I'd been browsing the system shop more thoroughly these past weeks, discovering sections I'd barely touched before.

The healing category alone was a goldmine—miraculous pills and elixirs people would kill for if they knew they existed. Stuff that made modern medicine look like medieval bloodletting—or amateur foreplay.

I confirmed the purchase.

[1,000 SP DEDUCTED]

[CRITICAL HEALING POTION ACQUIRED... MATERIALIZING...]

The air beside my bed shimmered, and suddenly a glass vial appeared—just materialized like the universe had copy-pasted it into reality, wet and ready.

The vial was elegant despite its contents looking anything but. Dark glass, almost black, with silver filigree etched into the surface in patterns that seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly at them—like veins pulsing under skin.

About the size of a shot glass, heavy for its size, warm to the touch like a freshly drained ball sack.

I twisted the silver stopper, and the smell hit immediately.

Dark. Earthy. Like someone had distilled a forest floor after rain, added iron and old leather, then aged it in a barrel made from wood that had never seen sunlight. Not pleasant exactly, but not unpleasant either. Just... primal. Ancient.

The smell of something that existed before medicine had Latin names—before cunts had names, just holes to fill.

I brought it to my lips and drank.

The taste was worse than the smell. Sour enough to make my mouth pucker, bitter like swallowing coffee grounds mixed with vinegar, with an aftertaste that somehow combined metal and honey in a way that shouldn't work but did—like cum and pussy juice mixed.

I grimaced, forced it down, and waited.

For about three seconds, nothing happened.

Then my entire body ignited.

Not pain—though my brain interpreted it as pain for half a second before realizing it was something else entirely.

Heat. Intense, consuming heat that started in my stomach and exploded outward through every vein, every nerve, every cell—like liquid fire pumping through my cock, making it throb hard.

I felt my bullet wounds moving. Tissue knitting together at impossible speed, muscle fibers weaving like thread on a loom operated by invisible hands—wet, sloppy, healing slurp.

Bones that had cracked straightened and fused with crunching pops. The punctured lung reinflated with a sudden pop that made me gasp, air flooding back like cum down a throat. Shattered ribs ground together and became whole, clicking into place.

It was like watching a video of an injury healing played at a thousand times normal speed, except I could feel every microsecond of it—flesh pulsing, blood rushing, skin sealing with wet kisses.

The bandages around my shoulder grew tight as the exit wound closed from the inside out, pushing out old blood in thick clots.

The gauze on my chest darkened with blood pushed out as new skin formed beneath, pink and fresh. My thigh throbbed once, hard, and I heard the pins in my femur ping as they became unnecessary, bone now solid enough to bear weight—or pound pussy.

One hour, the description had said.

It took forty minutes.

When it finished, I sat up—carefully at first, then with growing confidence as I realized nothing hurt. Nothing pulled. Nothing ached. My cock even twitched, fully hard, ready.

I unwrapped the bandages slowly, letting them fall to the bed in bloody strips—soaked, crusty, filthy.

Underneath: perfect skin.

Not healed skin. Not scarred skin. Perfect skin, like the bullets had never touched me—smooth, taut, begging to be marked again.

I flexed my shoulder—full range of motion. Took a deep breath—both lungs working flawlessly, chest expanding. Stood up from the bed—leg bearing weight without tremor, cock swinging free.

"Holy shit," I whispered, voice thick.

"Your vitals just went from 'recovering trauma patient' to 'Olympic athlete,'" ARIA said, and I could hear the astonishment. "Peter, what did you just take?"

"Something expensive." I moved to the small mirror mounted on the wall, examined myself. The reflection showed exactly what I felt: completely healed, muscles rippling, cock throbbing. "And effective."

I was still wearing the hospital gown, which looked ridiculous now that I wasn't actually dying—tenting at the front. I needed clothes. Needed to prepare—cock out, ready to fuck the world.

"ARIA, when Ava arrives, I need you to brief her on the plan."

"What plan?"

"We're going hunting. Tonight. She gets here, I explain what I need her to do, then we move on Dmitri and Volkov—balls deep."

"Peter, she's bringing a team. CIA tactical response. They're not going to just let you—"

"The team stays here. Watches the empty room. Maintains the illusion that Peter Carter is still in bed recovering."

I started pacing, energy flooding my system now that it wasn't being used to heal catastrophic damage—

"But Ava and I? We go alone. I'm not showing my full capabilities to a dozen CIA operatives who'll file reports. This stays between people I trust—people I fuck or kill for."

"And you trust Ava."

"She's earned it. Plus, she's about to get a present."

"What kind of present?"

"Tell me—when the Hunters and THEM arrive.

"Should I bring two cars or two motorcycles?"

The Hunters. My personal security bikes— deadly. I'd been building them carefully over months. Soo-Jin commanded her own unit now. She had her custom motorcycle, beyond futuristic—vibrating seat for extra fun.

It was time Ava got hers—sleek, black, purring like a wet cunt.

Silence from ARIA for a moment.

I'd built five bikes. One for each. Soo-Jin has hers. Ava's getting hers tonight—ride it hard.

"Two motorcycles then. For you and Ava."

"Perfect. And ARIA? Bring three of Them too here not just out there."

"Three of the them? To a hospital?"

"Not inside, genius. Nearby. Perimeter security. Anyone following Ava, anyone watching the hospital, anyone even thinking about making a move—they handle it—rip throats, fuck corpses."

"Understood. Deploying assets now."

I looked at myself in the mirror one more time. Perfect health. Perfect condition. Ready to move—cock leaking, balls full.

Dmitri thought he'd put me down. Volkov thought his perfect record was intact because I'd died in surgery.

They were both about to learn a very expensive lesson.

You don't shoot at my family and expect to live long enough to try again.

Tonight, we were going hunting.

And when we found them?

They were going to wish Volkov's aim had been better—begging for mercy while I fucked their world raw.

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