Los Angeles at night never truly slept, especially in this borderland between downtown's edge where bars mingled with cheap apartment buildings. Mason Cooper walked down the dimly lit alley that led inevitably back to his basement room, a new, decent-quality shopping bag swaying slightly with his steps. Inside were his recently purchased "gear"—a dark gray suit jacket, a black T-shirt, a pair of slim-fit jeans, and leather shoes. This was his "investment" for potentially stepping into the world Lily represented, an attempt to avoid being immediately looked down upon for his clothes. The nearly thousand-dollar expenditure pained him, yet the feeling of briefly armoring his dignity with money carried an addictive, illusory sense of power.
However, that illusion dissipated rapidly as he entered this familiar alley. Lily's sudden kiss in the cafe was like a brand; the warm sensation on his cheek had long faded, but the aura it carried—a mix of temptation, testing, and control—still seemed to linger at the edge of his senses. The world she represented—fast, dangerous, full of gray-area "games"—held a fatal attraction for him. The over twenty thousand dollars in his account was a seed, but he craved the power and capital that could make it grow into a towering tree overnight. Lily seemed to be the ticket, but the price might far exceed money.
And just earlier, near this same alley, his retreat in the face of the knife-point robbery, that bone-deep sense of powerlessness and self-loathing, had stung him even more harshly. The fleeting pleasure of using cash to retaliate against the restaurant waiter and department store clerk seemed pale and ridiculous against real violence. Without power—whether monetary or extraordinary—in this city where the strong preyed on the weak, he would forever remain "Lucky," forced to bow his head and be manipulated.
This intense humiliation and craving for power churned like two streams of molten magma in his chest, colliding, finally breaching the dam of reason and burning his remaining moral hesitation to ashes. The weight of the shopping bag in his hand no longer represented hope, but a sarcastic reminder of his continued fragility.
He *had* to acquire a new ability. Now! Immediately!
The thought became crystal clear and urgent. He needed bargaining chips, needed solid footing, needed extraordinary power to break the status quo. That absurd, dark ritual was no longer a last resort, but the only available means to change the game.
He stopped abruptly, no longer heading towards the basement, but turned, his gaze sharply scanning the surroundings. This place wasn't ideal—too dark, too many unpredictable people, hard to escape afterward. He needed a public place with moderate foot traffic, enough light to see his target clearly without exposing himself, and easy for a quick exit.
His mind raced like a precision computer, filtering nearby possibilities: 24-hour convenience stores (few people but many cameras), small parks (possibly empty at night), bus stops (distracted passengers but high turnover)...
Finally, he locked onto a target: the all-night "Blue Soul" chain cafe three blocks away. The environment was relatively quiet, but there would still be customers late at night—students pulling all-nighters, freelancers, office workers just off shift. Most importantly, the cafe had separate, usually clean-ish restroom areas, an ideal place to create an "accident" and complete the ritual.
Decision made, Mason took a deep breath, suppressing his racing heart, and strode toward the cafe. He deliberately slowed his pace, adjusted his breathing, trying to look like an ordinary person heading home late. The shopping bag now served as a kind of camouflage, making him seem more like a citizen who'd just finished shopping rather than a hunter with ill intent.
Reaching the vicinity of the cafe, he didn't go straight in. Instead, he observed from the shadows across the street. Through the large plate-glass windows, he could see about seven or eight customers scattered in different corners. His gaze swept over every female customer like a searchlight.
A young girl with headphones typing on a laptop, wearing jeans—eliminated.
A couple talking in low voices, the woman in a long skirt—eliminated.
A woman leaning on the sofa scrolling through her phone, from her silhouette slightly older, wearing a professional skirt suit, but the legs under the skirt... seemed to be wearing flesh-toned stockings? A bit too far to see clearly.
Mason waited patiently. A few minutes later, the woman stood up and walked toward the restroom area. This was a good chance! Mason immediately crossed the street and pushed open the cafe door.
A bell *ding-donged*. Warm air, blended with the aroma of coffee and the sweet, cloying smell of pastries, hit him. Mason walked as naturally as possible to the counter, ordered the cheapest Americano, then, carrying the cup, casually moved toward the restroom area, his gaze locked onto the back of the woman who had just entered the women's restroom.
Just as the women's room door closed, he got a clear look: a woman around thirty-five or thirty-six, with a well-maintained figure, full but not plump, exuding the rounded curves and steady poise unique to mature women. She wore a finely tailored dark gray professional skirt suit, the fabric crisp, perfectly outlining her ample bust and slender waist. The pencil skirt ended about a hand's width above the knees, hugging her pert, rounded bottom. As she walked, the hem swayed slightly, hinting at undercurrents beneath the dignified surface. On her legs were indeed those nearly transparent, ultra-sheer flesh-toned stockings. The smooth material perfectly presented the even lines from her calves to her knees, glowing with a delicate, soft sheen under the cafe's gentle lights. She had shoulder-length, deep chestnut curly hair, the ends slightly curled, appearing lazy yet charming. Her side profile was elegant, her skin in good condition with a hint of tired but still meticulous makeup, a high nose bridge, full lips painted with a low-key mauve lipstick. Even from just a back view and a fleeting glimpse of her profile, she radiated a seasoned, steady, yet sensual aura—like a ripe, juicy peach, full-bodied and charming.
*Her. It has to be her,* Mason thought to himself, momentarily captivated by this mature allure before his stronger sense of purpose suppressed it. Mature, alone, wearing easily torn sheer stockings, and having entered the relatively isolated restroom area—this was an ideal target.
He quickly entered the men's room. Thankfully, it was empty. He placed the shopping bag by the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face, trying to cool his flushed cheeks and calm his overly rapid breathing. The reflection in the mirror showed eyes filled with a desperate resolve and tension.
The plan was simple: wait for her to come out, create an "accidental" collision in the hallway, seize the moment to complete the ritual, then quickly exit via the cafe's back door (he'd noted the layout when entering).
He leaned by the door, ears straining for sounds outside. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest, palms sweaty. Time ticked by, each second feeling excruciatingly long. He could almost hear the blood rushing in his ears.
Finally, from the neighboring women's room came the sound of a flush, a door opening, and the crisp *click-clack* of high heels on tile.
*Now!*
Mason took a deep breath, yanked open the men's room door, and simultaneously crouched down as if tying his shoelace, calculating her approaching speed and distance.
Just as the mature woman reached the vicinity of the men's room door, Mason let out an "Oops!" as if tripped by his own shoelace, his body lurching uncontrollably toward her!
"Careful!"
He exclaimed, his right hand flailing backward as if seeking support, but that hand carried a precise, concealed force, fingertips slicing through the air, swiping sharply toward the back of the woman's stocking-clad calf!
*Rriiip—!*
A crisp tearing sound echoed startlingly loud in the quiet hallway! The ultra-sheer stocking material gave way almost upon contact, tearing an irregular gash about a dozen centimeters long just below her calf. The edges of the nylon immediately curled, instantly revealing the fair, delicate, healthily glowing skin beneath. The torn stocking against the intact parts created a heart-stopping contrast of brutal violation, like a fine piece of art accidentally scarred, holding a flawed, tantalizing sexiness.
"Mmm… ah…" The woman let out a suppressed gasp, mixing pain and surprise, halting abruptly and turning her head. Her full face was more refined than her profile, almond-shaped eyes wide. First, a flicker of pain (Mason's nail might have inadvertently grazed her tender skin), followed swiftly by astonishment and chagrin. But strangely, not the expected fury. Her gaze quickly swept over Mason's face, then dropped to the tear on her calf, her brows slightly furrowed. Her expression was complex—annoyance, scrutiny, and even a trace of… something fleeting and indescribably knowing?
"You… what happened?" Her voice sounded, not shrill like a younger girl's, but carrying the distinctive, slightly low, magnetic quality of a mature woman. Even with reproach, it didn't sound sharp; instead, it held a husky, stirring quality.
Mason immediately steadied himself, his face plastered with panicked fluster and sincere apology, his acting peaking in this moment: "I'm so sorry! So sorry, ma'am! I really didn't mean to! I was crouching to tie my shoe, lost my balance, almost fell… I'm sorry, sorry! Are you okay? The stockings… I'll pay! I'll pay for them!" He babbled apologies, his eyes filled with remorse and innocence, his gaze quickly sweeping over her full chest, rising and falling slightly with her quickened breath under the well-fitted suit, and those clear, calm eyes that held reproach yet remained composed.
Looking at his flustered and disheveled appearance, which still carried the specific nervousness of a young man, then down at her torn stocking and the exposed patch of skin, the anger on her face seemed to dissipate quickly, replaced by a slightly awkward, amused expression. She drew a light breath, her tone softening considerably, though still holding a thread of blame: "How could you be so careless? Why tie your shoes in the hallway…" As she spoke, she instinctively reached down to lightly brush the torn edge of her stocking—a gesture with a subconscious protectiveness. Her fingers were slender, nails polished with clear varnish, appearing clean and elegant.
"My fault! All my fault!" Mason hurriedly pulled out his wallet. This time, he directly pulled out three twenty-dollar bills (more than last time) and offered them. "Is this enough? Really, really, I'm so sorry! For the stockings, and… for the trouble!" His attitude was subservient and eager, wanting only to get away quickly, but his gaze was involuntarily drawn to the woman's mature grace and the currently slightly disheveled beauty.
The woman didn't immediately take the money. Instead, she gave Mason another once-over, her eyes lingering on his face for a few seconds, as if trying to read something in them. Her gaze was sharp and discerning, making Mason feel a sense of guilt, of being seen through. Then, the corner of her mouth quirked upward slightly, forming a faint, ambiguous curve. "Forget it. You don't seem to have done it on purpose." She finally reached out and took the money, but only took one twenty, pushing the other two back toward Mason. "These stockings aren't worth that much. Twenty is plenty."
This move stunned Mason. He had anticipated angry scolding, had anticipated greedy demands for compensation, but not this response tinged with tolerance and… some ineffable quality.
"But…" Mason tried to say more.
The woman waved a hand, cutting him off. Her voice regained its calm, even carrying a hint of faint weariness: "Young man, be more careful in the future. Being rash easily causes trouble." Having said that, she ignored Mason, bent down slightly, pulling her skirt hem lower to try and cover the tear on her leg. The action accentuated her curves even more; from Mason's angle, he could even glimpse a sliver of tempting snowy cleavage inside her collar and the edge of what looked like a finely made lace bra. She didn't seem to mind this brief exposure, or perhaps she possessed a composure born of experience, making such a minor mishap seem insignificant.
After adjusting her skirt, she straightened up, preparing to leave. But as she passed Mason, she paused again, turned her head slightly. Those almond-shaped eyes, deep and bright under the lights, looked at Mason. She gave a light smile, the curve of her lips holding a subtle sense of a mature woman seeing through worldly affairs. "If… I mean *if* you need a job that's less… 'dizzying,' or just want someone to talk to, you can call this number." As she spoke, she retrieved a simple, private business card from her clutch—bearing only a name and a phone number—and placed it in Mason's hand. The card read: Elena.
"My name is Elena," she said, her gaze steady on Mason, seeming to pierce through his surface fluster to see the unease and struggle deep within. "Perhaps we'll meet again." Her voice was low and magnetic, carrying an undeniable certainty and a faint allure.
Without waiting for Mason's reaction, she straightened her back and, still wearing those elegant heels despite the torn stocking, walked gracefully back into the cafe's main area, leaving behind a silhouette full of mature charm and food for thought.
Mason was completely dumbfounded, standing there holding the business card that still carried a faint scent of perfume and the twenty-dollar bill, momentarily unable to process it. Elena's reaction was completely unexpected! No scream, no entanglement, no fuss, but instead a response tinged with forgiveness and even… a hint of vague interest? It made his carefully prepared escape plan seem redundant. And she gave him a card? What did that mean? Could it be…? An absurd thought flashed through his mind, but he quickly suppressed it. *Not the time for that now!*
He didn't dare delay. He immediately turned, not taking the original route, but swiftly pushed open the back door at the end of the hallway and slipped into the alley behind the cafe. A cold wind hit him, making him shiver, but more than that was the excitement and tension of the ritual about to be completed, and the state of mind unsettled by Elena's unexpected reaction.
He leaned against the cold, rough brick wall, looking around. The alley was empty, only the distant muffled sound of traffic. He raised his slightly trembling right hand, thumb and middle finger rubbing together forcefully!
*Snap!*
A crisp snap echoed in the silent alley, carrying a desperate resolve.
The moment the snap faded, that intangible sense of connection was established again! Simultaneously, a stream of cold and succinct information flowed into his mind. No fancy name, just a straightforward, almost cruel prompt:
**[Ability Acquisition Successful]**
**[Congratulations! You have obtained a random effect: For the next 24 hours, any liquid you taste will register as one random, intense singular taste.]**
**[Remaining Attempts: 3/3]**
**[Effect Duration Countdown: 23:59:59]**
**[Usage Note: A finger snap is required to confirm before each tasting.]**
Mason was stunned, not reacting for several long seconds.
"This… what kind of ability is this?" he muttered, his face a mask of bewilderment and disappointment. "Taste any liquid… as one random, intense singular taste? Sweet? Sour? Bitter? Spicy? What's the use?! Seems even more useless than 'Never Buy the Real Thing'! What, should I be a human taste-testing machine? Or sample poisoned drinks myself?"
The massive letdown almost made him swear out loud. He'd taken a huge risk, trampled his own moral bottom line, and all he got was this seemingly useless "taste disorder"? And the target had been Elena, a special woman who had stirred a subtle ripple in him? It felt even more absurd and… carried an indescribable twinge of guilt.
But quickly, he forced himself to calm down. Old Samuel's words and his prior experience reminded him: Rules aren't shackles, they're weapons. Understand them to wield them. Even the trashiest ability must have its unique loopholes and applications.
Leaning against the wall, he began thinking rapidly about the potential uses of this new "effect":
* **Authentication?** If a certain liquid (like wine, health supplements, even chemicals) has a specific standard taste, and I taste a different, intense, unrelated flavor, would that indicate a problem? For example, tasting a wine touted as vintage; if it should have complex notes but I only taste intense bitterness, would that mean it's fake?
* **Blocking Discomfort?** If I had to drink foul medicine and the random taste was "sweet"? Wouldn't that be… Wait, this only alters taste, not efficacy or actual composition. Seems not very useful.
* **Pranks or Tricks?** Too juvenile.
* ...**Gambling?** An absurd possibility struck him. In certain underground games, were there bets involving tasting liquids to guess ingredients or quality? Like wine-tasting bets? If he could know in advance (or rather, "set" via a finger snap) what taste he'd get next time he sampled… No, the information said "random." He couldn't control it.
The most crucial point: How did this "randomness" work? Was it randomized independently for each tasting? Or, once the ability was acquired, was it fixed for the next 24 hours that all liquids would taste the same? If the latter, there was almost no room for manipulation! If the former, there was at least some uncertainty to exploit.
*Had to test. Immediately!*
He looked at the almost untouched Americano he'd bought from the cafe. This coffee should be bitter with a hint of acidity.
He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers again—this time to "use" the ability for tasting confirmation.
*Snap!*
The sound seemed jarring in the alley. He focused his intent, then carefully took a small sip from the paper cup.
An extremely intense, sharp sourness instantly flooded his entire mouth! It was as if he hadn't drunk coffee but concentrated lemon juice mixed with vinegar, so sour his teeth felt weak, his brow furrowed tightly, and he almost spat it out immediately!
*"Hiss—!"* He sucked in a sharp breath, hastily swallowed the coffee in his mouth. The dreadful sourness lingered unpleasantly.
First taste, random taste acquired: Extreme Sour.
He quickly took a small sip of his own carried bottled water (for testing different liquids).
The same sharp, identical sourness hit him again! The water's natural sweetness and coolness were completely gone!
Conclusion: For the ability's duration, all liquids tasted the same randomly acquired flavor (currently sour). This realization made his heart sink. It meant he couldn't gain comparative information by tasting different liquids. The ability's "randomness" was fixed upon acquisition, not randomized per taste.
This was the worst-case scenario! A fixed, uncontrollable taste—possibly extremely unpleasant—lasting 24 hours. What use was that?!
Disappointment and frustration surged again. But he didn't give up, forcing himself to think further.
"Intense singular taste"... "Intense"... He latched onto the keyword. If this "intensity" far exceeded the normal range of taste perception? Could it be used to… ruin some experience reliant on taste? Or, conversely, mask some unwanted flavor?
A vague idea began forming. He recalled some cases he'd come across during his earlier research on consumer rights—about food safety, specifically counterfeit high-end beverages and professional whistleblowers. Some fake drinks, while hard to distinguish visually, often had subtle taste differences. What if… he intentionally purchased expensive liquids suspected of being problematic (like famous wines, premium water, specific origin juices, etc.), then used this "Absolute Taste" to "experience" them, recording the intense, singular, distorted taste sensation that didn't match the normal description. Could this serve as some kind of… alternative, subjective yet impactful "evidence"? Or at least help him quickly screen for problematic products?
It sounded far-fetched, and turning this subjective perception into actual benefit would require a more detailed plan. But it seemed one of the few possible directions. Another thought: What if next time the random taste was "sweet"? Could he…? He shook his head. Too early for that.
*First, I need to confirm if this "taste distortion" is stable and truly consistent across different liquid types.*
He decided on one more test. He remembered passing a 24-hour pharmacy that sold those few-dollar bottles of extremely bitter Vitamin B complex liquid supplements.
He walked quickly to the pharmacy and bought a small bottle. Outside the door, he snapped his fingers again to confirm (using the second attempt), then unscrewed the cap, held his breath, and took a small sip.
Sure enough! That same familiar, dreadful sharp sourness! The intense bitterness Vitamin B should have had was completely overridden! He even felt this "sourness" seemed slightly stronger than with the coffee and water, as if fighting against the liquid's inherent taste properties.
So, the ability's effect was absolute, overriding all original taste of the liquid. This was highly restrictive, but also meant the effect was stable.
Now, he had only one usage attempt left. Had to use it carefully.
With a complex mix of emotions—the frustration of extreme disappointment in the new ability, a stubborn refusal to admit defeat to find its loophole, and the subtle confusion left by Elena's card—Mason headed back toward the basement, carrying his shopping bag and the now-useless vitamins.
Returning to the damp, moldy basement, the familiar sense of suffocation enveloped him again. But his state of mind was different from when he'd left. Though the new ability seemed useless, at least he once again possessed "extraordinary power." It gave him a sliver of confidence. Moreover, Elena's meaningful look and that card were like a stone dropped into the pond of his heart, stirring ripples different from those caused by Lily. One was a dangerous, tempting poison rose; the other, a mysterious, forgiving mature peach. Two vastly different women had entered his chaotic life in different ways.
He needed to make decisions quickly, whether about Lily's invitation or how to handle the impending crisis.
Right then, his phone vibrated—an unknown local number. He hesitated, then answered.
"Hello? Is this Mr. Mason Cooper?" A somewhat slick-sounding male voice.
"Yes, who is this?" Mason remained guarded.
"Mr. Cooper, hello! I'm Tom Wells, a reporter with 'City Express News.' We've noticed you seem to be involved in a recent consumer rights case concerning the 'Time Gallery' watch store and received a substantial settlement. We'd like to conduct a brief interview about it, learn the story of how an ordinary consumer successfully defended their rights. Would that be convenient?"
Mason's heart sank like a stone!