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"Uh!" "Gah!" "Eh!" "Oh!"
Cue the anime opening music. "Kimi no namae wa? (What is your name?)"
Max stared at the woman standing in front of the barbecue stall. His brain, still running on four days of sleep deprivation and system-induced adrenaline, stalled like an old engine.
She was huge.
Not just tall. Huge.
She stood at least six-foot-six. She wore heavy black combat boots, loose olive-drab cargo pants that did nothing to hide the length of her legs, and a tight black tank top under a brown tactical vest. Her arms were corded with muscle, defined and powerful. Her abs, visible through the tight fabric, looked like they could grate cheese. Her black hair was cut short in a practical, military style.
She looked like a cross between a Navy SEAL and a Valkyrie.
Max blinked. He tried to search his memories—both his original ones and the ones from the body's previous owner.
Who is this Amazonian warrior? Do I owe her money? Did I accidentally join a mercenary group during a blackout?
Then, a memory surfaced. A dusty, faded memory from eight years ago.
It was the summer after his parents died. Max, grieving and lost, had taken his inheritance and gone on a "soul-searching" road trip across the country. He ended up in a remote mountain village in the middle of nowhere, thanks to a faulty GPS.
That's where he met Jasmine.
Back then, her name was different—something traditional and old-fashioned that hinted at a life of poverty. She was a scrawny, underfed girl of fourteen, barely five feet tall. Her parents were trying to sell her off to pay for her brother's debts.
Max, being the impulsive hero (or idiot) he was, intervened. He called the police. He helped her escape. He even offered to adopt her—which was ridiculous since she was technically two years older than him.
She refused the adoption. She had too much pride.
"I won't live on your pity," she had told him, her eyes fierce even then. "I'll make my own way."
Max respected that. But he couldn't let her starve. So, he forced her to take $3,000—a huge sum for him at the time—to help her get started.
"Use this for school," he had insisted. "Don't end up on an assembly line."
They parted ways. Eight years passed. They lost touch.
And now...
Max looked up. And up. And up.
He couldn't connect the scrawny, malnourished girl from his memory with the terrifyingly fit woman towering over him. She looked like Koko Hekmatyar from Jormungand, but with more muscle.
"Jasmine?" Max asked, his voice cracking slightly.
The woman grinned, slamming a heavy hand onto his shoulder. Max nearly buckled.
"Of course! Who else would it be?" she boomed.
Max rubbed his shoulder. "Jeez. What happened to you? Did you use some kind of super-soldier serum? Did you get bitten by a radioactive gym rat?"
"What are you talking about?" Jasmine laughed, flexing a bicep that was thicker than Max's neck. "This is all natural, baby. Just hard work and clean living."
"Natural?" Max squinted. "How? You look like you could bench press a truck. You used to be... tiny."
"Puberty hit me like a freight train, I guess," Jasmine shrugged. "And the army. That helped."
She leaned in, her grin fading into concern as she looked at him closely. She reached out and touched a lock of his stark white hair.
"But look at you," she said softly. "You've gone full anime protagonist. Is this dyed? Or..."
She tugged gently. The hair was real.
"It's not dyed," Jasmine realized. Her eyes widened. "Max, what happened? Your hair... it's completely white. Did you... go through something?"
She looked him over. The pale skin. The dark circles under his eyes (though faded slightly by the System's restoration). The gaunt cheeks.
Max sighed. "It's... a long story. A lot has happened. Some good, mostly stressful."
"Then make it short," Jasmine said firmly. She grabbed his arm. "Come on. Sit down. You're treating me to dinner, right?"
"I... I am?"
"You have 100 bucks worth of food coming," she pointed out, gesturing to the vendor who was currently piling skewers onto a massive tray. "You can't eat that alone. Sit."
They found a plastic table in the corner. Max sat down, grateful to be off his feet. Jasmine sat opposite him, her presence dominating the small space.
Max took a sip of the complimentary iced cola. The sugar hit his system, waking him up a bit more.
"So," Max began, deciding to stick to a version of the truth. "I'm a game developer now."
"Game dev?" Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you look like a zombie? Crunch time?"
"Yeah. Something like that. I entered the National Game Producer Contest. I spent the last month building a game from scratch. Alone."
"Alone?" Jasmine whistled. "That's crazy."
"It is," Max admitted. "I pushed myself too hard. Didn't sleep for days. The stress... well, it turned my hair white."
He left out the part about the Count of Monte Cristo template and the magical system that could rewrite reality.
"I finished it four days ago," Max continued. "I just woke up today. I was... pretty burnt out."
Jasmine looked at him, her expression softening. Beneath the tough exterior, she was still the girl he had helped all those years ago.
"You idiot," she said affectionately. "You always try to save the world by yourself, don't you? First me, now this game."
She grabbed a skewer of grilled meat and bit into it.
"So? Was it worth it? Is the game any good?"
Max leaned back, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
"Good?" He laughed. "Jasmine, it's not just good. It's number one. Forty-seven million downloads in two days."
Jasmine choked on her meat. "Forty... million?"
"Yep. It's going to change everything."
Jasmine stared at him. Then, she raised her cola can in a toast.
"To the white-haired idiot," she said, grinning. "And to changing everything."
Max clinked his can against hers. "To changing everything."
As they ate, Max watched her. She was vibrant. Alive. A stark contrast to the digital ghosts he had been living with for the past month.
"So," Max asked. "What about you? You said 'the army'?"
Jasmine's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she covered it quickly.
"Oh, you know," she waved a hand dismissively. "Joined up at 18. Needed the structure. Turns out I'm really good at carrying heavy things and shouting at people. Did a few tours. Private security after that. Just got back to the city a few weeks ago."
"Private security?" Max raised an eyebrow. "Like... bodyguards?"
"Something like that," Jasmine said cryptically. "But hey, spring is here, right? Season of renewal. I'm looking for a new gig. Maybe something less... explosive."
She looked at Max.
"You're a big-shot developer now. Need a bodyguard? I work for cheap. Especially for family."
Max paused. Family.
He looked at his stats. He had 178 million Emotion Points. He had enemies like Vanguard Games circling him. He was physically weak (despite the abs from the template, his stamina was trash without buffs).
And here was Jasmine. A walking tank who owed him a favor and considered him family.
"Actually," Max said slowly. "I might just take you up on that."
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