The industrial elevator groaned as it descended, sounding like a giant metal beast with a very heavy smoking habit and chronic back pain. Aryan stood in the center of the lift, checking his reflection in the brushed steel. The featureless mask made him look like a high-end mannequin—or a particularly well-dressed void.
"Okay, let's review," Aryan said to the empty elevator, gesturing with his suppressed handgun as if explaining a PowerPoint presentation to an invisible audience. "I've been in this world for exactly four hours. I've already spent my inheritance on black-market toys, and now I'm breaking into a Vought 'science' basement. Statistically speaking, I'm the protagonist of a very short, very violent tragedy."
He looked up at the corner of his vision, where the System interface hovered.
"System, buddy, pal—any words of encouragement? A 'Go Get 'Em, Tiger'? A discount code for a casket?"
[Ding! Host is reminded that all sales are final. Survival is its own reward. Also, stop talking to the air; it makes your 'Intimidation' stat drop.]
"The air is the only one listening to my jokes, you clinical toaster!" Aryan chirped.
The elevator doors hissed open, revealing a corridor that looked like it had been designed by an architect who specialized in 'Brutalist Oppression.' White tiles, blue fluorescent lights, and the faint, unmistakable scent of bleach and broken dreams.
Aryan didn't just walk out. He pulled out a sleek, black tablet. "Right, let's see if Vought's IT department is as incompetent as their HR. Accessing node 4-B... spoofing MAC addresses... and... we're in."
He winked at the security camera, which was now feeding the guard station a looped video of a very bored maintenance man eating a sandwich.
"Look at that," Aryan whispered, moving with the silent, feline grace of his Basic Combat Mastery. "I'm a digital ghost. A phantom in the wires. A very handsome man in a gimp mask."
He reached the Holding Wing. The air here was thicker, smelling of ozone and unwashed biological experiments. He stopped at Cell 12. Inside was a middle-aged man who looked like he'd been inflated with a bicycle pump. His throat was pulsing rhythmically, making a sound like a clogged sink.
"Oh, hello there, Gurgles," Aryan said, leaning against the reinforced glass. "You look like you're having a rough Tuesday."
The man looked up, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. Seeing a masked intruder, his instinct was immediate. He lunged toward the bars, his throat expanding to the size of a professional-grade medicine ball.
Gurgle... Hrrk...
"Ah, the old Acid-Vomit maneuver," Aryan noted, pointing at the man's bulging neck. "See this, System? This is why I didn't want to be a Supe the natural way. The dry cleaning bills alone would be catastrophic."
The man opened his mouth, a neon-green sludge bubbling at the back of his tongue.
Aryan didn't flinch. He didn't even step back. He just tapped his tablet with a flourish.
Clack!
The heavy hydraulic door, which had been slightly ajar for 'ventilation,' slammed shut with the force of a falling guillotine exactly one millisecond before the man could spray.
Splat.
The acid hissed harmlessly against the interior of the reinforced glass. Aryan watched the green goo slide down the pane, inches from his mask.
"Timing!" Aryan shouted, throwing his hands up in a 'Ta-da!' gesture. "You see that? That's called a 'Skill Issue,' my acidic friend."
He tapped the Plunder icon on his screen.
[Ability Detected: Corrosive Secretions (Level 1)]
[Plundering... Success!]
Aryan felt a brief, disgusting warmth in his chest. "Ugh, gross. I feel like I just swallowed a battery. System, I am not becoming a human squirt-gun. Exchange this trash for something useful. Make me sturdier."
[Level 1 Ability exchanged. +1,000 EXP. Defense upgraded to Level 2.]
"Ooh," Aryan shivered as his skin density increased. "I feel... crunchy. Like a human sourdough loaf. Can I take a bullet now? Don't answer that, I'd rather keep the suspense."
Suddenly, the facility's alarms tripped—a red strobe light began to pulse, bathing the hallway in the color of 'You Screwed Up.' Two guards rounded the corner. One held a shotgun, the other a submachine gun.
"Freeze! Hands behind—"
"Standard villain dialogue? Really?" Aryan interrupted, already mid-roll.
The shotgun fired—BOOM—shattering the tiles where Aryan's head had been a second ago. Aryan came up in a crouch, his handgun barking twice—pop, pop. Both guards took surgical hits to their shoulders.
"Sorry about the rotator cuffs, boys!" Aryan shouted as he closed the distance.
He didn't just punch; he danced. He twisted the submachine gun out of the second guard's grip, used the man's own momentum to slam him into the wall, and finished with a flashy, unnecessary spinning kick that sent the guard's helmet flying.
He stood over the pile of groaning security, holding the captured submachine gun.
"Level 2 Defense check!" Aryan said, poking a small hole in his jacket where a stray pellet had hit. The skin underneath was just slightly red. "Ha! It's like being poked by a very aggressive toddler! I'm practically a budget Homelander!"
He looked down the long, dark corridor leading to the main lab.
"Alright, System. Let's go find something worth stealing. And maybe some better snacks. This place is depressing."