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As the old saying goes, "Good news puts a spring in your step."
Maverick wasn't the only one riding a high. Max, the mastermind behind the digital chaos, was also floating on cloud nine. His bank account was still empty (until the contest payout), but his "Emotion Points" balance was astronomical. He was basically a god in his own universe.
However, in this universe, he was currently suffering.
Max sat on the floor of his living room, nursing a bright red, throbbing mark on his left cheek. It looked like he'd been slapped by a giant.
He hadn't been hit by Jasmine. Well, not directly.
To explain why the creator of the world's most popular VR game was currently defeated by household goods, we have to rewind to 8:00 AM.
Although Jasmine had been eager to move in immediately after seeing the spare room, the reality of the situation was a bit more logistical. The room was empty. No bed, no desk, just dust bunnies and echoes.
So, after crashing at a nearby motel for the night, Jasmine returned at the crack of dawn. She didn't just bring her two camo-print duffel bags. She brought the entire inventory of an online furniture store.
A delivery truck had pulled up at 7:30 AM. The driver, looking terrified of the six-foot-six woman barking orders at him, had unloaded a mountain of cardboard boxes onto the sidewalk.
"One-day shipping is a miracle," Jasmine had declared, hoisting three heavy boxes onto her shoulder as if they were made of styrofoam. "Now, chop chop, roomie. We have work to do."
So, while Jasmine was inside the spare room assembling a desk with her bare hands (she didn't trust the Allen wrench), Max was relegated to the role of "Unboxing Technician."
Don't underestimate this job. It's high-risk. Cardboard cuts are real.
Max stood in the living room, staring at the final box. It was a long, rectangular coffin of cardboard, about five feet tall and maybe a foot wide. It was dense. Heavy.
He tilted his head. "What is this?"
He tapped the side. It sounded solid.
"Hey, Jasmine!" Max yelled toward the bedroom. "What's in the coffin-shaped box? Did you order a silicon waifu? Is this a body pillow? Be honest, I won't judge."
"No, you idiot," Jasmine's voice drifted back, accompanied by the sound of wood crunching as she tightened a bolt too hard. "It's a mattress."
"A mattress?" Max frowned. "In a box this small? Physics doesn't work like that."
"It's memory foam," Jasmine shouted. "Vacuum sealed. Just open it."
"Right. Vacuum sealed."
Max pulled out his trusty utility knife. He sliced the tape on the top of the box. He wiggled the cardboard flaps open.
Inside was a tightly rolled cylinder of white plastic and foam, compressed under immense pressure. It looked like a giant, angry burrito waiting to be liberated.
Max, being a genius game developer but a layman in the art of furniture physics, didn't think twice. He grabbed the plastic wrapping.
"Okay," Max muttered. "Let's set you free."
He sliced the plastic.
HISSSSSSS.
The sound of air rushing into the vacuum seal was immediate.
Then came the violence.
WHUMPF.
The mattress didn't just expand; it exploded.
It unfurled with the kinetic energy of a deployed airbag. The compressed foam, desperate to return to its original shape, snapped outward with terrified velocity.
Max didn't even have time to blink.
One moment, he was holding a knife. The next moment, a Queen-Sized slab of memory foam slapped him across the face with the force of a heavyweight boxer.
"GAH!"
Max was launched backward. He flew three feet through the air and crashed onto the sofa, limbs flailing.
The mattress, now fully expanded and looking innocent, flopped onto the floor with a soft, smug thud.
Silence filled the apartment.
"Max?" Jasmine poked her head out of the bedroom. "What was that noise? Did you die?"
She walked into the living room and stopped.
Max was lying on the couch, clutching his face. His eyes were watering. He pointed a trembling finger at the white rectangle on the floor.
"It... it hit me," Max wheezed. "The bed assaulted me."
Jasmine looked at the mattress. Then at Max. Then back at the mattress.
A slow grin spread across her face.
"You got kayoed by bedding?" she asked, trying not to laugh.
"It was a trap!" Max sat up, rubbing his cheek. "It exploded! Look at my face! Is it red? It feels red."
Jasmine walked over, leaning down to inspect him. "Let me see."
She tilted his chin up. Her hand was rough, calloused from years of handling rifles and weights, but her touch was surprisingly gentle.
"Yeah," she noted, her eyes dancing with amusement. "That's gonna leave a mark. A nice, rectangular imprint."
"I'm suing the company," Max grumbled. "That box needed a warning label. 'Danger: Contents Under Pressure. May Cause Concussions.'"
"You big baby," Jasmine teased. "Not even a grenade does that much damage to you."
"Grenades I expect," Max countered. "I don't expect my sleeping surface to know karate!"
"Here," Jasmine cooed, her voice dropping to that husky tone she used when she wanted something. She reached out with both hands. "Let me rub it better. I know a massage technique for bruising."
Max's survival instincts kicked in.
Ever since the barbecue dinner last night, he had noticed a disturbing trend. Jasmine's hands were... wandering.
She would pat his back a little too long. She would squeeze his shoulder a little too hard. She would "accidentally" brush against his kidney area, which was his ticklish weak spot.
It wasn't aggressive, exactly. It was more like a cat playing with a mouse before deciding whether to eat it or cuddle it.
Max performed a maneuver that defied anatomy. He slithered backward over the armrest of the couch, dodging her hands like Neo dodging bullets in The Matrix.
"Nope!" Max yelped, putting the sofa between them. "I'm good! No rubbing! I heal fast! Gamer metabolism!"
Jasmine's hands hovered in empty air. She paused, blinking.
Most men would have killed for a massage from her. But Max? He treated her like a bomb about to go off.
She wasn't mad. If anything, it made it more fun.
"Suit yourself," Jasmine shrugged, masking her disappointment. "Just trying to be a good roommate."
She turned to the mattress.
"Alright, you monster," she said to the foam slab. "Let's get you to your dungeon."
She bent down. Instead of dragging it, she grabbed the Queen-Sized mattress, hoisted it under one arm like it was a surfboard, and clamped it to her side.
"Coming through," she announced, marching back toward the bedroom.
Max watched her go, rubbing his sore cheek. "She's terrifying," he whispered to himself. "Absolutely terrifying."
Inside the spare room, Jasmine tossed the mattress onto the bed frame.
She paused, wiping a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth.
So close, she thought. I almost had him.
She looked at her hands. She could still feel the warmth of his skin.
Max was... resilient. He was slippery. He didn't realize he was being hunted, which made the hunt infinitely more entertaining.
"Resist all you want, boss," Jasmine whispered to the empty room, a predatory glint in her eyes. "People don't cherish things they get for free. You have to work for the prize."
She smoothed down her tank top, checking her reflection in the mirror. She needed to maintain the facade. Be the helpful roommate. The loyal bodyguard.
The lady.
"Okay," Jasmine exhaled, putting on her best innocent face. "Time to assemble the desk. And maybe 'accidentally' ask him to help hold the heavy parts."
She walked back into the living room.
"Hey Max!" she called out cheerfully. "I need you to hold something for me!"
Max, still hiding behind the couch, shivered. "Is it explosive?"
"Only if you do it right," Jasmine winked.
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