The cab rolled to a stop in front of an apartment building. I paid the driver while she popped the trunk and tugged my bag out with practiced ease. We headed inside, climbing to the third floor.
"This seems… pretty luxurious," I said, raising an eyebrow. "You sure you're not making some kind of drug money?"
She shot me a look. "Please. We're the leading bioengineering lab in the world, with billions in funding. If anyone should worry about dirty money, it's you."
We stepped inside, and I stopped dead. For an undergrad research gig, this place was something else — two bedrooms, a living room, a proper kitchen. Not the cramped shoebox I'd expected.
I muttered under my breath, I need to look into this lab later. Where the hell is all this money coming from? Or is there something shady buried under the glossy brochures?
She dumped my bag against the wall and clapped her hands. "Go freshen up. I ordered pizza. After that—game time. You're still 159 losses behind me, and I fully intend to hit 200."
I smirked. "Keep dreaming."
The room she'd set up for me was temporary but tidy. As I shut the door, the system overlay flickered in my vision.
[Template Progression: 78% — John Harland.]
My body was catching up fast. Muscles, reflexes, posture — all sliding into place. But the instincts, the tactical thought patterns? Still not fully there. Jason Bourne wasn't just strong; he was efficient. Every move calculated, every environment mapped in seconds. Hyperawareness, muscle memory, improvisation under fire. That's what I was chasing.
I showered, steam filling the small bathroom, and opened the system interface.
"So you're saying I can… manipulate gacha?"
[Not manipulate. Influence. If the Host focuses on a concept — weapons, defense, healing — the probability of drawing items aligned with that theme increases by approximately 85%. However, every gacha contains a 'highest-tier' item. If Host diverts toward another category, that peak reward will be missed.]
"Got it," I muttered. "Risk-reward."
[Would you like to use your 10 Low-Level Gachas? Y/N]
"Combine them," I said.
[Would you like to roll for one Mid-Level Gacha?]
"Yes."
The holographic wheel materialized, items flickering past like cards in a dealer's hand. I focused hard, repeating the thought like a mantra: protection, defense, safeguard.
The wheel slowed. Stopped.
[Congratulations, Host. You have obtained: Bracelet of Aegis ×2.]
A pair of sleek black bracelets glimmered before me.
Bracelet of Aegis
A twin-forged defensive relic.
Can nullify three fatal strikes against the Host, absorbing damage up to the force of a modern sniper rifle round.
Once activated, the shield manifests as a transparent ripple of energy, wrapping the body for a fraction of a second.
I whistled low. "Now that's cool."
The bracelets dissolved into system storage. Once taken out, they can't be stored back, the interface reminded me. Good to know.
"By the way," I asked, pulling on clean clothes, "why aren't there missions anymore? No objectives?"
[System evolves with Host. Initial mission format was derived from Host's preference for games. However, observation indicates Host values meaning over rote tasks. Thus, the system now rewards achievements it deems significant. The System exists to serve Host, not the other way around.]
I grinned. "Fair enough."
When I finally stepped into the living room, the pizza was on the table. My sister emerged from the kitchen, tying her hair back, eyes glinting like a predator.
"Let's see if your mind is as slow as ever," she said. "Or if it's actually improved."
"Don't test me, kid."
She smirked, pulling the chessboard closer.
The match began slow, pawns shuffling into position like scouts on a battlefield. She'd always been sharp — precise, methodical, playing three moves ahead. But tonight, something felt different.
My thoughts weren't scattered like they used to be. Patterns clicked into place. Traps unfolded before I stepped into them. My pieces moved with a confidence that wasn't mine alone — it was Bourne's instincts, his cold, tactical calculus bleeding into my play.
She frowned as her knight was pinned, forced to retreat. "Huh. Since when do you play like this?"
I shrugged, hiding my grin. "Picked up a few habits."
The board grew tense. Her bishop cut across like a scalpel, my rook fell. I countered, sliding my queen forward, threatening two lines at once. She bit her lip — a crack in her armor.
For the first time in years, she looked worried.
But she rallied. Sacrificed a pawn, then another, and with surgical precision, cornered me. My king staggered under the pressure, pushed into a trap I hadn't fully accounted for.
"Checkmate."
I stared at the board. Just one move away from turning the tables — and she'd snatched the win. By a hair.
She leaned back, triumphant. "And that makes it 160."
I chuckled, shaking my head. So close. Bourne's instincts had narrowed the gap — almost too much. If I kept progressing, she wouldn't have it so easy next time.
"Another match," I said, already resetting the chessboard.
"Nope," she shot back immediately. "We're playing something else."
Before I could argue, she pulled a box from the shelf and slid it onto the table.
"Monopoly?" I groaned.
"Yes," she said, barely holding back laughter. "This is the game we should play."
From the moment we started, I knew I was doomed. Every roll landed me in jail, every property bled me dry, and every time I forked over cash, she grinned at me like a cat with a cornered mouse.
An hour later, I was bankrupt in the most humiliating way possible. She leaned back, stacking her fake fortune, eyes shining with victory.
"You're enjoying this too much," I muttered.
"Maybe," she said sweetly, "but watching you fail at basic economics is art."
I buried my face in my hands. Jason Bourne instincts couldn't save me from Monopoly.
After another round of laughter, she stood and stretched. "I'm ordering Korean food. You want some?"
I gave her a look. "Aren't you getting a little too foodie? We could just cook something for dinner."
"Well, the thing is…" She hesitated, then smirked. "I invited someone to eat with us."
I froze. What the hell? When did she grow up? Birds really do leave the nest eventually. I sighed. "Alright. If he's a decent guy, I'll allow it."
Her head snapped toward me. "What—what are you even thinking, idiot? My supervisor. Research lab. Not a boyfriend."
"Mm-hm," I said carefully. "Does your workplace even allow that kind of relationship?"
Steam practically came out of her ears. "There is no relationship! And why did you assume it's a him, not a her?"
She narrowed her eyes, like she'd just caught me confessing to being a closet misogynist.
"Hey, hey," I raised my hands. "Nothing like that. Just a question. Totally innocent. So… you two eat together often or something?"
"Not really." She shrugged, calming a little. "She only just came to the U.S. for her PhD. Barely talks to anyone. Works all the time. Like, twenty-four-seven."
"Sounds like my kind of person," I said.
She didn't even blink. "I said works all the time. Not slacks off all the time."
"Excuse me? Technically, I'm a workaholic. I just… haven't found my work yet."
"Sure, sure."
We both laughed, then started cleaning up the apartment. If her supervisor was coming over, leaving a good impression was probably smart.
"So tell me more about her," I asked, folding a blanket on the couch.
My sister smirked. "Look who's interested now."
"It's not like that," I shot back. "If I know a little about her, I'll know how to make a good impression. That's good for you, too."
She shrugged. "Not much to tell. She's quiet, kind of shy. Always buried in her research. Never seen her with friends, never seen her out. I honestly think this is her first time eating at someone's place here."
I paused. "That so?"
"You are interested," she teased.
"I never said that."
"Uh-huh."
Preparations done, I barely sat down before she dragged me into another Monopoly match. I lost again. Pathetically.
"Sigh. I was never good at economics," I muttered, watching her gloat.
Later, when the food arrived, we both went downstairs to pick up the oversized order. By the time we hauled everything back up, the apartment smelled heavenly.
I glanced at my clothes. Pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt. "…Should I put on a shirt and pants?"
She blinked at me. "Did I set up a date for you or something? You planning to impress my supervisor?"
I shrugged. "She doesn't seem like the type who cares about formality. But since it's her first time coming over for dinner… maybe we should at least make her feel welcome."
"Alright," she said slowly, watching me with that look that meant she was filing ammunition for later.
We'd both changed into comfortable office clothes — nothing fancy, just normal workwear. As we waited, her eyes drifted toward the Monopoly board still set up on the table.
"Should we—"
"Don't even think about it," I cut her off. "I'll run away tonight if I have to play one more round with you."
She snorted, but before she could fire back, the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it!" she said, practically skipping toward the door. "You stay put."
I sank into the couch. Why the hell am I nervous? It's just her boss.
The door opened, and I caught a glimpse of my sister bowing slightly. Asian? I thought — then froze when I saw her step inside. My brain stalled. Wait. I know this face. Where have I seen her before?
They came over, and I scrambled to my feet. She extended a hand for a handshake just as I bent forward in a bow.
Shit. No. Abort. Abort.
My sister's deadpan stare drilled into me. Great, she's picturing her research fellowship going up in flames because I can't even manage basic greetings.
Panicking, I shot my hand out, just as Helen began to bow in return. Now we were both half-bowing, half-shaking hands, the picture of social disaster.
Am I racist now? Surely not. Please, God, not like this.
My sister's eyes were practically on fire. Even Helen looked uncomfortable.
"Helen, this is my brother, John," my sister said, her voice a little too sharp. "And John — my research supervisor, Helen."
"Hello," I mumbled.
"Hello," Helen said politely.
And then it clicked. Helen. The Helen cho. World-renowned geneticist. Future head of the U-GIN Research Group. Except here and now… she looked nothing like the confident figure I remembered from the movies. Just a slightly tired grad student who still had a softness in her face. Right — the movies were more than a decade in the future.
We sat down while my sister ducked into the kitchen to grab the food. Which left me alone with Helen.
Fantastic.
Scrambling for a topic, I did what any loving brother would do: I threw my sister under the bus. "So, uh… I heard you're, like, twenty-four-seven in the lab? Must be pretty interesting work."
Helen's eyes lit up. "It is. My thesis is on directed differentiation of pluripotent stem cells into functional tissues."
I nodded sagely, already lost.
"Basically," she went on, leaning forward, "stem cells are undifferentiated — they don't know what they want to be when they grow up. My work is about finding the right molecular cues — cytokines, growth factors, extracellular matrices — to guide them into becoming specific, useful cell types."
She was warming up now, talking faster.
"Most labs are just trying to keep stem cells alive in vitro without them spontaneously differentiating or turning into tumors. I'm focusing on neurogenesis and myogenesis — coaxing them into neurons and muscle fibers.
The problem is, the signaling pathways are insanely complex: Wnt, Notch, Hedgehog, FGF, BMP… they overlap constantly, and timing is everything. One day too much of one factor and suddenly your neuron decides it wants to be cartilage instead."
I nodded again, eyes glazing.
"But if I can map out a reproducible protocol, we could, in theory, repair a severed spinal cord, regenerate a heart after a heart attack, or even grow patient-specific replacement tissue. No immune rejection, no donor shortages — just living, functional tissue grown on demand."
By now her eyes were bright, words tumbling over each other. She leaned in, hands gesturing. "I know it sounds futuristic, but we're already seeing proof-of-concept in animal models. If I can stabilize the protocols, this isn't science fiction anymore. This is the beginning of regenerative medicine as a field."
She stopped, breathless, clearly aware she'd gone too far.
I realized my face must have been broadcasting one giant question mark, because she coughed and shifted in her seat. And then — the final nail in my coffin — she switched into that soft, sing-song tone adults use when teaching a toddler to count.
"So, in simple terms," she said gently, "I'm just… learning how to tell baby cells what they should grow up to be."
"Right," I croaked, trying not to sink into the couch.
All good impressions: down the drain.
Then she looked straight at me. "So, John, what do you do?"
My brain flipped coins. Do I tell her? Would it be impressive, or just awkward? Screw it. I went with the truth — or at least the version I was allowed to tell.
"I just finished college," I said, forcing casual into my tone. "And… I'm working with the FBI, for now."
Before I could breathe, my sister's voice shot out from the kitchen, smug as ever. "Actually, he got promoted after just a couple of months. Pretty high-level position."
I almost dropped dead in my seat. No sister of mine. We're done. All ties severed.
Helena raised an eyebrow, interest flickering in her eyes. "Oh? Was it… an interesting case?"
My throat tightened. No way I could tell her about those tattooed bastards and their mess. "Well, you could say that."
She waited.
I cleared my throat. "Just… usual stuff. Cartel-related. Info extraction and all."
Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn't expected me to say it so plainly. Dangerous work, I could see her thinking.
From the kitchen, my sister chimed in again, loud enough to echo: "Translation — he's too restless for a desk, so they keep throwing him at the exciting stuff."
"Hey!" I shot her a glare, but Helena laughed softly, the sound warm enough to undo me.
"It suits you," she said, her voice quiet but certain. "You don't seem like the desk-job type."
I opened my mouth to reply, but my sister swooped in, carrying trays of food like she'd been waiting for this exact moment to play referee. "Alright, alright — save the compliments. Let's eat before everything gets cold."
We gathered at the table. The smell of Korean food filled the apartment — rich spices, sweet and sharp at the same time. My sister settled in across from us, eyes sparkling far too mischievously for my liking.
"So," she said, looking between us like a game show host, "two brilliant minds. One is working on rebuilding human tissue, the other is fighting crime. Tell me, which one of you is going to save the world first?"
Helena laughed softly, shaking her head. "I think science is a slower game."
I leaned back, smirking. "And I think crime waits for no one."
My sister clapped her hands. "Perfect. Then you'll balance each other out."
Helena blinked at her, caught off guard. Then — to my horror — she didn't disagree.
We dug in. The table filled with steam and color — glossy japchae noodles, sizzling bulgogi, kimchi so strong it cleared my sinuses just looking at it.
Helena picked up her chopsticks with practiced ease, delicate, precise. I, on the other hand, nearly dropped mine twice before managing to grab a piece of beef.
Her lips curved. "You're struggling."
I scoffed. "Tactical maneuver. Distract the enemy, then strike." I popped the beef into my mouth, victorious.
From across the table, my sister muttered, "He talks like this even in real life. Imagine hearing it 24/7."
Helena laughed, covering her mouth with one hand. She didn't laugh like a supervisor or a scientist this time. She laughed like a girl my age, sitting at a table, enjoying the moment.
At some point, she reached for the kimchi at the same time I did. Our hands brushed — quick, electric. We both froze.
I pulled back immediately, mumbling, "Sorry."
But Helena didn't look away. Her eyes lingered just a beat too long before she reached forward again, steady this time. "It's fine."
My sister's grin was so wide it could split her face in half. She sipped her drink, pretending not to watch.
Trying to regain footing, I said, "So, Dr. Future Nobel Prize, do you ever cook? Or is it all takeout and coffee?"
Helena rolled her eyes, but there was a faint blush rising on her cheeks. "I can cook… when I have time."
"Meaning never," my sister chimed in, betraying her again. "She practically lives in the lab. Pizza counts as a balanced diet for her."
Helena sighed, defeated, and glanced at me. "And you? FBI fieldwork comes with… culinary training?"
I grinned. "Actually, yes. Survival cooking. I can burn an omelet six different ways."
She laughed again, softer this time, but her gaze lingered on me. Warm. Curious.
Somewhere between bites, I caught myself staring — not at the food, but at the way her hair slipped over her shoulder when she leaned in, the way her eyes lit up when she teased back.
And like an idiot, I said it out loud. "You look… different when you smile like that."
Silence. My brain short-circuited. Abort. Jump out window. Anything.
Helena's chopsticks paused midair. Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked down quickly.
My sister kicked me under the table so hard I nearly yelped, but when I glared at her, she mouthed, Finally.
Helena cleared her throat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You say strange things, John."
"Yeah," I admitted, softer this time. "I do."
But she didn't look away.
And the air between us — warm before — now felt like it might catch fire.
Helena's eyes lingered a moment too long before she looked back down at her plate. My sister busied herself with pouring water, but I caught the smug tilt of her lips.
And me? I just sat there, heart hammering like an idiot.
"FUCK, what am I doing… I should've watched less K-drama, my mind's filled with this," I muttered under my breath.
Too late. Helena heard. She looked up, brows arched, a flicker of amusement in her eyes.
"K-drama?" she asked.
My sister snorted so hard that water nearly sprayed out of her nose.
I coughed, scrambling. "No, no—I meant… uh… Korean… dramatic cuisine. This kimchi. Very… dramatic."
Helena's laugh burst out before she could stop it, light and unguarded, and my sister slapped the table, howling.
I buried my face in my bowl. End me now.