Mark needed a target.
He walked to the shopping district. It smelled of perfume and exhaust.
He saw her outside a boutique.
Impossible to miss.
She was a bombshell. Platinum blonde curls. Pouty red lips. A face made for magazines.
She wore a custom white dress with black penguin prints. It was tight. It clung to her hourglass frame like a second skin.
But her best asset was behind her.
Mark's eyes drifted down.
Her ass was spectacular.
It was a perfect, heart-shaped bubble butt. Plump. High. Gravity-defying. It strained against the white fabric, threatening to rip the seams.
Every time she shifted her weight, it jiggled. It begged to be grabbed.
Young. Rich. Sexy. and obsessed with herself.
She yelled at her assistant. The girl held five bags.
"Idiot! Wrong angle! My legs look short. Do it again!" The girl snapped. "Mess up my post again, you're fired."
[System Analysis: C-Class Target. Wealthy. Arrogant.]
Mark smirked. "Spoiled brat. Perfect."
He adjusted his blazer. He channeled his past life. The arrogant producer.
He walked into her shot.
"Hey! Hobo!" The girl lowered her phone. Her eyes flashed with disgust. "You ruined my shot. Get away. You smell like poverty."
Mark didn't move. He looked her up and down. His eyes were cold.
He chuckled.
"That's it?" Mark shook his head. "All that money. And this is the best you can do? A street selfie?"
Her jaw dropped.
"Excuse me? Do you know who I am? My dad owns half this street!"
"I don't care who your dad is," Mark stepped closer. "I care about talent. Presence. You have neither."
He pointed to her brooch.
"Tacky. You use cute things to hide your lack of personality. Hollow. A mannequin with a credit card."
Her face turned red. Furious. But listening.
"Who are you to judge me?"
"I make stars," Mark lied. "I'm a scout for Global Entertainment. We're casting the lead for the biggest movie of the decade. A billion-dollar project."
He sneered. "I thought you had potential. I was wrong. You're just a rich amateur."
He turned to walk away.
The bait was set.
"Wait!" She grabbed his arm. Her arrogance cracked. She needed to prove him wrong. "You're a scout? Prove it."
Mark stopped. He looked at her hand on his sleeve.
She let go.
"Proof?" Mark faced her. "Stand up straight. Chin up. Wipe that stupid look off your face."
She obeyed.
Mark circled her. He inspected livestock.
"Bone structure is decent," he muttered.
He grabbed her chin. He turned her face roughly.
"Skin needs work. Too much makeup."
He put his hands on her shoulders. He slid them down to her waist. Aggressive.
She stiffened. She didn't pull away. She wanted approval.
"Posture is terrible," Mark said. His hands lingered on her hips. "You stand like a child. Not a lead."
He stepped back. He shook his head.
"Shame. Raw materials are there. Execution is trash."
The girl breathed hard. Insulted. Confused. Desperate.
"I have vocal coaches," she argued. "I can sing."
"Singing isn't enough. You need a soul," Mark said. "Prove it? Fine. I'll show you a real star."
He looked around the street.
"Not here. Acoustics are garbage. I don't perform for peasants."
He pointed to a service corridor. Empty.
"Over there."
The girl recoiled. She clutched her bag.
"Crazy? A dark alley? Do I look stupid?"
Mark laughed.
"Use your brain. Your dad owns the street. If I touch you, I'm dead. I like living."
He pointed at the assistant.
"Bring the mouse. She can call the police."
The girl hesitated. She looked at Mark's confidence.
"Fine," she snapped. "Make it quick."
They walked into the corridor. The noise faded.
Mark leaned against the wall. He loosened his collar.
"Listen. This song doesn't exist here. It's from my private collection."
Mark closed his eyes. He chose a nuke.
Titanic. My Heart Will Go On.
He started acapella.
His voice wasn't professional. The melody was god-tier.
"Every night in my dreams... I see you, I feel you..."
The girl looked bored.
Then the chorus hit.
Mark belted it out. Raw emotion. Highs. Sadness.
In a world without pop culture, this was alien technology.
The girl's jaw went slack. Her eyes widened. Goosebumps rose.
The assistant dropped a bag.
Mark stopped. Right before the climax.
Silence.
The girl stood frozen. Arrogance gone. She looked hungry.
"What..." she whispered. "What was that?"
"That?" Mark smirked. "A demo I wrote in five minutes."
He stepped closer. He whispered in her ear.
"Imagine that with an orchestra. You on stage. Fifty thousand people. Screaming your name. Crying because of your voice."
Her pupils dilated. Mark hooked her addiction. Fame.
"I can give it to you," Mark said. "That song. And ten others."
"Sell it to me," she demanded. She reached for her purse. "Name your price."
"Not for sale," Mark cut her off. "I don't sell songs. I make stars."
He straightened his jacket.
"You want the songs? Hire me. Exclusive vocal coach and producer."
She bit her lip. She looked at him. Not a hobo. A goldmine.
"Fine," she said. "I'll hire you."
"Rates are high."
"I have money," she scoffed. "How much?"
Mark calculated. Debt. Suit.
"Twenty thousand a month," Mark said. "Ten thousand signing bonus. Cash. Today."
The assistant gasped. "Robbery!"
The girl waved her hand. "Shut up."
To her, $20k was a handbag. For stardom? Cheap.
"Deal," she said. She grabbed an envelope from the assistant.
"Ten thousand. Take it."
Mark took the cash. Heavy.
[System: Target felt Awe and Greed. Energy +200.]
"Start tomorrow," she commanded. "Don't be late. Fix your clothes. You look homeless."
Mark smiled. Predator.
"Don't worry, Boss," he patted the cash. "I'll look the part."
He walked away.
"Wait," she called out.
Mark stopped. He turned.
"You took my money. You don't know who you work for," she said. She crossed her arms. Chin high.
"I'm Bella. Bella Vance."
Mark raised an eyebrow.
Vance. Real Estate Tycoon family. They owned the skyline.
[System Analysis: Target Confirmed.]
[Name: Bella Vance.]
[Status: C-Class.]
[Emotion: Arrogance. Hope.]
Mark smirked. Jackpot.
"Nice to meet you, Bella. I'm Mark. The man who makes legends."
He disappeared into the crowd.
Mark touched the envelope in his pocket. Thick. Real.
He smiled.
Human beings were simple mechanisms. They all had holes. They all had hunger.
Bella wanted Fame. He fed her a melody. She became his ATM.
Easy.
If a woman wanted Gluttony? He had Michelin recipes in his brain. If she wanted Lust? He had the Pillar of Life.
He was a walking arsenal.
But he wasn't a barbarian. He wouldn't just unzip his pants for anyone.
That was an amateur move.
Flash a 10-inch monster to a nun? She calls the police. Flash it to a nymphomaniac? She falls to her knees.
Diagnosis first. Prescription second.
He was a psychiatrist. He knew the drill.
Find the itch. Scratch it. Own them.
Mark stretched his body, feeling the hope coming out of it.
He had $10,000. He had a job. He had a wallet hooked.
Time for a makeover.