Lynn kept a metric shit-ton of secrets from Harry, but not everything he said was total bullshit.
Yeah, he really did ditch the orphanage and bounce around the streets for years. And sure, he got snatched and strong-armed once or twice, but by then he'd already been grinding his superpowers for over a year. Telekinesis? He had that shit on lock. Saving himself was child's play.
The superpower training kit let you master one of three skills—telekinesis, X-ray vision, or teleportation. If you hyper-focused on just one, you could nail it in a year. Telekinesis was Lynn's jam; way more practical than blinking around like a glitchy video game.
And the whole "helping people for kicks" thing? Deadass true.
Unlike those system-cheating transmigrators from Earth, Lynn didn't have a damn cheat code. He helped folks purely because he was built different. But here's the kicker: nobody ever looked happy about it.
People he saved would straight-up cuss him out or swing on him. That shit wrecked him for a hot minute, but Lynn's heart's made of titanium. Still, after getting jumped one too many times, he started being a lot pickier about who he played hero for.
No system? No problem. He had something a hundred times doper: a busted-ass half-moon pouch that used to be his baby blanket. To everyone else, it was just a ratty old rag. To Lynn? A 4D junk drawer from God.
He'd pulled out wild shit like the superpower kit and that cookie he slipped Harry. One-use magic trinkets, half-broken, like someone looted a wizard's garage sale. The pouch had a massive void inside that refreshed every month with 1–3 random items—all used, scratched-up hand-me-downs. Miss the pickup window? Poof. Gone.
In three years, he scored 47 gadgets. The MVP? Bamboo copters—those Doraemon-style head-propellers that let you fly. One was almost factory fresh (8 hours of airtime). The rest? War-torn veterans that crapped out after 1–3 hours.
Yeah, it's Doraemon's pocket… but the Dollar Store knockoff. No connection to some futuristic Amazon. Lynn could hustle cash with his powers, but the pouch didn't take Venmo.
Why not buy a crib? Because he's a ghost. No ID, no birth cert—orphanage kept all that. British cops don't exactly roll out the red carpet for Asian street kids with no papers.
Homeless life didn't faze him. He'd teleport into abandoned houses, whip out a beat-up tan tent from his pack, and boom—home sweet home. The "Universal Tent" was a glitchy miracle: 300 square feet inside, reconfigurable rooms, bathroom, even a cloaking mode. Invisible unless you walked into it.
Only bummer? The food-ordering feature was fried. No "yo, tent, hook me up with a pizza." Probably didn't take pounds, or maybe it only worked if you had a "home." Whatever.
Food? Covered. He had a 99% girly-owned "Gourmet Tablecloth"—a patched-up relic that conjured random grub every hour.
"Alright, dinner lottery—let's go!"
He'd yell out fantasy orders: "Peking zhajiang noodles, braised chicken wings, stewed ribs, cold jellyfish salad!"
The cloth didn't give a fuck what he said. Four dishes, random as hell.
First up: Authentic Indian banana-leaf hand-rice.
Lynn's face went nuclear. One bite of real Indian curry once had him shitting lava for two days.
The rest? Passable. A 7/10 steak, plain noodle soup, and a chicken salad drowning in ranch so thick it could caulk a boat.
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Everything was edible… except Indian curry. That's a bio-weapon for anyone without a cast-iron gut.
While Lynn chowed down on his free mystery meal, Harry—nervous as a cat in a room full of Rockettes—pushed open the door at 4 Privet Drive.
Aunt Petunia had just finished dinner. She clocked Harry, snorted like he was a bad smell, and stiff-faced it to the table.
Harry sat in his corner, plate decently loaded—nowhere near Uncle Vernon or Dudley's mountain, but enough to hit 80% full. Same as Petunia's.
Dinner vibe? Same old toxic sludge. Dudley shoveled food like a human dumpster while watching TV, Petunia dabbing his greasy chin like he was still five. Vernon grunted, dead-eyed from work.
Dishes done, Harry scrubbed the kitchen, ditched the apron, and eyed the living room trio. Familiar hellscape.
"Hey, boy—you!"
Vernon folded his paper like it owed him money.
"Yeah?" Harry stepped forward, sucking in air.
"You're going to Stonewall Secondary. That's final."
"Stoooone-waaaaall—" Dudley wheezed, cracking up like it was the funniest shit ever. Harry didn't get the joke.
"…Got it."
Harry knew he had zero say. But Stonewall wasn't total trash. It was a combo academic/vocational school. Nail your GCSEs? Two more years for A-Levels, then uni. Bomb them? Smooth track to trade school—decent pay. One in three British 16-year-olds went vocational.
Hell, if he flunked hard, he could warehouse at Vernon's drill company or join the Army Cadets. Compared to Dudley's fancy Smeltings, Stonewall gave more exits. Harry's grades sucked—this was actually a solid deal.
"Good." Vernon snapped the paper back up. The snake incident still had them jumpy.
"I'm… gonna shower."
Harry grabbed clothes and bolted.
Door locked, he slumped against the cold tiles. Fished the cookie from his pocket. Stared it down like it might bite.
He'd been spiraling since Lynn handed it over. Eat it = unknown danger. Don't eat = stay a doormat.
"Maybe I don't need it. Two months till school. Only back for holidays…"
He swallowed hard, making excuses.
But mirror check: scrawny kid drowning in hand-me-downs.
His eyes dropped to the cookie.
"If Mom and Dad were here…"
He sighed, hollow. Then—fuck it. Eyes shut, mouth open, crunch.
Just a cookie. Crispy, wheaty, salty. No fireworks.
He stripped, cranked the shower, ditched his glasses. Hot water hit.
Scrubbing his chest, something felt… off.
He froze. Slammed the tap. Wiped his face. Eyes wide.
Hand shaking, he reached down.
A blood-curdling scream ripped through the bathroom—pure terror, pure despair.