I stared at the ceiling, counting the holes in the acoustic tiles—143, and yes, I recounted because OCD is fun when you're bleeding out—and felt something click in my brain like a fat cockhead popping past a too-tight ring.

Pain was there, sure, five bullets still screaming in every direction, but my brain had switched modes.

Silver lining. Huge. Perfect. Exploitable. Delicious. Dripping with opportunity like the monster I was planning to shove down Dmitri's throat before I ended him.

The incident had made national news. Teen shot five times at birthday party. Critical condition.

Local channels were jerking off on the hour, parking garage shots in glorious fluorescent detail—blood puddles glistening like the horror set of a bad teen slasher, ambulances screaming, witnesses trembling, valets still twitching like caffeinated marionettes.

The anchors spat theories—gang hits, professional vendettas, random chaos—the usual bullshit that makes people click "next story" and feel morally outraged.

What they didn't have was follow-up. Because I had locked it down. ARIA had my medical records tighter than a celebrity's DMs. Private. Confidential. Sealed.

If anyone asked, Peter Carter was either dead or dying—flaccid, broken, a public tragedy waiting for Instagram sympathy.

Including everyone at Lincoln High.

I grinned anyway. Pain be damned. Five holes plugging up like a gangbang aftermath in the annals of anatomy. Perfect.

I could milk this. Stretch it. Milk it slow. Stroke it until the world oozed pity and fear in equal measure. Brain damage. Coma. Rehabilitation. Whatever story kept me out of fluorescent classrooms and away from Connor's TikTok of me blinking like a mortal.

And with Ava's CIA connections? I could make sure no one—not administrators, nosy teachers, or paparazzi wannabes—got within a mile of this VIP room.

Doors locked. Security protocols tighter than a Hollywood PR's bullshit promises.

Family only. No questions. Asses covered.

Then it hit me. Two identities, one solution, zero fucks given. Peter + Eros = total domination.

Peter Carter: hospital bed, five holes, limp cock, broken but publicly mourned. Publicly sad. Publicly unavailable.

Eros Velmior Desiderion: fully functional, ready to operate, hunt, destroy, and make sure the people who put me in a bed like that were either weeping, cowering, or bleeding themselves. Cock hard, veins screaming vengeance, balls heavy with hate.

No one would connect the dots. Not even vaguely. Peter's wounds were real; his public death narrative plausible.

Eros? Predator mode. Stalker mode. Destroyer mode.

I could be in two places at once. Hospital-bound Peter bleeding out in dramatic slow motion for PR purposes.

Meanwhile, Eros was planning routes, angles, kill orders, and weapon placements for everyone who'd had the audacity to put my family in the crosshairs. All while simultaneously imagining Dmitri's face when I shoved the metaphorical monster down his throat.

Perfect.

I let the grin spread, teeth glinting under fluorescent hospital lights, and whispered to no one, "This is going to be fun."

The realization hit me like a gift from the universe, and I couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up—low, dark, deeply satisfied, rumbling from my balls.

"ARIA, this is fucking brilliant."

"What's brilliant?" Her voice carried cautious confusion.

"This." I gestured at my bandaged body, the hospital room, the situation—five bullet holes now pussy-pink and healing.

"All of this. I can dodge school for three months. Maybe more. Play the injured teenager while Eros handles business. No one questions where Peter Carter is because everyone thinks he's here recovering. Meanwhile, I'm free to do whatever the hell I need to do—fuck, kill, conquer."

Silence for a beat. Then: "You're happy about getting shot."

"I'm happy about the opportunities getting shot provides. There's a difference."

"That's deeply concerning."

"That's strategic thinking." My grin widened, teeth bared like a wolf scenting cunt.

"Bwahahaha. Oh my god, this is perfect. No more history class. No more pretending to care about the Napoleonic Wars. No more lunch room politics. Just—" I made a dismissive gesture, fingers slick with imagined blood.

"—'Sorry, still recovering from that time I got shot five times on my birthday. Can't attend. Doctor's orders.'"

"You're seventeen and already mastering insurance fraud."

"It's not fraud if I actually got shot."

"Fair point."

"How long until Ava arrives?"

"Twenty-eight minutes. She's landing at Burbank, driving straight here."

Twenty-eight minutes. Enough time to prepare— my cock was throbbing together with my heart, ready to unleash.

I shifted in the bed, ignoring the protest from healing wounds, and focused inward. Called up the system interface that floated in my consciousness like a HUD only I could see—glowing, pulsing, erect.

The system shop materialized—categories branching out in elegant menus that had grown more sophisticated over the months I'd been using them, fucking the system for power.

Two main branches appeared first:

[TECH CATEGORY] - Glowing blue, sharp edges, the aesthetic of advanced science—cold, hard, mechanical thrusts.

[FANTASY CATEGORY] - Glowing gold, flowing script, the aesthetic of magic and myth—hot, wet, primal rutting.

I selected Fantasy.

More categories bloomed:

[CONSUMABLES]

[SEX]

[EQUIPMENT]

[ENHANCEMENTS]

[SUMMONS]

[ABILITIES]

I'd browsed most of these before, but Consumables had always been deep—hundreds of items, thousands of variations. Pills that increased strength. Elixirs that enhanced senses. Potions that did things modern medicine would call impossible—cocks growing, cunts gushing, orgasms eternal.

I selected Consumables, and subcategories appeared:

[HEALING]

[ENHANCEMENT]

[BUFFS]

[DEBUFFS]

[UTILITY]

Healing. That's what I needed—to fix this shot-up meat so I could ram it back into action.

The section opened, and I scrolled through options that made my eyes widen despite having seen some of this before:

Minor Healing Pill - 50 SP - Closes superficial wounds, reduces recovery time by 30%

Moderate Healing Elixir - 200 SP - Repairs muscle and bone damage, reduces recovery time by 60%

Advanced Regeneration Draught - 500 SP - Accelerates cellular regeneration, heals most injuries within 24 hours

Perfect Recovery Serum - 800 SP - Removes scars, restores damaged tissue to pristine condition

And then, near the top of the advanced section:

[CRITICAL HEALING POTION - 1,000 SP]

I selected it, and the description expanded:

[Emergency-grade healing solution. Capable of pulling subjects back from death's threshold. Repairs catastrophic damage including: severed arteries, organ failure, compound fractures, severe blood loss. Healing process begins immediately upon consumption and completes within one hour. Note: Heals injuries and wounds only. Cannot cure diseases, toxins, or genetic conditions. Recommended for life-threatening trauma.]

One thousand SP. About a hundred grand in conversion value—worth every drop of cum I'd earned it with.

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