Rimelion: The Exploiter

10. Ian's angry

Ian stormed into his apartment, slamming the door so hard the walls seemed to tremble. "Charlie... John... I knew it." His hands shook as he fumbled with his phone, his entire body humming with barely contained rage.

Back in high school, John had always stolen the spotlight. Effortlessly charismatic, he drew people in—especially the girls—without even trying. Meanwhile, Ian followed every rule: strict diets, grueling gym routines, and endless rehearsals of clever pickup lines. Yet no matter how hard he worked, it was always John who they noticed.

When Ian finally landed his dream job, he thought he'd left John behind for good. But no—John still outshined him, breezing through QA tests and earning glowing praise from their shared boss. Ian had swallowed bitter defeat then, but this? This was worse.

Now, in the live game—his chance to finally get ahead—John was back. And not just back, but transformed. Now a girl. A beautiful one. And if that weren't enough, a hero.

A hero.

The phone rang as Ian's fist crashed onto the desk, the wood groaning under the force. His jaw clenched. John hadn't admitted the truth, but Ian knew. He'd always known.

"Yes?" A cool female voice answered at last.

"You were right," Ian hissed, venom dripping from his words. "It's him. I'm in. I don't care what it takes—I'm going to ruin his game."

"Perfect," the voice replied, calm and calculated. "We've determined that pushing the target's friend—Damon—will provoke him. His file shows a history of volatility."

Ian blinked. Damon? Violence? "Are you sure?" he asked, skepticism cutting through his anger. "Damon's tame. He wouldn't—"

"We're positive. He's a critical part of the plan. But if Damon fails, you'll need to step in."

Ian exhaled sharply, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles whitened. "Fine," he growled. "Whatever it takes."

***

Sunlight filtered across my face, and I stirred, stretching out. Wait—where the hell am I? The bed I was in definitely wasn't mine. As I looked around, the word "luxurious" leaped into my mind. The furnishings, the tasteful decor... This had to be Lucas's bedroom. A slight sense of ease washed over me, and I even managed a small smile.

What? No! I jolted up and threw the blanket off. Clad in just a long-sleeve black shirt with a weird, anonymous mask printed on it, I scrambled around the room. My heart raced as I took in the sight of various items scattered across the floor—my left shoe, my bra, my other shoe. What the hell happened last night?

The last clear memory I had was seeing Ian's face as he walked into the bar, and then whiskey. A lot of whiskey. Beyond that, it was just a blur—vague impressions of navigating a restroom, everything hazy after that.

I can't believe it. This body is so pathetic it can't even handle three drinks without crashing.

I quickly put my bra back on, slipped the shirt over it, and kicked those traitorous shoes into the corner. Evil things! Taking a cautious peek through the slightly cracked bedroom door, I saw the coast was clear—no one lingering in the living room.

Relieved, I opened the door wider and padded toward the kitchen, yawning. The aroma of melting butter and something delicious sizzling on the stove hit me, and I found Lucas cooking up breakfast, the smell alone making my stomach growl.

But how was I supposed to ask him what happened? Was it okay to just... ask? As I settled at the table, still chewing over how to phrase it, Lucas placed a steaming omelet in front of me. "Good morning, Charlie," he greeted with a gentle smile.