🎵 "On a dark desert highway…"
The soft scratch of a vinyl record fills the penthouse as Hotel California by the Eagles plays on an old record player. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline of New York glows in the late evening hue, casting a golden sheen on the walls.
Jean's voice cuts through the melody, calm and reflective.
Jean (POV):
"Freedom... what is true freedom? Some say it comes from wealth. Others claim it's power. But what happens when you have both?"
We see Jean standing in front of an ornate full-length mirror. She's alone, her posture relaxed yet confident. Her eyes meet her reflection.
Jean (inner thoughts):
"It's only been a month… and already, I've lived a more fulfilling life than I did in the twenty years of my last one. Superpowers really are absurd."
She lets out a soft chuckle, remembering.
"This month alone: surfing in Cape Town, windboarding in Australia, snowboarding in the Alps… breakfast on top of the Great Pyramids, getting drunk alone atop the Eiffel Tower, eating pizza in the Colosseum under the moonlight. All ridiculous. All real."
Jean's fingers brush against her crimson hair.
"And let's not even talk about money. I finally met Cristiano Ronaldo—yeah, he's young now, but still Ronaldo. And I watched Kobe drop 50 in person. Wealth? It buys second chances. I'm crossing off my old life's bucket list like a speedrunner."
Just then, a knock interrupts her musings.
"Master, may I come in?" Maki's voice—soft, loyal, slightly excited.
"Come in," Jean replies.
The door opens to reveal Maki in a crisp black-and-white maid outfit, carrying a tray of makeup products. She walks with a slight limp, but her steps are eager.
"Master," Maki says with a shy smile. "May I do your makeup?"
Jean raises an eyebrow, but sits without protest. Maki carefully begins applying the eyeliner.
Jean (inner thoughts):
"I still haven't gotten used to this… I was a guy, after all. I never wore makeup. Never cared about heels, or fashion. But now I'm in Jean's body. I'm trying… I mean, I've gotten used to walking in high heels, but makeup? Ugh. I'll only wear it on special occasions. And dresses? Never. Absolutely never."
"Done, Master," Maki whispers.
Jean turns toward the mirror again.
Long crimson hair falls in waves around her shoulders. Emerald green eyes shimmer beneath perfectly lined lids. Her skin is flawless—milky and radiant—with just a touch of blush. Her lips, painted a bold red, curve into a smirk. She wears a fitted black designer suit with a blood-red tie, black gloves, and a long coat draped over her shoulders. On her feet? Black stilettos with red bottoms.
"Damn," Jean mutters. "I look like a mafia queen walking a Paris runway."
Maki claps her hands together, blushing. "You look divine, Master…"
"Let's go." Jean stands, grabbing her black clutch and walking toward the elevator.
"Have a lovely outing, Master Jean," Maki bows as the elevator closes.
Inside the elevator, Jean hits the button to the underground garage. As she descends, her thoughts drift again.
Ping!
[Gacha System] Cooldown complete. Draw unlocked.
New Skill: Dominic Toretto's Driving Knowledge and Reflexes
Jean sighs and rolls her eyes.
"Only five draws this month…" she mutters. "Maverick's flying skills, Bond's Aston Martin, Domino's probability, Wolverine's healing factor… and now Vin Diesel behind the wheel. Wonderful."
Jean (inner thoughts):
"The healing factor lets me do all those crazy stunts without worrying about dying, and NZT lets me use 100% of my brain—perfect memory, instant learning. My psychic control has skyrocketed."
Ding.
The elevator opens.
Click. Click.
Her heels echo through the garage.
She presses a button. With a chirp, her car lights flash.
A red and black 2007 Pagani Zonda F sits in the shadows. Its body gleams like freshly spilled blood.
Jean smirks at the fourth wall.
"This is Phoenix. One of one. Custom-built. Worth millions. How did I afford it, you ask?"
She slides into the car.
"Easy. If you've seen Limitless, then you already know how powerful NZT is. I followed the blueprint—turned $1M into $30M in the stock market. No ID? No problem. I created shell companies, offshore accounts, used burner devices… It wasn't easy, but hey—I had time. And a genius IQ."
The engine roars to life, vibrating with power. Jean taps into her teleportation (Jumper) power—and vanishes.
Scene Change: Las Vegas
The red Pagani streaks down the Vegas Strip, music blasting. Neon lights flash against her sunglasses. Jean pulls up to Caesar's Palace, stepping out with all the swagger of a mafia don and a Vogue model rolled into one.
Jean (inner thoughts):
"Why Vegas, you ask? Two reasons. One: money laundering. Two: psychic training. Remember the bank job? That money's 'dirty.' Casinos are perfect for cleaning it. And poker? Well, poker is a mind game. Reading thoughts. Sensing emotions. It's training."
Inside the casino, Jean strolls to the exchange counter.
"I'd like to cash this in for chips," she says.
She places a Louis Vuitton suitcase on the counter and opens it.
$1 million in cash.
The teller blinks, nods, and starts counting.
One Hour Later
The craps table erupts in cheers. Women swarm around Jean, all sipping cocktails. A blonde clings to her arm.
"Another win!" someone yells.
Jean smirks, sipping her drink.
She turns to the blonde next to her. "Blow on these dice for luck."
The blonde raises a brow. "Honey, I think you're the one giving luck."
Still, she blows gently.
Jean tosses the dice. Another win.
Casino Security Room
Two men watch Jean on the monitor.
"Boss, she's up again."
"How much?"
"She came in with a million… she's at twelve now."
"That's impossible. Nobody's that lucky."
"What do we do?"
The older man smirks. "Invite her to the VIP room."
Inside Caesar's Palace, Las Vegas – VIP Penthouse Poker Room
Jean stepped into the lavish penthouse suite, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. The soft hum of jazz played in the background, and a gold-plated bar gleamed under the chandelier light. The poker table was the centerpiece—oak trimmed in red velvet, and around it sat three men with wildly different energies.
Tony Stark was slouched in his chair, sunglasses on indoors, drink in hand. A tailored black suit clung perfectly to his frame, but he wore it like a man who never had to impress anyone—because he thought he was already the most interesting person in the room.
Next to him was Justin Hammer, younger, constantly glancing at Tony like a kid trying to one-up his older brother.
The last was Elon Musk, reserved, curious, calculating.
Tony's gaze lifted lazily. "Who brought the Bond girl?" he said with a cocky grin. "Sweetheart, you're gonna wanna stand back—I'm about to make these two cry into their trust funds."
Jean's expression tightened. She walked past the bar like she owned the suite, stopping beside the dealer.
The suited man from earlier cleared his throat. "Apologies, Mr. Stark. Miss Smith here is a professional. The casino invited her to participate in tonight's private game."
Tony slowly took off his sunglasses. "Wait, wait… this is my competition?" He leaned forward, scanning her like he was checking out a new car. "Well damn. You're way too pretty to be good at poker."
Jean slid into the open seat across from him, crossing her legs. She lit a cigarette slowly, ignoring the 'No Smoking' sign nearby. Her green eyes locked with his.
"I won't be so pretty once I take all your money," she said, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.
Tony chuckled, amused. "Confidence. Dangerous on a woman. Sexy on a gambler. You're gonna fit right in."
Justin Hammer gave a forced laugh. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Tony. She's probably bluffing."
"Please, Hammer, you couldn't read a bluff if it was tattooed on someone's forehead," Tony said without even looking at him.
The dealer cleared his throat again. "Gentlemen—and lady—buy-ins start at five million."
Tony smirked. "I'll make it ten."
Justin Hammer, not to be outdone, blurted, "Ten million for me too."
Elon simply nodded. "Same."
Jean leaned forward and opened her briefcase with a satisfying click. "Ten million," she said, tossing the bills on the table like poker chips. "Let's dance, boys."
Twenty Minutes Later
The air in the room had shifted.
Tony was leaning forward now, no longer lounging. His jaw was tight, the scotch in his glass untouched. A small vein twitched at his temple.
Justin Hammer looked like he was trying not to cry. Elon was staring at Jean with open curiosity and maybe a touch of concern.
Jean leaned back, casually smoking as she counted her winnings. The mountain of chips in front of her had become obscene.
Tony slammed his cards down. "Impossible. Impossible! There is no way—no mathematical way—that you just pulled a full house on the river again!"
Jean raised an eyebrow. "Yet, here we are."
"You're cheating," Hammer hissed. "You have to be."
"Funny," Jean said, her voice like velvet and venom, "the security cameras didn't seem to agree with you."
Tony stood, pushing his chair back. He ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Okay. Who are you? Seriously. You walk in here dressed like the devil's secretary, clean us out, and act like it's just another Tuesday?"
Jean smiled. She took another drag, then leaned forward, her voice low and dangerous. "Let's just say I'm very good at reading people… especially when they're stupid enough to underestimate me."
Tony stared for a moment, then laughed. It was genuine, rich, and amused. He raised his glass.
"I'll give you this, Miss Smith—or whatever your real name is—you've got balls. And style. You should come work for me. I like women who terrify me."
Jean stood, gathering her chips and cashing out in her mind. "Thanks for the offer, Tony," she said over her shoulder. "But I already run my own empire."
Tony watched her walk out, eyes narrowed. "She's dangerous."
Elon finally spoke. "She's more than that. She's... interesting."
Hammer just groaned. "I think I'm gonna throw up."