The café door chimed behind me as I stepped into the busy Brooklyn sidewalk. The wind tugged at my hoodie, the scent of pretzels and street smoke filling my nose.
I pulled out the old silver iPod Classic I'd swiped from a pawn shop yesterday. Slipped in the earbuds. Spun the wheel until I found the song.
♫ "Be yourself, no matter what they say…"
Sting – Englishman in New York. Classic. Smooth. The saxophone solo always hit different when the city felt like it was swallowing you alive.
My boots tapped along the sidewalk in rhythm. For once, I wasn't thinking about fire or death or power. Just... walking.
Until I took a shortcut through a graffiti-covered alley.
And that's when some idiot decided to make the worst mistake of his week.
From the shadows, he stepped out — ski mask, hoodie, jeans sagging like a cartoon thug. The kind that watched one too many Scorsese films and thought he was "bout that life."
He lifted a small switchblade.
"Give me your money," he said, voice shaking slightly.
I blinked. Pulled one earbud out. "Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over the saxophone."
He stepped forward. "I said — give me your—!"
I cut him off with a dramatic gasp. "Oh no... a knife. How terrifying."
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my past life.
He lunged toward me, and I didn't even flinch.
Mental spike. A psychic pulse extended from my mind and wrapped around his thoughts like a leash.
His body stiffened. Eyes wide. Confused. Afraid.
Command:Give me your wallet.
His hands twitched. Shaking. Then moved against his will. He handed me the wallet.
Command:Now stab yourself in the leg.
"Wha—wait—no—"
Shink.
He dropped with a scream, clutching his bleeding thigh as the knife clattered to the concrete.
I leafed through his wallet like I was browsing coupons. "Damn, you're carrying $300 in cash? In this economy?"
I stuffed the bills in my hoodie pocket and tossed the wallet behind me.
He whimpered, writhing on the ground. "W-what are you—"
"Next time," I said, "rob someone who isn't a telepathic mutant with a moral compass set to 'loose suggestions.'"
I walked away to the sound of his curses, slipping my earbuds back in.
Scene Shift – Hilton Hotel Lobby, Manhattan
The marble floors reflected light like water. Crystal chandeliers. Gold accents. A world of luxury built on profit margins and press releases.
I stepped in like I belonged — hoodie still on, but I walked like it was a designer jacket.
The receptionist smiled. "Good evening, Ms. Smith."
I gave a nod, pretending to text something.
Jean's POV (inner monologue):
Maybe Ms. Smith wasn't the most original fake name, but it worked in a pinch.
I barely had a dollar to my name when I first ran to New York. But one little mental push on the Hilton's general manager — and suddenly, everyone believed I was the secret daughter of a Hilton Worldwide board member.
Free penthouse. Room service. A view of the Empire State Building.
Not bad for a girl with no ID and blood on her hands.
I stepped into the elevator. Pressed PH. Watched the numbers climb.
Ding.
The doors slid open to reveal a modern penthouse suite — all white leather, steel, and glass. The kind of place where CEOs do coke off glass tables and say things like "pivot the brand narrative."
I kicked off my shoes and flopped onto the giant couch with a sigh.
That's better.
Going outside helped clear my head, but nothing beats collapsing into a luxury suite you don't pay for.
I closed my eyes.
And then — PING.
[GACHA SYSTEM COOLDOWN COMPLETE. ONE NEW DRAW AVAILABLE.]
Would you like to pull now?
I sat bolt upright. "Finally."
It had been quiet for three days. I didn't know if it worked on a timer or emotional triggers, but I didn't care.
Pull.
PING!
Congratulations! You have obtained:
MYSTIQUE'S SHAPESHIFTING (X-MEN MOVIE VERSION)
I stared at the glowing text. My mouth slowly spread into a grin.
"Holy shit."
I bolted to the full-length mirror by the suite's closet.
"Okay," I whispered. "Let's see what you can do."
Concentrating, I focused on my reflection. Imagined black hair instead of red.
The change shimmered across my scalp like liquid ink.
I giggled.
Then I tried more. Taller. Fuller. Angular jaw. Prominent cheekbones.
Suddenly I was looking at Angelina Jolie.
Then Gal Gadot.
Then Henry Cavill.
The voice even changed — baritone now, deep and smooth.
"...Man of Steel, huh?" I muttered in his voice, then laughed.
I stared at myself. Not just the face. The body. Every inch.
A quiet emotion rose in my chest. One I didn't have words for yet.
Was it relief?
Nostalgia?
Something like... coming home?
I could be anyone.
But for the first time... I feel like me again.
I shifted back — red hair, green eyes, pale skin.
Jean Grey.
But not the same girl from the bridge.
Not the same guy from the fanboy's bedroom, either.
Something new.
Something becoming.
A visit from someone at the Xavier Institute (Charles, Logan, or Scott)
A mysterious new gacha pull (e.g., a weapon or knowledge pack)
A confrontation with law enforcement or S.H.I.E.L.D.
A memory from Jean's past resurfacing and destabilizing her powers
Or something else — we can go any direction.