"I'm winning."
The words echoed in my mind as I sank into the sea of cash surrounding me on the bed. I grabbed a bottle of champagne from the penthouse mini-fridge — no label, just expensive. Probably something with a name I couldn't pronounce back in my old world.
The cork popped with a satisfying pop, and I took a long sip straight from the bottle like some half-dressed Bond villain. The cool fizz burned my throat in a good way.
Ping!
[GACHA SYSTEM COOLDOWN COMPLETE – ONE NEW DRAW AVAILABLE]
Draw now?
I grinned.
"You know the answer."
Drawing...
Congratulations! You've obtained: Harley Quinn's Chiappa Rhino 60DS (.357 Magnum, Suicide Squad Version)
A flash of light. Something cold and heavy materialized in my right hand.
The gun was sleek. Chrome silver with black grips. Engraved with tiny scuff marks, worn in but deadly. Like its former owner.
Jean's POV (Inner Monologue):
A gun? Really?
I mean, sure — it's gorgeous. Probably the sexiest revolver I've ever seen.
But this is the Marvel Universe. Nobody uses guns unless they're ex-military, bounty hunters, or Samuel L. Jackson.
Still... I guess it's good to have. Just in case my powers ever decide to take a nap.
I spun the cylinder, watched the bullets click into place. Then I holstered it in a custom belt I shape-shifted into place under my jacket.
"Thanks, Harley. I'll try not to shoot myself."
Next Day, 1:45 PM – Brooklyn
The Ferrari F430 roared into the parking lot like a wild animal off its leash. Its engine growled and purred in the same breath — a perfect symphony of wealth, speed, and style.
The car slid into the space like a work of art. Heads turned from inside the windows of a cozy little Japanese restaurant, steam fogging the glass. The place looked peaceful, homey. I was starving.
I stepped out, wearing a navy-blue crop jacket, black jeans, and some custom white Air Forces I may have lifted from a Foot Locker employee with a little psychic nudge. Sunglasses, always.
The moment I stepped inside and sat down at the corner table, a waitress hurried over to bring me water. I started browsing the menu — ramen, sushi, teriyaki.
Then I heard it.
CRASH!
The sound of plates shattering. Screams. Shuffling. Slaps. Furniture moving violently.
I turned to see four Japanese women sprinting out of a back hallway, bruised, crying, and covered in torn clothing. One of them stumbled as she ran, shoes missing, her sobs raw and breathless.
Behind them, two men emerged — muscular, tattooed, dressed in black with dragon and skull designs across their arms. One of them had a sword slung across his back. His face twisted in amusement.
"Help!" one of the women cried out to the bystanders. "Please, someone help us!"
No one moved.
No one even looked.
Jean's POV (Inner Monologue):
Great. Human trafficking.
Because I really wanted to deal with that today.
I'm not a hero, alright? I'm not. But something about watching those girls beg for help while I sat here — especially now that I'm in a woman's body — it… stirred something.
Pity. Rage. Recognition?
Maybe all three.
I stood up from the booth and walked straight toward the chaos. Calm, slow steps. The floor beneath my boots didn't even creak.
The two men stopped chasing when they saw me step between them and the women. The girls huddled behind me, trembling.
The man with the sword sneered and barked something in Japanese.
I tilted my head and grinned.
"English, motherfucker. Do you speak it?"
The man's expression twitched. Frustration flared in his eyes. He reached for the handle of his short katana — not a cheap toy, either. This was steel. Real and sharpened.
The women behind me screamed.
I pulled the Chiappa Rhino 60DS out of my jacket and pressed the muzzle to his forehead with a click.
He froze.
"Oh, now we're speaking the same language," I said.
His eyes dropped to the gun. He took two slow steps back, hands raised.
The second man — leaner, meaner-looking — stepped forward. "This has nothing to do with you," he said in accented but fluent English. "You don't want to get involved."
His voice was calm, but I heard the threat inside it.
Read him.
I sent out a psychic pulse like a sonar wave. His mind opened to me like an unlocked file cabinet.
Memories. Plans. Orders. Girls gagged and bound. Shipping containers. Tokyo, Osaka, New York.
Human trafficking.
They weren't just random thugs. These two were low-level Yakuza, part of a crew trying to build a foothold in the States. The girls were victims, kidnapped from Japan, smuggled here for "sale."
The fury that built in my stomach was hot and immediate.
I raised the gun — not at them this time, but toward the ceiling — and fired.
The boom was thunder in a small room. Everyone ducked, screamed, scrambled under tables.
Then I looked at both men and whispered into their minds:
Feel everything you've ever done. All of it. All at once.
Their eyes widened. Sweat poured from their foreheads. One of them dropped to his knees, shaking. The other turned and ran, crashing through the door like a demon was chasing him.
"Now fuck off," I said aloud.
They didn't need telling twice.
The moment they were gone, I turned around. The women were huddled together, crying and trembling. I knelt beside them and put the gun away.
"It's okay," I said, trying to soften my voice. "You're safe now."
Japanese Embassy, East Side Manhattan
A black car — not the Ferrari — pulled up outside the tall stone walls of the Japanese embassy.
I had called in a few favors. Or rather, I had telepathically suggested a few well-placed embassy contacts believe I was acting as an intermediary from Interpol.
The girls were taken inside quickly, given blankets, food, and care.
One by one, they disappeared through the embassy gates — all except one.
She hesitated. Then turned and walked back toward me.
I blinked.
"Uh… what are you doing?"
She stopped, bowed deeply, and said in perfect English:
"Master."
I stared.
"…Excuse me?"
She looked up, tears still drying on her cheeks but a strange sense of calm in her eyes. "Because of you, I am alive. You saved me. I have decided to follow and serve you from now on."
I froze.
Jean's POV (Inner Monologue):
Master?
What kind of anime bullshit did I just walk into?
"Listen," I said, "I don't need a servant."
She shook her head. "Then I'll be your maid."
I started to raise my hand to wave her off. But something stopped me.
Her surface thoughts were a whirlwind — but deep down, I sensed a dangerous fragility. Her mind teetered at the edge. A cracked dam holding back desperation.
I touched her mind gently. Just a glimpse.
Her name: Maki Matsumoto. Twenty years old. A junior lawyer in Osaka before being kidnapped and trafficked to New York. She'd been held for weeks. The other girls were her only hope.
Then I appeared — like a comic book savior with a gun and glowing eyes.
To her? I wasn't just a rescuer. I was salvation.
And if I turned her away now… I saw it in her mind. She wouldn't survive it.
"Goddamn it," I muttered.
I sighed and rubbed my temples.
"Okay. You can be my maid."
Her face lit up like Christmas. She bowed again — deeper this time — and followed me silently as I walked to the waiting car.
As we drove off, I looked at her once more.
Just one week in this world.
One car crash. One gacha system.
And now… I have a Ferrari, seven million dollars, a supergun, and a slightly mentally unstable Japanese maid who calls me master.
What the hell is my life?