📚 Chapter 6: The Metro Line Gambit
The sun rose on another day of forced inaction, each hour adding to the heavy, frustrating knowledge that I was failing. Two whole quests—Quest 2 and Quest 6—remained obstinately incomplete, like keys jammed in a lock. I had tried every logical, sensible, and even vaguely artistic approach I could think of. I'd spent hours theorizing, calculating potential scenarios, and reviewing the system's bizarre requirements, but the solutions remained elusive.
"This is a real problem," I muttered, pacing my small room. "A real problem."
My next day passed in the same fruitless search. I felt the pressure mounting, the phantom clock of the system ticking down on my unknown deadline. I knew I couldn't afford another day of simply searching "here and there," but what else was there?
It was on the following afternoon, while riding the crowded metro, that the spark of a truly terrible, yet potentially effective, idea ignited.
The train had stopped at a busy interchange station. As the doors opened, a woman boarding the train suddenly shrieked. "You! You touched me!"
Every head on the platform and in the carriage snapped toward the source of the commotion. A man, middle-aged and wearing a nervous, apologetic expression, stood frozen. The woman's voice was laced with fury and humiliation.
"You pervert! How dare you!" She didn't wait for an answer. SLAP. The sound was a sharp, loud crack that cut through the metallic screech of the departing train. The man's cheek immediately flushed a painful crimson. He stumbled back, holding his face in shock.
Dozens of eyes glared at him with undisguised contempt. The man was instantly branded and judged by everyone present, a pariah in the crowded boxcar.
I watched the entire scene unfold with detached intensity. A cold wave of clarity washed over me, chasing away the fog of frustration. The system required me to be slapped by a woman a total of five times. It was a humiliating, bizarre, and dangerous requirement, but watching that man reel from the strike, an awful thought formed.
If I proactively create the scenario, if I engineer the offense...
The next morning, I was back on the metro, scouting. I selected a busy, yet relatively open station. I dressed anonymously, wearing clothes that wouldn't draw attention, but the tension coiling in my gut was anything but ordinary.
My first attempt was tentative. I found a woman standing near the door, lost in her phone. As the train pulled away, I extended my hand and brushed her arm, making sure it was just a fleeting, light contact—enough to be felt, but easily dismissed as the train jostling us.
She didn't give any reaction. She simply adjusted her grip on the overhead rail and returned to her screen.
Too subtle. The humiliation has to be instant, the reaction visceral.
I steeled myself. I was no pervert, but I was also a man enslaved by a ruthless system. The cost of failure was unknown, but I wasn't going to risk it.
I chose my next target carefully. Another woman, standing with her back mostly toward me. I waited for the metro to pick up speed, the motion giving me a sliver of cover. Taking a deep breath, I moved in close and, with a quick, deliberate motion, touched her rear.
It was a fraction of a second, but it felt like an eternity.
The woman spun around, her eyes widening in immediate, furious recognition. Before I could even murmur an apology, her hand swung in a blinding arc.
SLAP.
My head rocked back. The pain was immediate, stinging, and searing. But underneath the pain, a detached part of my mind registered a single, triumphant word: One.
I retreated immediately, pretending to be stunned, and moved to another section of the carriage. Over the course of the next few hours, I repeated the degrading, calculated act three more times.
Slap Two: A younger woman, who delivered the blow with tears of rage in her eyes.
Slap Three: An older woman, whose slap was less powerful, but whose look of profound disgust felt far heavier than the physical pain.
Slap Four: A tired commuter, who didn't even yell, simply delivering a hard, corrective blow and moving away.
With four successful strikes logged, I knew I was close. I needed one more.
I chose my final target, a woman standing with her family. I told myself it was for the sake of efficiency; I needed to finish this now. I leaned in, prepared for the final strike, the last sting of humiliation.
But this time, I miscalculated.
Before the woman could even raise her hand, her teenage son—and then her husband—reacted. They didn't slap; they moved with brutal, protective force. A shove sent me staggering back. The husband grabbed my shirt, his face contorted in a mask of violent rage.
"You pig!" he yelled.
Suddenly, the silent onlookers of the previous attempts were activated. Public outrage, pent up and finally given a justifiable target, exploded. A man in a suit threw a weak punch. Another kicked my leg. The husband delivered a sharp punch to my jaw.
Then came the chorus: "Call the police!"
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the pain. The police. Arrest. That was a complication the system hadn't accounted for, and one I definitely couldn't afford.
I broke free from the husband's grip, ducked a swinging umbrella, and sprinted for the door just as the train hissed to a stop. I burst onto the platform and ran, disappearing into the city's concrete labyrinth.
Finally, I found refuge in a deserted alleyway. I leaned against a cold brick wall, gasping for air, waiting for the pounding of my heart to subside. My whole body ached, especially my face.
I pulled out my phone and quickly checked my reflection in the dark screen. My jaw throbbed, my cheeks felt bruised, but the expected angry, swollen red marks were surprisingly absent. My passive skill rubber face stage is Self-Control of Facial Blood Vessels (a skill I'd gained) had suppressed the superficial swelling and redness. It was a small, useless skill, but today, it was my only camouflage.
"That's it," I wheezed, rubbing my sore cheek. "I'm done. I don't do this mission anymore."
I opened my system interface to confirm my refusal, but my eyes immediately snagged on the glowing notification.
[Quest 6 Progress: Slapped by a Woman ]
I took one final, deep breath, tasting the smoggy city air. I would find my fifth slap. And I would find a way to make it count this time.
I had been interrupted. The fifth, final slap was denied. I was bruised, I was nearly jailed, and worst of all, I still had one count remaining.
I leaned against the wall, rubbing my completely undamaged, pain-free face.
"Okay," I sighed. "One more time. But next time, I'm waiting for a solo act. No family plan."
The quest was disgusting, but I was so close. I had to finish it. My face may be rubber, but my resolve, regrettably, was iron.