After leaving, Joren didn't go home. To avoid any further complications, he went straight to Jamaica Avenue and stopped in front of a pawn shop called Old Man's Treasures.
Ring… ring…
The wind chimes above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside.
Behind the counter, a bald, heavyset man with a thick jawline was inspecting a gold chain through a magnifying glass. He lifted his eyelids lazily and gave the boy by the door a once-over.
"Hey, kid—we don't take student IDs here."
"I'm not here to pawn anything," Joren said. "I'm looking for something."
"Hah?" The man set down the magnifying glass and smirked. "I've got plenty of 'somethings.' But let's get one thing straight—if you're just browsing, save it for the museum. This ain't a tourist stop."
Joren tapped a finger against the wooden counter.
"The blue gem. A silver-haired woman will bring it to you in the next couple of days."
The man's expression flickered—just for a second—before he forced a sneer back onto his face. He waved a meaty hand dismissively. "No money? Then get out. Don't waste my time."
Joren didn't move. He just stared.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. The pawnbroker shifted uncomfortably under that gaze—too sharp, too still. Not like a kid's eyes at all. More like a predator's.
"What the hell are you staring at?!" the man barked, slamming a palm on the counter to mask his unease. "You don't leave right now, I'm calling the cops!"
Joren sighed.
Yare yare…
Why were there always fools who couldn't understand plain speech?
Behind him, the air shimmered—and Star Platinum materialized in a ripple of invisible force.
In one fluid motion, the Stand reached across the counter, seized the man by the collar, and hoisted his bulky frame clean off the floor.
"Gh—!" The pawnbroker choked, legs kicking uselessly as an unseen grip crushed his windpipe. His face flushed red; panic widened his eyes.
Joren's voice remained calm, almost bored.
"I'll ask once more. Where's the gem?"
The man wheezed, clawing at the air, then jabbed a trembling finger toward an oil painting on the wall behind the counter.
Star Platinum released him.
He crashed to the floor, coughing and gasping like a beached fish.
Joren walked around the counter and pulled the painting down.
Behind it sat a steel combination safe.
He turned, eyes cold.
"Password."
"13… 1307…" the man rasped, voice raw.
Joren typed it in.
Click.
The safe door swung open.
Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, lay a flawless blue gem—about the size of a pigeon's egg. Even in the dim shop light, it pulsed with a deep, hypnotic glow.
Joren plucked it from its cradle and slipped it into his pocket.
He tugged the brim of his hat lower and turned to leave.
"Wait… sir…"
The heavyset man on the floor wheezed, struggling to catch his breath.
"That… that gem—you just took it like that?"
Joren stopped. Without turning, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Otherwise what?"
"But… but I spent $150,000 to get it!" The man's face sagged into a long, desperate frown. "That's my money!"
"When you buy stolen goods," Joren said coolly, "you should be ready to lose everything."
He stepped out of the pawnshop without another word.
Alone now, the bald, portly man slumped against the cold tile floor, too stunned to even cry.
Outside, Joren slipped his hand into his coat pocket. The sharp-edged gemstone—now safely retrieved—pressed faintly against his palm through the thin fabric.
Across the street, atop a weathered rooftop, a shadow flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision.
Joren didn't break stride. He simply pulled his hat down a fraction lower.
I've been out too long today, he thought. Time to go home. Wash up. Rest.
One nuisance is enough.
---
Rooftop.
Felicia lay sprawled on the rough concrete, bruises still darkening her wrists from the encounter.
She watched the tall figure vanish into the evening crowd at the corner—never once glancing back.
Ignore it.
That utter indifference stung more than the crushing force he'd used against her.
Who is he?
He's just a boy.
But she? She was Black Cat—a legend who haunted New York's nights, a phantom who'd tangled with tycoons, spies, and even Spider-Man himself. Security systems trembled at the whisper of her name.
Yet to him, she hadn't even rated as a real threat.
The humiliation burned hotter than any wound.
Revenge coiled in her chest, wild and urgent—but a direct fight? She'd already lost that round. She needed something smarter.
Felicia rose, brushing dust from her sleek black suit.
If I can't beat you…
…then I'll ruin you.
---
Manhattan. A penthouse never listed on any rental site.
Her true lair.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering skyline—but tonight, the view held no appeal.
Inside the study, multiple high-end monitors pulsed with deep blue light. Lines of code scrolled faster than most could read.
Felicia's fingers danced across the keyboard.
`71-06 Ingram Street.`
She sliced through City Hall's real estate database, bypassing three layers of encryption in under an hour.
Owner: Joestar
An unusual surname.
Family Members:
- Jonathan Joestar
- Shirley Joestar
- Joren Joestar
There you are.
She pivoted to the city's education archives—child's play for someone like her. Within minutes, she pulled up Midtown High's student records.
Name: Joren Joestar
Grade: 11
The ID photo loaded: black hair, black eyes, face utterly blank.
Just a high school student.
The realization twisted in her gut like a knife. He'd humiliated her—and he wasn't even out of school yet.
She clicked over to Midtown High's official site.
A red banner dominated the homepage:
NOTICE: Due to structural damage from an unforeseen incident, Midtown High will be closed for one week for emergency repairs. Classes suspended. Reopening date TBD.
Felicia stared at the message, then back at Joren's impassive face on-screen.
A plan crystallized instantly.
You love playing the "ordinary" student so much?
Let's see how ordinary you feel when you can't graduate.
She closed the hacking windows and opened a blank document.
From an encrypted drive, she pulled a New York State student transfer certificate template. Then, with practiced ease, she cycled through samples of forged handwriting—each one flawless, each belonging to a different alias.
The cursor blinked after the Name field.
Felicia hovered her fingers over the keys.
She needed a perfect identity—one that would let her walk into Midtown High like she belonged.
"Joren Joestar…" she murmured, a sly smile curling her lips.
"The game has only just begun."