Malvin threw himself lazily onto the comfort of his plush cream couch.
"Urgh… you went and did it again, didn't you?" Larry sighed from the opposite couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like a tired father.
Malvin shrugged. "Those damn police always overreact to the most useless things." He rolled his eyes. "I mean—there are actual murderers running around, yet somehow I'm the priority. It's fucking annoying."
"It's because you're a nuisance too, dude!" Larry's voice jumped an octave. "A policewoman caught you having sex with someone's wife in a dark alley near McRonald's!"
"It's not like I was raping her. It was consensual," Malvin shot back. "She thought I was cool, so… you know. I bent her over."
Larry dragged his hand down his face. "You're unbelievable. Now tell me this—why did you seduce the policewoman who was trying to arrest you? And why did you sleep with her too?" His eyes widened. "What kind of lust-riddled beast are you!?"
Malvin looked away. "It was just sex. No need to overreact." He stood, shoulders slumping. "It's the only thing that entertains my boring life. So give me a break."
Larry watched him trudge to their massive fridge—always stocked like a mini supermarket. Malvin grabbed a soda, popped it open, and chugged half of it like he wished it could wash away his ennui.
Larry studied him quietly. He had known Malvin since they were kids—basically brothers. And over the years, he'd watched the spark in Malvin's eyes fade into nothing. Not from sickness or trauma… but from privilege.
Malvin had been born with everything: billionaire parents, ridiculous beauty, every opportunity handed to him. Girls adored him in college and he indulged without restraint, sleeping with anyone who so much as blushed in his direction. Then he became a famous model—posters everywhere, magazines begging for his face. Women wanted him, men envied him.
But deep down, all that perfection hollowed him out. He never got to feel ambition, or the joy of struggling toward something meaningful. In a world where most people drown in financial problems… Malvin was drowning in financial stability. A luxury curse.
And that was how his spark died.
Larry knew it better than anyone. He stood, paused the isekai anime playing on the TV, and exhaled long and hard.
"Tell me something, bro… what do you actually wish for?"
Malvin frowned. "You okay, dude? Did you hit your head?"
But Larry's expression stayed serious. Malvin sighed and flopped back onto the couch.
"What do I wish for, huh?" He tapped his head. He had everything—so what else could he want?
Except…
"I wish for a life I have to mold with my own hands," he said finally. "A life where I actually struggle. Where I rise to where I am now through my own strength… or maybe even surpass myself."
Larry went still… then burst into explosive laughter.
"Bro, that was… that was incredibly cringe. Hahaha—god damn."
"Fuck you," Malvin snapped. "You asked the stupid question!"
Larry clutched his chest dramatically. "Your majesty's speech has moved me! But let's be real—that wish is impossible. A single picture of you can pay for someone's whole luxurious lifetime."
Before Malvin could retort, his phone rang. He answered while walking upstairs. Ten minutes later, he returned in a fresh outfit.
"Where are you going?"
"I gotta meet someone," Malvin said, grabbing a car key.
"It's late! Meet them tomorrow!"
"No. Her husband comes back tomorrow."
Larry slapped his own forehead. "Of course it's a woman. And someone's wife. Do you ever sleep with single women!?"
Malvin grinned. "Nah… it's more fun when they're married. And banging them in their husbands' bedrooms? The thrill that he might walk in any second? Priceless."
"You're a damn scumbag," Larry groaned. "Just—be careful."
"Gotcha. I'll be back in an hour."
He didn't return in an hour.
He didn't return at all.
In the morning, Larry woke to the TV reporting something that froze the blood in his veins.
> A series of gunshots echoed in the Eastgate suburbs last night. Police discovered famous model Malvin Gayeman shot six times in the chest. Evidence confirms he was killed by Comrade Bombshell, a former soldier who found Malvin sleeping with his wife.
Larry stared, pale as death. His friend… was gone.
At Malvin's funeral, the turnout was absurd—like a president had died. Women sobbed, mourning "the boy who fucked so good." Others danced in sundresses with no panties, giving him a final horny salute. Men sighed in relief—the menace who slept with their wives was finally gone.
**
Meanwhile, Malvin's world went dark. Dying with a hard dick still lodged in someone's wife wasn't ideal, but… that was the price of being a scumbag.
> I wish… for a life I'll have to mold with my own hands…
The words echoed over and over in the void.
Until—
"Your wish is granted."
A soft, angelic voice. The darkness tore open as warm divine light engulfed him.
When the glow cleared, Malvin found himself in a vast hall filled with heavenly music. His body glowed faintly; the bullet holes were gone. No pain remained—only peace.
"Am I… dead?" he murmured.
"Yes," the sweet voice replied.
He looked up—and his jaw dropped. A stunning woman in a skimpy white dress lounged on a floating white couch.
"What a gorgeous sight…" he breathed. He'd slept with countless women, but none compared to this one. Perfect features, soft pink lips, golden hair, hourglass curves, and breasts shaped like teardrops—full, sinful, begging to be touched.
Before he even realized it, his legs moved on their own and—
Plush!
"Wow… they're so soft."
TBC