The midnight air of Los Angeles carried the chill of a damp sea breeze. Mason Cooper curled up on a single bed in the basement, listening to the sound of water dripping from the pipes overhead—drip, drip, drip—like some endless countdown. He reached for the phone beside his pillow. The screen lit up, displaying 3:17 AM. Battery: 12%.
"Fuck." He cursed softly, burying his face in the musty pillow. This six-hundred-dollar-a-month basement was the cheapest place he could find. The walls bore mold stains from the previous tenant, like an abstract map of despair.
The phone screen lit up again. A text from his landlord: "Pay rent by noon tomorrow or get the hell out."
Mason stared at the message, his fingers unconsciously picking at a loose thread on the mattress. He worked the night shift at the "Lucky 711" convenience store. Los Angeles city minimum wage was $17.87 per hour, but his boss Miller insisted he only made $15 an hour—the excuse was "small business exemptions." After taxes and insurance, he'd brought home $2,208 last month. Rent: $600. Electricity: $87. Phone: $45. And he was still $300 behind on back rent.
That meant out of his $2,208 take-home pay, he first had to deduct the $300 back rent, this month's rent of $600, electricity at $87, phone at $45, and subway fare of $31.50 (seven days)—leaving him with $1,144.50.
But $1,000 of that had to go to a loan shark. Three years ago, when he'd first arrived in LA, he'd borrowed $300 as "startup money." The interest had compounded more than three times over by now. The underground lender had threatened to come find him if he didn't pay up by the end of the month.
So in reality, Mason had only $144.50 to live on for the next seven days.
He threw off the blanket and got up, bare feet pressing against the sticky floor. The window faced a narrow ventilation shaft, letting in just enough light to see the instant noodle cup on the table—that was yesterday's dinner, and today's breakfast too. The refrigerator held only half a carton of expired milk and three cans of ketchup. That was his entire worldly possession.
At 7 AM, Mason pulled on his faded convenience store uniform. In the mirror, the man had dark circles under his eyes, his hair greasy and plastered to his scalp. At twenty-six years old, he looked thirty-five. He forced a smile at his reflection. A crack at the corner of his mouth oozed blood—the key Miller had thrown at him yesterday had cut him.
The "Lucky 711" convenience store sat on the edge of Chinatown, one of the most chaotic neighborhoods in the city. Mason had barely pushed open the employee entrance when he heard Miller's bellow: "Lucky! You're fucking late again!"
Miller, a fifty-year-old man with a beer belly, stood behind the register, his gold chain flashing cheap fluorescent light. He slammed a stack of receipts onto the counter: "Look at these returns! Customers are saying we sell fakes! One more problem and you're out of here!"
Mason silently picked up the receipts. He knew they were fakes—the supplier had switched to underground channels half a month ago. But he didn't dare say anything. This job was his last lifeline.
"What are you standing there for? Go restock!" Miller kicked his shin. "Useless trash. You're fit to scrub toilets for the rest of your life."
Mason dragged his feet toward the shelves, a sharp pain in his knee—still healing from when he'd been knocked into a shelf edge by robbers the week before. He squatted down to organize the potato chips. Through the gap in the shelves, he saw luxury cars passing by outside, people inside laughing and raising glasses. The sunlight was blinding. He squinted instinctively, but Miller's shout made him jump: "Hurry up! Stop fucking slacking!"
At noon during the shift change, Mason hid in the employee break room, gnawing on a cold sandwich. His phone vibrated again. A text from the bank: "Your account balance is $23.76."
He stared at that number, suddenly thinking of himself three years ago when he'd graduated from college—wearing a suit, holding his degree, thinking the world was at his feet. Now he didn't even know where his next meal would come from.
"What a fucked-up life." He crumpled the sandwich wrapper into a ball and threw it into a garbage can swarming with flies.
At three in the afternoon, Miller called him into the office again: "Lucky, rent's going up to $700 next month."
"What?" Mason froze. "But the landlord said $600 yesterday..."
"I'll handle it with the landlord." Miller snorted through his nose. "Live there if you want, don't if you don't. Anyway, someone like you couldn't find a better place than this dump."
Mason walked out of the convenience store, his fists clenched white. He knew he had no choice—there was nowhere in Los Angeles under $700 a month where he could live.
When he got off work at eleven that night, Mason dragged his exhausted body home. He wanted to buy a hot coffee at the 7-Eleven he passed, but stopped at the door—even the cheapest coffee cost $2.99.
"Never mind." He turned and walked toward the subway station, the night wind kicking up trash that slapped against his pant legs.Chapter 2: A Beast Cornered
Chapter 2: A Beast Cornered
The midnight streets were empty, the yellow streetlamps casting shadows. Mason walked with his head down, calculating in his mind how to stretch the remaining $23.76 for two weeks.
As he passed a dark alley, he suddenly heard muffled sounds and an old man coughing. Instinctively, Mason wanted to take a detour, but curiosity made him stop. In the alley, two men in hoodies were circling an old man sitting on the ground.
"Old man, hand over the money!" one of the men kicked the old man.
The old man hugged a dirty canvas bag, his whole body trembling, like a stray dog cornered to death. Mason recognized him as the crazy old man who often begged near the convenience store, always talking to the air. Everyone called him "Samuel."
"None of my business." Mason turned to leave, but Miller's mockery, the landlord's threats, and the $23.76 in his bank flashed through his mind.
Suddenly, more violent kicking sounds came from the alley. Mason saw one of the robbers pull out a switchblade, the blade flashing cold light under the streetlamp.
The old man curled into a ball, using the canvas bag to protect his head, his trembling voice coming from beneath the bag: "Please... I don't have any money..."
"No money?" The robber squatted down and lifted the old man's chin with the knife tip. "Then how much is that old face worth?"
Mason's heart contracted violently. He remembered the scene three years ago when he'd been robbed—the same night, the same alley, the same despair. Back then, he'd chosen to run.
"Fuck."
Mason clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms.
"None of my business." Another voice in his mind said, "You can barely survive yourself."
From the alley came the old man's screams. The sound of a blade cutting through skin was unmistakable.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Mason suddenly roared, picked up a beer bottle from the side of the road, and rushed into the alley.
"Let him go!"
The two robbers froze. They hadn't expected this skinny Asian guy to dare charge at them.
Mason raised the beer bottle like he was holding an assault rifle: "I already called the police! They'll be here any minute!"
The robbers exchanged looks. One suddenly laughed: "Called the police? Ha!" He turned the blade toward Mason. "Then let's deal with you first."
Mason took a step back, but he had no more room to retreat—his back was pressed against the alley wall. The robber approached step by step, the blade dangling before Mason's eyes, like a snake's tongue.
"Please..." Mason's voice trembled, "Please go away..."
"Go away?" The robber grinned cruelly. "Then let me leave you with a souvenir."
The blade came down—
Mason heard fabric tearing, followed by searing pain. His arm was cut open, blood spurting out, staining that faded uniform.
He watched his own blood and suddenly froze.
Time seemed to stop.
Mason watched the bright red liquid, and twenty-six years of life flashed through his mind—
At seven, his parents divorced. He was dumped at his grandmother's house, eating rotten food.
At thirteen, his grandmother died. He was sent to live with his uncle, called "ungrateful wretch."
At nineteen, he got into college. He thought his life finally had hope.
At twenty-two, he graduated. He sent out hundreds of resumes, no responses.
At twenty-three, he came to Los Angeles. He thought this was the beginning of the American dream.
At twenty-six, he lived in a $600 basement, had $23.76 in the bank, was being kicked out by his landlord, kicked by his boss, robbed.
Nothing left.
Absolutely nothing.
Tears welled up in Mason's eyes, not from pain, but from despair.
Then, despair transformed into rage.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"
Mason suddenly roared like a beast, the sound tearing from his lungs, ripping through his throat.
He charged forward—not running away, but charging at the two robbers.
"I've got nothing left! I'm not afraid of dying! Come get me if you've got the guts! Kill me! Come on!"
Mason roared, his eyes bloodshot, his face flushed bright red. He waved his bleeding arms like a madman, spraying bloody foam from his mouth.
"Come on! I'm not afraid of you! I'm not afraid of dying! I'm not afraid of anything!"
His momentum was too crazy, too desperate, like a beast pushed to the absolute edge.
The two robbers exchanged looks, both seeing fear in each other's eyes. They'd encountered people who begged, people who fought back, but never someone this completely unhinged, who didn't care about his own life.
"What the fuck is this..." one robber stepped back.
"Let's go, this kid's gone crazy." The other pulled his sleeve.
They turned and ran, disappearing from the alley entrance.
Mason stood there, his chest heaving violently, the blood from his arm dripping onto the ground, making drip, drip, drip sounds.
He gasped for air, like he'd just been pulled from water.
Then, he slowly turned his head and looked at the old man on the ground.
The old man held his canvas bag, looking at him with strange eyes. There was no fear in that gaze, no gratitude—only an indescribable... anticipation?
"You..." The old man's voice was hoarse, like a rusted hinge. "...are you alright?"
Mason looked down at his bleeding arm and suddenly laughed.
"I'm fine." He walked over unsteadily. "I've been through everything. What's a little wound?"
He reached out to help the old man up, but the old man suddenly grabbed his wrist.
Mason froze—the old man's grip was astonishingly strong, like iron clamps.
"You have special eyes," the old man said. "You can see things others can't."
"What?" Mason was baffled.
The old man didn't explain. He just gently placed his hand on Mason's forehead.
In that instant, Mason felt a warm current flow into his body, a tingling sensation like electric shock.
"The world breaks everyone," the old man said softly, "and afterward, many are strong at the broken places."
Mason froze—that was his favorite Hemingway quote.
"Remember," the old man's voice gradually faded, "luck is just opportunity in disguise."
Mason blinked. When he opened his eyes again, the alley was empty.
The canvas bag lay on the ground. Inside was only a tattered Hemingway novel.
"Strange old man." He picked up the book, stuffed it into his uniform pocket, and walked quickly toward the subway station.
He didn't notice that on his left wrist, a faint golden symbol had appeared, like a bolt of lightning.
Chapter 3: The Torn Stocking and the Turning Point of Fate
Three days later, on Saturday, Mason went to the West Coast's largest shopping center—"The Getty Shopping Center"—with his newly issued paycheck. The mall spanned three blocks, with over 400 high-end stores inside, the most prosperous commercial center in Los Angeles' wealthy district.
That month's take-home pay was $2,208. After deducting the $300 back rent, $600 rent, $87 electricity, $45 phone, and $31.50 subway fare (seven days), he had $1,144.50 in his account, but $1,000 of that had to go to the loan shark.
So in reality, Mason had only $144.50 to get through these seven days until next Friday's paycheck.
Mason wore faded jeans and that worn-out hoodie, completely out of place among the name-brand clothes surrounding him. He walked with his head down, trying not to attract attention.
The mall was crowded. Weekend foot traffic had peaked. Mason pushed a shopping cart through the crowd, holding a list of sale items in his hand: $3.99 for cereal, $2.49 for milk, $4.99 for eggs...
He picked up a box of cereal, carefully comparing the price tags—$3.99, enough to last a week.
Suddenly, a rushing force struck him from behind. Before he could react, the man who'd collided with him didn't stop, only dropping a line: "This mall isn't a place for poor blind people like you."
"Watch out!" Mason reached out in panic to steady himself. Just as he was about to fall, in his confusion, he grabbed a woman's leg.
Riiiiiip——
A crisp tearing sound rang out.
The woman wore black stockings. Mason's hand had accidentally hooked onto her stocking, tearing open a long gash from the top of her thigh. Pale skin was exposed, like a lightning bolt tearing through the night sky.
The woman screamed: "Ah!"
People around looked over. Weekend mall traffic was already heavy, and this scream instantly attracted everyone's attention.
"You... what are you doing!" The woman's face flushed red as she covered her skirt and stepped back.
"Sorry! I didn't mean to!" Mason flustered, "Let me help you..."
"Pervert!" The woman pushed him away, tears in her eyes, "You did it on purpose! You... you..."
More and more people gathered. Some pulled out phones to take photos, some whispered.
"Look at that kid, dressed so poorly..."
"Must be on purpose, people like that..."
"Should we call the police?"
Mason stood frozen, his face flushing bright red, blood rushing to his brain. He wanted to explain, wanted to run, but his legs felt like lead, unable to move.
"Sir, please come with me." Two security guards pushed through the crowd, flanking him from left and right.
"I... I didn't mean to..." Mason's voice trembled, "Someone pushed me..."
"Let's explain in the office first." The guards pushed him toward the VIP room.
Mason lowered his head, feeling the gazes around him like needles piercing his body. Mockery, contempt, anger... those looks formed a net, trapping him completely.
He remembered the old man in the alley three days ago, remembered that line: "Luck is just opportunity in disguise."
"Luck?" Mason smiled bitterly in his mind. "Where the hell is the luck in this?"
In the security office, Mason stood before the desk like a student who'd made a mistake.
"Name."
"Mason Cooper."
"Occupation."
"Convenience store cashier."
"Income."
"$1,876... per month."
The security officer handling this was a middle-aged white man named Jack. He looked at Mason's records and frowned: "Do you know how serious this is? That woman says you were sexually harassing her."
"I didn't!" Mason argued loudly, "Someone pushed me..."
"Calm down." Jack tapped the desk. "That lady is demanding compensation—$200 for the stockings, $500 for emotional distress."
Mason froze: "$700? I... I don't have that much money..."
"Then what do you plan to do? Have her sue you?" Jack sneered. "Then you'll not only have to pay money, but you'll be put on the sex offender registry. Your landlord, your boss, your neighbors will all know. Do you think you'll be able to find a job, find a place to live?"
Mason's face instantly turned pale.
He knew Jack was telling the truth. Once on the sex offender registry, his life was over.
"I... can I..." Mason's voice trembled, "can I pay in installments..."
"That's not for us to decide." Jack stood up. "I'll give you two minutes to think about it—either pay $700 now, or talk to the police yourself when they get here."
Mason looked at the window in despair. Outside, the sun was bright, people were laughing and shopping, while he stood there facing the collapse of his life.
Suddenly, a cold mechanical voice sounded in his mind:
[System Activation Successful]
Mason jumped, thinking he was hallucinating. He looked around. Jack and the other security officer were watching him. Nothing unusual.
[Ability Acquisition Mechanism Unlocked]
[Daily Ability Acquisition Rules]
You can only acquire one superpower per day through "tearing stockings + snapping fingers"Time: Between 00:00-23:59 daily, only onceAction: Tear off a stranger's stockings + snap fingersRestriction: Must tear off complete stockings. Damaged stockings are invalid
Mason stood there, his mind blank.
What is this? Hallucination? Schizophrenia?
"One minute." Jack checked his watch.
Mason's hands trembled. He remembered the old man in the alley three days ago, remembered that golden symbol, remembered that line: "Luck is just opportunity in disguise."
[Novice Task: Acquire First Superpower]
Task Requirement: Tear off a stranger's complete stockings and snap fingersTask Reward: Random Superpower x1Failure Penalty: System will unbind after 24 hours
"Is this fucking real?" Mason muttered to himself.
[Please complete the task ASAP. System will automatically unbind after 24 hours.]
"Sir?" Jack impatiently tapped the desk.
Mason took a deep breath and looked out the window. The mall was crowded, women wearing stockings everywhere.
"I... I need to use the bathroom." he said.
"Hurry up." Jack waved his hand.
Mason walked quickly to the restroom, closed the door, and leaned against the wall, gasping for air. He raised his left hand. The golden symbol on his wrist seemed to come alive, faintly warm.
"Tear stockings... snap fingers..." he muttered, "What kind of fucking ability is this?"
But he had no other choice.
If he didn't complete this task, he'd not only have to pay $700 in compensation, but also bear the charge of sexual harassment, completely ruining his life.
Mason took a deep breath and pushed open the restroom door.
The mall was still as lively as before, people laughing and shopping, completely unaware that a small person was going through a life-changing moment.
Mason wove through the crowd, his gaze sweeping over woman after woman's legs.
Jeans—no.
Long skirt—no.
Pantyhose—no, can't tear them off.
Suddenly, he saw a woman.
She wore a white dress, sheer stockings on her legs, looking at her phone, not noticing her surroundings.
Mason's heart raced. He knew this was crazy, perverted, and likely to get him caught.
But he had no way back.
He took a deep breath, walked through the crowd, and quick-stepped behind the woman. As he passed, he reached out, grabbed her stockings, and tore.
"Ah!" The woman screamed.
People around looked over. The woman covered her skirt, tears in her eyes: "You... what are you doing!"
Mason held the complete stockings in his hand, his heart about to jump out of his chest. He knew what would happen next—security would come, police would come, he'd go to jail.
But he had to complete the task.
He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
[Ability Acquisition Successful]
[Congratulations on obtaining ability: Can Never Buy Real Goods]
[Ability Description: You cannot purchase any genuine merchandise. No matter where you buy from, you'll only get fake products.]
Mason froze.
This was his first ability? Never being able to buy real goods?
"Pervert!" The woman pushed him away.
The gazes around him were like needles piercing his body. Security guards pushed through the crowd toward him: "Sir!"
Mason looked at the stockings in his hand and suddenly started laughing.
He laughed loudly, laughing until tears came out.
"Luck is just opportunity in disguise..." he muttered, "I understand, I understand..."
He remembered Miller selling fake goods, remembered his own cut arm, remembered that old man.
"This is just the beginning."
Mason stuffed the stockings into his pocket and turned toward the security guards. Sunlight shone on him, and the golden symbol on his wrist flashed briefly, then disappeared.