The incident at the subway station was like a stone thrown into a still pond, its ripples refusing to fade. Back in his damp basement, Mason could almost still smell the cloying perfume of the woman named Lily, his fingertips recalling the soft warmth of her body during their brief embrace. Her elegant business card lay on his bedside table, burning like a brand.
Yet clearer than the titillating memory was the phantom ache between his shoulder blades and the icy notification in his mind:
[Pain Transfer] Remaining Uses: 2/3. Ability Duration: 21h 17m.
Two chances. Just over twenty hours. Unlike [Forever Fakes], this ability wasn't suited for subtle profit. It was direct, sharp, almost sinister. What to use it for? Waiting to play hero felt passive, a waste. A bolder, more fitting idea began to take shape—perhaps it could "resolve" some long-standing "troubles."
The first "trouble" materialized instantly: Mr. Miller, the convenience store owner. His greasy face was a permanent mask of scorn, his eyes constantly scanning for employee mistakes, followed by humiliating tirades and the occasional "accidental" shove. The real damage was the mental pressure, which always translated into very real headaches and stomach cramps.
What if... I could give this physical discomfort right back to him? The thought gripped Mason. It wasn't lethal, wouldn't cause real harm, but it would let Miller taste his own medicine. It felt more like... symbolic payback, a way to cash in on emotional value.
The next afternoon, Mason was scheduled for the evening shift with Miller. The fluorescent lights in the store were harsh, the air thick with the smell of stale oden and industrial cleaner. Miller prowled the narrow aisles as usual, his beer belly leading the way, a gold chain glinting at his collar.
"Lucky," Miller barked, using the hated nickname, jabbing a finger at a nearly invisible speck of dust. "Look at this shelf! Did you wipe it with your backside? Where are your eyes?" Spittle flew.
The familiar, suffocating pressure rose in Mason's chest, his temples beginning to throb. He lowered his head, pretending to rearrange products, but his right hand clenched at his side, thumb and middle finger poised.
Now.
Snap!
A faint click, lost in the store's looping pop music.
Focus: Transfer this headache, this nausea from the humiliation and stress, to Miller.
Something shifted. The tight coil of tension in Mason's nerves unwound. The pounding in his head and churning in his gut vanished, replaced by an eerie lightness. Across from him, Miller, mid-rant, suddenly choked. His face paled. He clutched his forehead with one hand, the other grabbing the counter for support, his eyes clouded with confusion and sudden pain.
"Uh... damn it..." Miller cursed, his voice weak. "Why so dizzy all of a sudden... feel sick..." He shook his head, trying to clear it, and nearly stumbled.
Mason fought the urge to smirk, plastering a look of "concern" on his face. "Boss, you okay? You look terrible. Too tired? Want to sit down?" His voice was calm, even tinged with sincerity, as if the secret snap had never happened.
Miller shot him a suspicious glance, but the very real physical misery left no room for investigation. He waved a dismissive, irritated hand, muttering "goddamn weird," and, for once, didn't continue his harassment. He shuffled off to the back room, leaving Mason alone at the front.
First use on an "acquaintance"... success! A strange, fierce satisfaction washed over Mason. This was more than revenge; it was validation of power. He could influence others unseen, even if only by transferring minor pain. This sense of control was dangerously seductive for someone long trapped at the bottom, perpetually pushed around.
He decided to save the second use for later. He needed to plan more carefully.
The shift ended in an odd quiet. Miller remained listless, letting Mason leave early. Deep night had fallen by the time Mason returned home, body tired but mind buzzing. As he fumbled for his keys, his phone vibrated—not a text, but a friend request from an unfamiliar social app.
The profile picture showed a woman with a bright, slightly provocative smile. Lily. The verification message was simple: "Hi, my hero, get home safe? :-)"
Mason's heart skipped a beat. He accepted.
Almost instantly, a message popped up:
Lily: [A selfie holding a wine glass, a nice-looking apartment interior in the background] "Seriously scared me to death today, my heart's still racing. So glad you were there :-P"
Mason: "Glad you're okay." (He kept it brief.)
Lily: "That move of yours... so cool. How'd you do it? (Sly grin emoji)"
Mason: "Coincidence. He probably tripped." (Playing dumb.)
Lily: "Yeah, right~ Man, you've successfully piqued my curiosity (winking emoji). By the way, where you tore my stockings... it still feels a bit breezy... How are you going to make it up to me? (Shy emoji)"
The conversation was rapidly sliding into flirtatious territory. Lily's boldness and directness were overwhelming yet thrilling. This was an entirely new experience for Mason—being pursued and teased so openly by an attractive, sophisticated woman.
Lily: "I'm free tomorrow night. There's a nice new bar near that creepy shop, quiet atmosphere... Want to come? Let me 'properly' thank you? And maybe... talk about your 'coincidence'? (Blinking emoji)"
A clear invitation, heavy with implication. Mason stared at the screen, its glow illuminating his hesitant, yet excited face. Lily was undoubtedly a temptation. But what lay behind it? Mere gratitude and curiosity, or something else? He remembered her expensive-looking handbag and apartment.
To go, or not to go?
It wasn't just about a possible romantic encounter. It was about how to handle the unexpected attention his ability was attracting. The power he possessed was starting to act like a magnet, pulling people and events toward him, and he was far from knowing how to navigate it all.
He glanced at the mental icon for [Pain Transfer], its two remaining uses counting down. Tomorrow's date might require it, or it might not. But either way, he knew one thing for certain: the days of quiet obscurity were gone.