Marke awoke early, lacking the usual grogginess because he had a purpose, a destination to reach.
Or just a result of him investing points into stamina the day before.
System. He called up.
[Host: Marke Ean]
[Profession: Masseur (Lvl 1); Strength: 3, Bone structure: 4, Dexterity: 4, Stamina: 4 (expendable stat)]
[Skills: Masseur: You have a year of experience massaging. Perk: Cold touch and Hot touch
[Profession Points: 1]
[Stat Points: 1]
Expendable? Was it the only stat expendable since it was the price for using skills?
And the damned system wouldn't answer him even if he asked. He needed to figure it out himself.
System, one point to strength. He thought, and though it stung watching the only points he possessed disappear, instantly an itch began from his thighs, spreading upwards. Marke began scratching to alleviate the itch, but it wasn't his skin that was undergoing strengthening; it was his muscles.
Having knowledge as any man who watched stayed chronically online playing games and watching videos online about working out, he knew there was no particular solution to muscle itch.
Marke hissed, the sensation growing unberable by the second.
When had he ever had to endure something so torturous? The last time he had any sort of major injury was a dumbbell falling on his toe when he was nineteen, and all he had was a fracture.
He heard his shaky breath in his ears alongside the rapid beating of his heart, his throat suddenly parched, feeling as though he had a fatal fever and was about to pass out into darkness for eternity. His brain going into overdrive, his mind steered to the cold touch skill.
System. He called out. Activate cold touch.
Lifting his left arm, he placed a palm over his chest, which he could feel thudding loudly.
From it, the cold energy ejected from his fingertips and flowed into him, clenched jaws relaxing as his breathing gradually returned to normalcy with his mind enveloped in a sensation of erotic calm.
The itching didn't disappear, however, and though it gnawed on his nerves and caused him to shiver when it got too intense, he didn't spend another point, as he knew it would have to be added.
A while later, when Marke's mind finally cleared and the itching vanished, he clenched his fist and looked at his forearms—which had visibly grown more muscular—and the veins crawling on the surface as he did.
Getting up from his bed, past the gaming setup with a curved wide-screen monitor, and beside the door, a full-length mirror leaned against the corner.
A man with defined features, raven hair slicked back, and clean-shaved, looked back at him, rolling his shoulders in the camo green t-shirt, feeling…different. They look wider. He thought and took off his shirt, stumped at what he saw.
Though already muscular from going to the gym on a daily basis just down the street, the shape of pectorals, abs, and even between the ribs. They hadn't grown big like he had ingested steroids but rather had taken on a defined shape. I bet I'm under 8 or 9 percent body fat. He guessed.
Marke chuckled to himself unbelievingly, rubbing his palms over the muscles.
However, a glaring problem stood at attention in the air in need.
Huh. The cold touch really does make you horny.
———————————
After washing away the sweat and stench and rubbing it out thrice for his dragon to calm down, he donned a brown leather jacket over a black t-shirt with matching black jeans and a gray analog watch with paint around the glass chipped and scratched and made his way out of the apartment, stepping into the hallway.
Deciding any stimulation, like the neighbor's daughter waltzing out with a see-through top or Mrs. Anter in her yoga pants, would be too much for him to handle, as the mere thought of it caused his shaft to twitch.
With how horny he was feeling right now, Marke doubted if he could hold himself back if invited.
Let's use this energy for work instead. He nodded to himself and climbed down the stairs, the elevator door dinging open at the end of the hallway as he did.
At the underground parking lot, he found his car at the corner, a Lamborghini Gallardo in green sitting quietly.
Though the sight of the car was splendid, it wasn't earned by ethical means, and times of paranoia, about whether he would be found out in the future, lingered.
Everything hinged on the redhead not opening her mouth. Else, he was screwed. There were a lot of desperate people in this city willing to do anything demanded by the affluent to gain approval and climb the social ladder. Taking his phone out, he set an alarm for evening, reminding him to leave her a message.
Since the client was Mrs. Olivarez's friend and certainly affluent, bringing the car along would be a good first impression. Opening the front hood, he set the massage table and various oils within and jumped into the car.
The revs shook the parking space, loud and blaring, and with the two headlights lighting up like a beast waking up, Marke headed out.
—————
For three entire streets, apartment complexes labeled with numbers on a green metal slate from one to sixty on the arched gateway leading into the rose to the air like dominoes.
Marke honked his way through irate salarymen headed for work, their curses causing him to smile, and it wasn't just because he didn't want to wait side-by-side with some double-chinned dude munching down a burger.
After another turn, the apartments ended, and buildings grew smaller, irregular, and wanton, with skies navy with cumulonimbus clouds drifting, coffee shops abuzz, people jogging on the sidewalk, and the scent of food, fresh bread, patty, and coffee wafting through.
Everything outside of Bullswok was better in the city of Picket, bordering Los Angeles, for the simple fact that it wasn't as uniform as the residential area was.