New York City – March, 2007
The sound of rubber soles echoed across the marble floor, light and precise, each step slow with the confidence of someone who knew the world bent to their will — or could, if nudged just right.
Jean Grey — or rather, Ms. Smith — walked into the glossy, chandelier-lit lobby of one of Manhattan's oldest private banks. She wore a clean white t-shirt tucked into fitted blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and dark sunglasses she didn't take off, not even inside. Her red hair was tied up in a lazy, high ponytail.
Heads turned. She didn't notice. Or maybe she just didn't care.
A tall man in a charcoal suit approached, holding a clipboard. His face lit up with a practiced, respectful smile.
"Ms. Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you in person."
Jean tilted her head slightly, returning the smile with one of her own. Polite. Effortless. Unbothered.
"Likewise," she said smoothly.
He gestured toward the hallway on the far side of the lobby. "Your safety deposit box has been opened, just like you requested. Would you like to view it now?"
Jean nodded. "Of course. Let's go take a look."
The two of them walked side by side past the glass offices and crisp-suited employees. As they turned the corner into the vault wing, Jean's eyes briefly flicked toward a side room—one of the open cash vaults. A pair of guards were stacking plastic-wrapped bricks of hundred-dollar bills into rolling steel carts.
Tens of thousands of dollars per cart. Hundreds of carts.
She only glanced for a second. Then kept walking.
Jean's POV (Inner Monologue):
Just walking past that much money was like passing the gates of heaven. I didn't even need it — I mean, I had powers now. But… c'mon. Be honest with yourself.
If you had mind control, shapeshifting, and teleportation, you'd do it too.
After all, the protagonist of Jumper literally robbed a bank in his first week. I was just following the script.
They stopped at a small, private chamber. The bank manager opened a secure cabinet and pulled out her deposit box. Jean leaned over the table and unlocked it with the key she had slipped into her pocket earlier — psychic suggestion did wonders for security oversight.
Inside was nothing but a burner phone and a copy of a fake birth certificate. A decoy. Just an excuse to scout the layout of the vault.
She nodded. "Everything looks perfect. Thanks."
Hilton Penthouse Suite
The skyline of New York glittered behind her as Jean stood in the center of her bedroom, facing the mirror.
She wore a black spandex bodysuit she'd shapeshifted into — tight and flexible, molded to her body like a second skin. Over her head, a sleek black mask covered her face, hiding everything but her eyes.
She twirled once, inspecting herself like a cosplayer about to hit Comic-Con.
Jean's POV (Inner Monologue):
Don't judge me.
Seriously — if you had the mind control, shapeshifting, and teleportation combo, you'd do exactly what I'm about to do.
Everyone's dreamed of robbing a bank at least once, right?
She stretched her arms. Focused her thoughts.
Teleport.
In a blink of blue light, Jean vanished from the penthouse — and reappeared inside the bank's main cash vault. It was empty now, closed for the night. The security camera above the vault door had already been looped — courtesy of her earlier suggestion to the IT tech in charge.
The room smelled faintly of steel and air conditioning.
Stacks of money lined the shelves. Mountains of cash, wrapped in plastic bricks.
Jean dropped two empty duffel bags on the floor. They hit the tile with a soft thud.
"Let's make it quick," she whispered, crouching to work.
She moved fast — faster than most thieves trained their whole lives.
Two duffels, filled to bursting.
Teleport.
Back to her room. She dumped the money onto the massive hotel bed.
Teleport.
Dump.
Teleport.
Dump.
She repeated the process until her arms were sore and the bed was buried under a sea of green — stacks of hundreds layered like feathers on a dragon's back.
Then she stopped.
She stared at it all. Seven trips. Thousands of bills.
Maybe… seven million dollars?
Jean's lips curled into a grin.
She jumped onto the bed with the grace of a gymnast and rolled onto her back, laughing as her arms sank into the money.
She kicked her legs like she was making snow angels.
"YES!" she yelled, still laughing. "I JUST STOLE SEVEN MILLION DOLLARS!"
Her voice echoed through the penthouse. No one heard. No one would remember even if they did.
Luxury Car Dealership, Upper West Side
A glass-walled showroom shimmered under bright spotlights. Dozens of sleek machines lined the polished floors — Lamborghinis, McLarens, and more.
Jean strolled through the rows with a relaxed sway to her hips, humming under her breath.
She wore a dark red trench coat and heels. Hair down. Eyes glowing behind designer sunglasses. Her look screamed "rich trust fund girl with an attitude."
A saleswoman in a neat blouse and high heels approached cautiously.
"Can I help you, miss?"
Jean smiled without looking. "Yes. I've already found what I want."
She pointed to a red Ferrari F430 parked in the center of the floor. Glossy. Gorgeous. The kind of car that looks fast even when it's standing still.
The saleswoman blinked. "That's a very impressive choice. That vehicle retails for over two hundred thousand dollars—"
Before she could finish, Jean casually unzipped her designer duffel bag and tilted it open.
Stacks of $100 bills stared back.
The woman's eyes widened.
"Ah. Right this way," she said immediately, her tone shifting from polite skepticism to full customer-worship mode. "Let's get the paperwork started so you can drive your beautiful new car home today."
They sat at a glossy black desk. Jean kept her fingers laced together on the table, legs crossed.
Then came the paperwork. Name. ID. License.
The saleswoman looked up. "Uh… I'll just need a copy of your identification."
Jean leaned forward and stared into her eyes.
A light pulse of psychic power hummed invisibly between them.
"You already saw it," Jean said with a warm smile.
The woman blinked.
"…Right," she said slowly. "I did. Sorry — long day. Everything's in order."
Jean signed the forms with the name A. Smith.
Ten minutes later, she slid into the Ferrari's leather seat, gripping the wheel with a grin that threatened to split her face in two.
The engine roared to life.
She peeled out of the lot like a starlet on the run from a movie set, her red coat fluttering behind her in the wind.
Later That Night, Hilton Penthouse
The Ferrari was parked two floors below in private valet.
Jean stood by the window, sipping a bottle of chilled soda. She wore nothing but a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, her hair still damp from the post-heist shower.
The cash was still there on the bed, spread out like a throne.
She didn't even need it, not really. She could live in hotels forever, manipulate her way into anything.
But there was something about earning — or stealing — real money that felt… grounding.
Like she had taken something back.
From fate.
From this world.
From the broken system she used to be part of.
Jean's POV (Inner Monologue):
I'm not just surviving anymore.
I'm winning.