Aria's eyes snapped open.
The blinding Manhattan sunlight stabbed her retinas, forcing a sharp, desperate gasp from her lungs. She choked on the conditioned air, her chest heaving as if she had just been pulled from the bottom of a freezing ocean.
Her fingers curled inward, digging into the mattress. The fabric beneath her nails was impossibly soft. High-thread-count Egyptian cotton. The physical friction grounded her, sending a jolt of reality through her nervous system. She was alive. She had a body.
A flat, synthetic voice echoed directly inside her skull.
"Handler 377 confirming successful binding to Eternity Inc. system."
Aria clamped her hands over her ears, but the sound wasn't coming from the room. A spike of pure agony drove itself into her right temple. Her spine arched off the mattress as a massive stream of data forced its way into her brain.
The Sterling Contract. A lifestyle agreement. A bankrupt Long Island family. A ruthless Wall Street predator.
Her stomach rolled. The physical toll of the information dump left her muscles twitching, but the cold, hard truth settled in her chest like a stone. She was a dead Hollywood actress. If she wanted to breathe real air again, she had to play the role of the tragic, helpless female lead in this pathetic script.
Aria dropped her hands. Though her temples still throbbed with a dull, echoing ache, she forced her chest to rise and fall in a steady rhythm. The panic drained from her veins, replaced by the icy, calculated focus she always felt right before the director yelled action. It was the professionalism carved deep into her bones.
The sound of running water stopped.
Aria froze. The physical noise broke her internal connection with the system. She looked toward the far end of the massive suite.
The frosted glass door of the bathroom swung open. A thick cloud of white steam rolled out over the dark hardwood floor, and a tall, broad-shouldered shadow stepped through it.
Aria pulled her knees to her chest, dragging the heavy duvet up to her chin. Her body naturally folded into a defensive, trembling posture. It was muscle memory. Play the victim. Look small.
Bowen Greene walked into the light. He wore a black silk bathrobe loosely tied at his waist. Drops of water fell from his dark, messy hair, landing on his collarbone.
He stopped at the edge of the rug and stared down at her.
Aria looked at his face. Her professional brain immediately categorized him. Strong jawline, intense dark eyes, a straight nose. It was a perfect movie face. A ten out of ten.
Bowen rolled his shoulders back. He opened his mouth, and his voice came out in a forced, gravelly tone that sounded like he had practiced it in front of a mirror.
"You need to wake up and face reality."
It was the exact cadence of a cheap internet Alpha Male tutorial. Aria almost cringed.
A transparent blue screen popped up right in front of her eyes. It was the system interface, displaying her required reaction: [Tremble. Look away in fear.]
The sudden flash of the screen caused Aria's eyes to pause for a fraction of a second. She stared blankly at the space near Bowen's chest.
Bowen saw her frozen stare. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cold, satisfied smirk. He thought his intimidating presence had paralyzed her.
Suddenly, the blue screen flickered. The text turned into a mess of scrambled symbols. The system crashed.
Aria blinked. The script was gone. She was flying blind.
She didn't panic. She was an Oscar winner. She knew exactly what this scene needed.
Aria relaxed her jaw and widened her eyes. In less than two seconds, a pool of tears gathered in her lower lash line. She held her breath, forcing the blood to rush to her face, making her look flushed and fragile. One perfect tear balanced on the edge of her eyelid, refusing to fall. It was the ultimate picture of broken innocence.
Bowen's smirk vanished.
His eyes locked onto that single tear. A flash of genuine panic crossed his face. His right foot shifted backward, a tiny, clumsy stumble that completely ruined his ruthless billionaire posture.
He turned his head away sharply. He walked over to the marble wet bar, putting his back to her.
He grabbed a heavy crystal decanter. He poured whiskey into a glass.
The ice cubes hit the sides of the glass. The sharp, high-pitched clinking sound echoed loudly in the dead silence of the penthouse.
Aria watched his back. The muscles under his black silk robe were locked tight. His shoulders were practically touching his ears. He was terrified of her crying.
Aria pushed the duvet aside.
She swung her bare legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched the thick Persian rug. She dragged her toes slightly, making a soft, deliberate brushing sound against the wool.
Bowen heard it. He spun around so fast the whiskey sloshed over the rim of his glass, splashing onto the marble counter.
Aria took a step forward. She kept her voice barely above a whisper, lacing it with a trembling, magnetic vulnerability.
"Bowen."
His Adam's apple bobbed hard. He swallowed heavily, his dark eyes wide as he stared at her bare shoulders.
The system screen sparked back to life in her vision. Handler 377 flashed a bright red warning. [Plot deviation detected. Maintain safe distance.]
Aria smiled in her mind. I am the best actress in the world, she thought. I don't need a machine to tell me how to direct a scene.
She ignored the red text. She took another slow step toward him, closing the physical gap.
Bowen's chest rose and fell rapidly. His breathing was completely out of control. He gripped the crystal glass in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turned stark white.
Bowen slammed the whiskey glass down on the marble bar.
The violent crash of crystal against stone echoed through the penthouse. It was a desperate attempt to use physical noise to take back control of the room.
Aria didn't even blink. Her eyelashes remained perfectly still. She just stood there, watching his pathetic performance with calm, calculating eyes.
Bowen ground his teeth together. He remembered a scene from a trashy reality show he had watched the night before. He forced his face into a rigid mask of authority and spat out a command.
"Take off your clothes."
Aria rolled her eyes internally. The dialogue was worse than a B-list Hollywood movie.
Handler 377 flashed a frantic red light in her retinas. The system demanded she act humiliated. It wanted her to cross her arms, cry, and beg for mercy.
Aria ignored it. Fighting him would only drag out this terrible script. Obedience was the fastest way to end the scene.
She raised her right hand. Her fingers brushed against the thin silk strap of her nightgown.
Bowen's pupils dilated so fast his eyes looked almost entirely black. He hadn't expected her to actually do it. He expected a fight.
Aria flicked her index finger. The left strap slipped off her shoulder, exposing a large expanse of pale, bare skin.
Bowen stopped breathing. His lungs locked up. His gaze snapped away from her skin as if he had been burned, locking onto the floor-to-ceiling windows on his right.
But the morning sun was too bright. The glass acted like a perfect mirror, reflecting Aria's every move right back at him. He couldn't escape her image.
Aria noticed his desperate attempt to look away. She took a small step forward. Her bare toes almost brushed against the edge of his expensive leather slippers.
The silk nightgown slid down her body with a soft, whispering friction. It pooled in a dark puddle on the rug around her ankles.
Bowen's blood rushed to his head. A loud ringing noise filled his ears. His brain completely short-circuited.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything to regain his footing. His throat was so dry it felt like it was coated in sand. No sound came out.
Aria tilted her head. She noticed the tips of his ears. They were glowing a violent, bright red.
A single drop of warm, dark red liquid fell from Bowen's right nostril. It hit the white marble counter with a wet tap.
Aria froze. She stared at the spot of blood. The ruthless Wall Street predator was actually having a nosebleed just because a woman dropped her nightgown in front of him.
Bowen raised his hand slowly. He touched the skin above his lip. He looked down at his fingertips, seeing the smear of fresh blood. His face went completely slack with horror.
Aria bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She had to use every ounce of her professional training to stop herself from bursting into laughter.
She instantly changed her expression. Her eyes softened into deep, genuine concern.
She reached out her bare arm. Her cool fingertips pressed gently against the exposed skin of his chest, right where his robe hung open.
The second her skin touched his, she felt his pectoral muscle. It was locked as tight as a block of concrete.
Bowen jumped backward like he had been struck by lightning. His spine slammed hard against the edge of the bar.
He frantically wiped the back of his hand across his nose, smearing the blood across his cheek. He was trying to scrape together whatever dignity he had left.
Aria let her voice drip with sweet, innocent concern. "Do you want me to call a doctor for you?"
Her eyes, however, danced with pure mockery.
Bowen's face flushed a deep, furious purple. "Shut up!" he barked.
His voice cracked on the second word, pitching up into an embarrassing squeak.
He spun around, his bare feet slipping slightly on the polished floor. He practically ran toward the bathroom, his broad shoulders hunched in total defeat.
The heavy bathroom door slammed shut behind him. A second later, the loud rush of the shower turning on full blast echoed through the wall. Cold water.
Aria bent down. She picked up her silk nightgown and slipped it back over her head.
She looked at the empty air where the system screen usually hovered.
"This is your male lead?" she said out loud, her voice dripping with ice.
The sound of the shower finally stopped.
Inside the bathroom, Bowen grabbed a thick towel and scrubbed the cold water from his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and forced himself to take ten deep, slow breaths.
He pulled the belt of his black robe tight, knotting it aggressively. He convinced himself the nosebleed was just dry air. He was Bowen Greene. He was a monster in the boardroom. He could handle one woman.
He pushed the bathroom door open and marched back into the living room. His eyes locked onto Aria.
Aria was sitting sideways on the expensive leather sofa. She was holding a heavy silver lighter she found on the coffee table, flipping the lid open and shut with a rhythmic, metallic click. She didn't even look up when he walked in.
Bowen walked over and stopped right in front of her. He stood tall, trying to cast a dark shadow over her body.
He cleared his throat. He dropped his voice into a deep, vibrating register that sounded completely unnatural.
"Don't think you've won anything, woman."
Aria's left eyebrow twitched. The forced gravel in his voice was physically painful to listen to.
Before she could speak, Handler 377 flashed a bright gold notification box across her vision.
[High-Reward Task Triggered: Counter the male lead's provocation. Say the exact phrase: "Is that it?" with a mocking expression. Reward: Flawless Skin Gene Upgrade.]
Aria's heart skipped a beat. As an actress whose face was her entire livelihood, a genetic skin upgrade was worth more than a million dollars. She accepted the task instantly.
Aria snapped the silver lighter shut. She slowly lifted her chin.
Her eyes started at Bowen's face. She dragged her gaze down his neck, over his chest, and let it drop lower.
She intentionally stopped her eyes right at the knot of his bathrobe, staring directly at his crotch.
Bowen felt the physical weight of her stare. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. His knees jerked, and he subconsciously pressed his legs closer together.
Aria let out a short, breathy laugh. The sound bounced off the high ceiling, filled with absolute contempt.
She tilted her head to the side. She curled her upper lip into a perfect sneer, mixing pity with disgust.
"Is that it?" she asked.
The three words hit Bowen like a physical blow to the stomach.
His jaw dropped. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock. It was as if she had just pulled a gun and shot him in the chest.
The fragile shell of his male ego shattered into a million pieces. His bottom lip actually trembled.
He raised a shaking finger, pointing at her. He opened his mouth, but his brain couldn't form a single word of defense. He just stood there, stuttering over empty air.
A sharp, pleasant chime rang in Aria's head. [Task Complete. Reward Distributed.]
A rush of cool, minty energy washed over Aria's body. She felt her pores tighten. The dull ache of exhaustion vanished from her face.
She lifted her hand and stared at the back of it. The skin, which had felt slightly dry and tight just moments ago, was now as smooth as silk, even glowing with a healthy radiance under the light.
Aria smiled, completely mesmerized by her own hand. She ignored the towering man standing in front of her.
Bowen sucked in a ragged breath. He desperately tried to glue his pride back together. "I... I was just off my game today. The market was stressful."
Aria didn't look at him. She just gave a vague, dismissive nod, waving her perfect hand in the air. "Sure. I'm very busy right now."
A crushing wave of defeat slammed into Bowen. His brutal negotiation tactics, the ones that made old Wall Street billionaires sweat, were completely useless against her.
He grabbed a handful of his damp hair and yanked it in frustration. He spun on his heel and walked stiffly toward the master bedroom. He needed to hide.
The bedroom door clicked shut.
Aria stood up. She walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling mirror near the entryway to inspect her new face.
She touched her cheek. It was flawless. She realized right then that this system wasn't a curse. It was a tool. And she was going to use it to bleed this world dry.
