damage to skin quality. Perfect for removing unwanted body art while maintaining tissue health.]
Marcus's attention snapped to the notification with laser focus. "That's perfect! It can actually restore the skin to its original unmarked state? What's the cost?"
[Exchange price is quite reasonable—merely 888 Positive Value points. The same investment as the Black Jade Meridian-Restoring Oil.]
Of course. Of course it was 888 points.
Marcus felt his eye twitch involuntarily. The universe apparently had a sense of humor about these things. The oil that could heal Elena's paralyzed legs: 888 points. The cream that could remove his career-blocking tattoo: also 888 points.
He was currently sitting at 232 points total. To afford even one of these items, he needed to quadruple his current value. To afford both—which felt increasingly necessary—he needed nearly 1,800 points.
The math was daunting, but not impossible. He'd been farming points slowly, carefully, trying not to push Elena too far too fast. Maybe it was time to be more strategic about his approach.
More aggressive.
Calm down, he told himself firmly. One crisis at a time. Focus on the immediate problem.
With renewed confidence from knowing a solution existed, Marcus looked back at Devon with determination. "The tattoo is a non-issue. I can get professional removal treatment—medical grade, clean results, no scarring. I'll have it taken care of within the month. Guaranteed."
Devon studied him for a long moment, clearly trying to gauge how serious Marcus actually was about this entire endeavor. Finally, something in Marcus's expression must have convinced him, because he sighed and raised his hands in surrender.
"Alright, fine. I'll make some inquiries with Director Zhang's production team. See if they've got anything coming up that might need extra stunt personnel." He jabbed a finger across the table for emphasis. "But I'm telling you right now—no promises. I can ask, but I can't guarantee anything. This industry is competitive as hell, and connections only get you through the door. You still have to prove you can do the work."
"Understood completely." Marcus couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Just get me the introduction. I'll handle the rest."
"We'll see about that," Devon muttered, but he was smiling slightly despite himself.
They fell into easier conversation after that, discussing mutual acquaintances and catching up on the past few weeks. Marcus was just contemplating whether he should explore the city a bit more or head back to the Nightshade estate when his phone began vibrating against the table.
Unknown number.
He frowned slightly—his contact list in this world was pathetically small. Devon, Elena, Sophia, Grandfather Jiang, and a handful of service numbers. This wasn't any of them.
"Excuse me," he said to Devon, swiping to answer. "Hello?"
Silence greeted him initially, just the faint ambient sound of breathing on the other end of the line. It stretched long enough to become uncomfortable, long enough that Marcus began to wonder if this was a robocall that had glitched.
Then, finally, a voice emerged. Male, refined, carefully modulated. The kind of voice that suggested education and culture, someone accustomed to choosing words with precision. But underneath that polished exterior, Marcus detected something else—a thread of tension, carefully controlled but definitely present.
"May I ask... are you Mr. Marcus Chen?"
The formality of the address immediately put Marcus on alert. Not "Marcus" or "Mr. Chen" but the full name, spoken with the careful enunciation of someone confirming identity before proceeding with something important.
"Speaking," Marcus confirmed, his own tone turning cautious and professional. "Who am I talking to?"