Ethan trudged up the driveway to his house as the winter sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban street. It was late afternoon on that crisp January day, the kind where the cold seeped into your bones if you stood still too long.
But Ethan didn't feel the chill anymore—not like he used to. His new body, fresh from the night's conquest with Jane, hummed with an undercurrent of power, even before he'd spent his points.
Every step felt deliberate, his muscles coiling and uncoiling with a promise of what was to come. He had spent the morning and early afternoon wandering the neighborhood, testing his limits, shadowboxing in an empty park, feeling the subtle shift in his balance and strength.
But now, home loomed ahead like a battlefield he wasn't ready to face, yet one he couldn't avoid.
The front door creaked open under his hand, the familiar sound echoing in the foyer. The air inside was stale, heavy with the faint metallic tang of dried blood and the wilted sweetness of those spilled lilies from days ago. It hit him like a memory punch—the night he'd lain dying on that rug, his mother's heels clicking away over his pooling life force. He paused for a split second in the threshold, his backpack slung over one shoulder, before stepping fully inside and letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft thud.
There, in the hall, sat his mother, Vanessa Harper. She was perched on the floor in a way that looked almost childlike, her legs crossed beneath her, back against the wall. She wore a thin silk robe, the kind she favored for lounging around the house when she thought no one was watching—pale pink, clinging to her curves in a way that screamed self-obsession even in her distress. Her phone was clutched in one manicured hand, the screen glowing as she scrolled through contacts or messages, her thumb moving absently. But her eyes—those sharp, dark eyes that could command a room full of rowdy high schoolers—were fixed on the bloodstained mat. The rug, once a pristine cream, now bore a dark, irregular blotch where Ethan's head had cracked against the table edge. It had dried to a rusty brown, flaking at the edges, a grim reminder of the violence that had unfolded here.
Vanessa's face was a mask of exhaustion and worry, lines etched deeper around her mouth and eyes than Ethan remembered. Her hair, usually styled to perfection for her principal persona or her Instagram selfies, hung loose and unkempt, strands falling into her face. Mascara smudged her cheeks, evidence of tears shed in the hours since she'd returned from whatever celebrity-chasing escapade she'd abandoned him for. She looked up at the sound of the door, her expression shifting from vacant staring to wide-eyed shock.
"Ethan?" Her voice broke on the word, a mix of relief and desperation. She uncrossed her legs and pushed herself up, the robe slipping slightly to reveal the curve of her thigh. "Oh my God, Ethan, where have you been? I've been calling you nonstop for two days. Your phone went straight to voicemail. I thought... I thought something terrible had happened. The blood on the rug—I came home, and it was just there, and you were gone. I was so scared, baby. Please, tell me you're okay."
Her words tumbled out in a rush, her hands reaching toward him as if to pull him into an embrace. But Ethan didn't stop. He didn't acknowledge her plea, didn't even meet her gaze fully. His eyes flicked over her for a brief moment—taking in the disheveled state, the false concern—and then he turned away, his jaw set in a hard line. The rage that had simmered since that night boiled just beneath the surface, but he kept it leashed. Not now. Not yet. He had bigger targets. Marcus first. Then Cole. His mother? She could wait in her own guilt.
He strode past her without a word, his boots thudding heavily on the hardwood floor. The hallway seemed narrower than before, the walls closing in with memories of moans and betrayal. Vanessa's scent—expensive perfume mixed with the faint musk of recent sex—wafted toward him as he brushed by, close enough that her outstretched fingers grazed his arm. He shrugged it off like it was nothing, climbing the stairs two at a time, his backpack bouncing lightly against his back.
" Ethan! Don't ignore me!" Vanessa's voice rose, laced with frustration now. She followed him up the stairs, her bare feet padding quickly to keep pace. "I'm your mother! You can't just walk away like this. Talk to me! Where were you? What happened to you? You look... different. Bigger. Did you get hurt? Please, baby, I need to know you're safe."
Her pleas echoed in the stairwell, growing more insistent with each step. Ethan reached the top landing, his bedroom door just ahead. He gripped the knob, twisted it, and stepped inside. The room was as he'd left it—bed unmade, laptop on the desk, posters of old video games peeling at the edges. It felt like a relic of the weak kid he'd been, but he didn't dwell on it. With a swift motion, he swung the door shut behind him, the slam reverberating through the house like a gunshot. Vanessa's face appeared in the narrowing gap for a split second—eyes wide, mouth open in protest—before the wood met the frame with finality. He twisted the lock, the click sharp and definitive.
On the other side, Vanessa pounded her fist against the door. "Open this right now, Ethan! This isn't fair! I was worried sick! I came home from that party and the house was empty, blood everywhere—I thought you'd been kidnapped or worse! Cole and I searched for you all night. Please let me in. We need to talk about this."
Her voice cracked again, shifting from anger to something more pleading. Ethan could hear the tremor in it, the way her breath came short and ragged. She leaned against the door, her forehead probably pressed to the wood, fists still knocking intermittently. But he ignored it all. He dropped his backpack on the floor with a thud and sat on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The room was dim, late afternoon light filtering through half-drawn blinds, casting striped shadows across the carpet. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pulled up the system in his mind's eye. The blue interface shimmered into view, overlaying his vision like a digital HUD.
MILF Hunter System
Host: Ethan Harper
Level: 1
Lust Points: 1500
Harem Members: 1 (Jane Smith – Submissive Level Maxed)
Shop: Open
He stared at the points, earned from breaking Jane—1000 for the initial corruption, 500 more for her full submission and emotional bond. It wasn't just numbers; it was power waiting to be claimed. He needed to build himself up, turn this body into a weapon. Marcus was big, brutal, a linebacker who could crush him before. Not anymore. Ethan mentally navigated the shop, scrolling through the options. Strength for raw power, to hit harder, lift more. Speed to dodge, to strike first. Stamina and durability to endure whatever came.
He allocated carefully. 800 points to Strength—enough to make his muscles bulge and his punches land like hammers. 400 to Speed, sharpening his reflexes, making him a blur in a fight. The remaining 300 he split evenly: 150 to Stamina for endurance, 150 to Durability to toughen his skin and bones against blows.
Confirm allocation?
Yes.
The change hit instantaneously, and it was excruciating.
Pain exploded through every cell of his body, a searing fire that started in his core and radiated outward like lightning forking through his veins. He doubled over on the bed, fists clenching the sheets so hard the fabric tore under his grip. His muscles spasmed, contracting and expanding in waves that felt like they were ripping him apart from the inside. A low groan escaped his gritted teeth, but he bit it back, refusing to let his mother hear weakness.
Then came the liquid. It seeped from his pores like sweat from hell—thick, viscous, a deep black-red that shimmered unnaturally in the dim light. It coated his skin, starting at his chest and spreading outward, warm and sticky, burning where it touched. It flowed over his arms, his legs, even his face, dripping from his chin onto the floor in fat, oily drops. The smell was acrid, like burning copper mixed with sulfur, filling the room and making his eyes water. His vision blurred, the system interface flickering as his body convulsed. Bones cracked and reformed, lengthening slightly, thickening. Muscles ballooned, tearing through the seams of his shirt sleeves. His heart pounded erratically, each beat sending fresh waves of agony.
It lasted exactly one minute—sixty endless seconds of torment that stretched like hours. Ethan counted them in his head, forcing focus through the haze. One... two... the pain peaked at thirty, his body arching off the bed as if electrocuted. By forty-five, the black-red ooze began to recede, evaporating into wispy smoke that curled toward the ceiling and dissipated. At sixty, it ended. Abruptly. Completely.
He gasped, sucking in air like a man surfacing from drowning. Sweat—so normal, human sweat—beaded on his forehead now. He stood slowly, legs steady despite the ordeal, and moved to the full-length mirror on his closet door. The transformation was staggering. His once-skinny frame had swelled with muscle—broad shoulders straining the remnants of his shirt, biceps bulging like coiled ropes, chest defined and powerful. His abs rippled under the fabric, a six-pack etched deep. Legs like tree trunks, balanced and explosive. He flexed, watching veins pop across his forearms, feeling the raw strength surge through him. He was taller too, maybe an inch or two, his posture straighter, more imposing. The face staring back was his, but harder—jaw sharper, eyes colder, shadowed with purpose.
Outside the door, Vanessa's shouting continued, muffled but insistent. "Ethan, if you don't open this door right now, I'm calling the police! This is ridiculous! I'm your mother—you can't treat me like this!"
He ignored her still, the words washing over him like background noise. The system confirmed: Allocation complete. Strength: +80%. Speed: +40%. Stamina: +15%. Durability: +15%. He felt it all—invincible, ready.
Grabbing his backpack again, he unlocked the door and yanked it open. Vanessa stumbled forward slightly, caught off guard, her fist still raised mid-knock. She stared up at him, mouth agape, eyes widening in shock at the changed man before her. "Ethan... what... how? You look... my God, what happened to you?"
He didn't answer. Didn't pause. He moved past her, his broader shoulder clipping hers harder than intended, sending her staggering back a step. She reached for his arm again. "Wait! Talk to me! Please, Ethan, I deserve an explanation!"
Down the stairs he went, her voice trailing after him like a desperate echo. "I know I messed up that night. I should have stayed. But I called the ambulance—I swear I did! It was just... the party, it was important for my career. For us! Please, baby, forgive me!"
In the kitchen, Cole sat at the table, looking every bit the intruder. He was in his mid-twenties, blond ponytail tied back, tattoos peeking from under a borrowed shirt—Ethan's dad's, by the look of it. A mug of coffee steamed in front of him, newspaper spread out like he belonged there. He glanced up as Ethan entered, his casual smirk freezing when he took in the new physique. "Whoa, kid. You hit the gym overnight or what?"
Vanessa hurried in behind Ethan, still pleading. "See? Cole helped me look for you. He's been here supporting me. Ethan, please, just sit down and talk."
Ethan ignored her utterly, as if she were a ghost. He walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and filled a glass with water. Cole stood then, rising to his full height—tall, but no longer towering over Ethan. He stepped into Ethan's path, blocking the way to the back door. "Hey, man. Your mom's been through hell worrying about you. Least you can do is answer her. Show some respect."
Ethan stopped. Turned his head slowly. His eyes locked onto Cole's, and he glared—a deep, unblinking stare loaded with all the hatred from that night, from seeing this man buried in his mother while he bled out. It wasn't just anger; it was a promise of pain, of retribution delayed but inevitable. Cole held the gaze for a moment, then faltered. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he took a step back, hands coming up slightly. "Alright, alright. No need to get intense. Just saying..."
Ethan drank the water in slow, deliberate gulps, the cool liquid soothing his throat. He set the glass down with a clink, then walked past Cole without another glance. The back door opened under his hand, and he stepped out into the yard, the cold air greeting him like an old friend.
Vanessa called from the doorway, voice breaking one last time. "Ethan! Come back!"
He didn't. Marcus first. Then this shitbag Cole. He made his way around the house, down the street, toward school. The walk was twenty minutes, plenty of time to plan. Marcus would be at practice, cocky as ever. Not for long.
The neighborhood blurred by—perfect lawns, minivans in driveways, kids playing in the distance. Ethan moved with purpose, his new body carrying him effortlessly, strides long and powerful. Thoughts raced: how he'd corner Marcus in the locker room, use his speed to dodge the first swing, and strength to shatter ribs. The system hummed approval in his mind. Points spent wisely. More to earn.
By the time school loomed ahead, the sun had set, lights flickering on in the parking lot. Ethan pulled his hood up, shadows hiding his face. Game on.