Chapter 2: Happy Birthday Brother!

Chapter 2: Happy Birthday Brother!

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The rhythmic, high-pitched chirp of a vitals monitor dragged me back to consciousness. Every blink was a battle. A blinding, white-hot agony split my skull wide open. Ironically, the lingering pain from the punches and boots wasn't the main culprit. The real damage was the sheer mass of raw, unadulterated knowledge currently being forcefully hardwired into my gray matter.

I lay perfectly still, instinctively cataloging my physical state. Four bruised ribs. A minor concussion. Mild fever. The sudden spike in body temperature was a textbook physiological response to an overclocked brain trying to process a massive, sudden influx of external clues.

IV lines, my mind supplied automatically, presenting the exact sequence needed to safely remove the needles without tearing the veins. Nifty.

"First, let's silence the snitch," I muttered, my voice a dry rasp.

My sister, Mary, was slumped in a vinyl chair right beside the bed, dead to the world. I carefully reached over, examined the digital interface of the bedside unit, and systematically shut down the alarms before flipping the master switch. No alarms sounded at the central nurses' station.

I pulled the tape from my forearm, slid the IV needles out with practiced precision, and applied pressure with a piece of gauze. Spotting my charts at the foot of the bed, I snatched the medical file and flipped it open.

According to the admittance notes, I had suffered a violent grand mal seizure shortly after being wheeled into the ER. The doctors blamed the trauma of the assault. I knew better. It was the system brutally shoving high-level skills into a fragile human vessel. The charts showed my vitals had been completely stable for the last two hours. Good enough for me.

Swiveling my legs over the edge, my bare soles met the freezing linoleum floor. The chill barely registered. Without even realizing it, my body had automatically adopted a low-profile posture, activating my newly acquired Stealth skill. I moved like a phantom across the room, leaving no sound, no heavy breathing, and no shifting weight to disturb the quiet ward.

"Shit," I whispered, glancing down. The medical staff had completely sheared through my clothes to treat the trauma. All that remained of my favorite shirt was a pile of bloody rags in a biohazard bin.

The soft rustle of a curtain being pulled back cut through the silence. Someone was coming.

Before the woman could fully step into the cubicle, I shifted my weight, closed the distance instantly, and pressed my palm firmly over her mouth. I raised my index finger to my lips, casting a pointed glance toward my sleeping sister.

As my eyes adjusted, the details of the intruder came into sharp focus. I slowly lowered my hand, reading the plastic rectangle pinned to her white coat.

"Please, keep it down," I whispered, leaning close enough to catch the subtle, intoxicating scent of jasmine and clean linen. "If my sister wakes up right now, she’s going to get emotional, and an emotional cop is highly unreasonable. Talk quietly, Dr. Hana Chang."

Dr. Chang was a striking woman, easily in her mid-twenties—exceptionally young for an attending ER physician. She was tall, with a commanding presence wrapped in an undeniable aura of refined intelligence. Her long blonde hair was pinned up in a deliberately loose, messy bun, framing a pair of piercing, smoky blue eyes that looked me up and down with intense scrutiny.

She looked at the dark monitor screen, the severed IV lines, and then down at the official medical file gripped tightly in my hand.

"How exactly do you know how to bypass a hospital network?" Dr. Chang asked, her voice a hushed, dangerous purr. "The central desk should have flooded this room with security the moment you pulled those leads. And you shouldn't even be vertical, Mr. Lee. You lost enough blood last night to put a grown man in a coma."

"Don't worry, Doctor, I’ve spent more than my fair share of time around sterile corridors," I replied, offering a smooth, calculated smile. "I’ve already done a full neurological and musculoskeletal self-assessment. I’m perfectly fine to move around, provided I don't do any heavy lifting for the next twenty-four hours. As for the seizure? Just a minor neurological glitch. The beating stirred up some deeply suppressed, long-lost memories. My brain was just sorting through the archives."

She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, clearly trying to use her clinical authority to intimidate me back into the sheets. "Mr. Lee, this is my emergency department, and you are not crossing that threshold until I perform a proper clearance exam. Sit. Down."

Leaning back against the edge of the mattress, I activated my Acting skill, letting a roguish, dimpled grin split my swollen lip. I gave her a slow, deliberate wink. "Well, those bastards smashed my phone, so I can't ask for your number right now. But I suppose a private consultation over lunch would be an acceptable alternative."

Dr. Chang bit her lower lip, a genuine grin breaking through her strict professional facade as she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Well, that little routine might actually be charming if you didn't currently look like a mutated panda bear, Mr. Lee. Your cognitive functions and sense of humor seem fully intact, but sit tight anyway."

She pulled a diagnostic penlight from her pocket, clicking it on to check my pupillary response. She ran through a battery of rapid neurological tests, strobing the light in a specific pattern to ensure my seizure threshold had stabilized. Finally, she pressed her fingertips firmly against my lower rib cage.

I gritted my teeth against the sharp, white-hot flare of agony, but didn't make a sound.

She grimaced, feeling the deep, angry contusions. "Alright, Mr. Lee. You’re incredibly lucky. I'm signing your discharge paperwork. Take Officer Lee home, and strictly bed rest for the next twenty-four hours. Do you need a medical exemption note for your academy classes?"

I narrowed my bruised eyes and shook my head. "My good friend Scott Tang is relying heavily on me showing up to class," I said, my voice dropping to a soft, dangerous undertone. "Don't worry, Doc. I know exactly how to heal. Thanks for the save. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the company, but let's make sure our next meeting isn't under fluorescent hospital lights."

Dr. Chang shook her head with a wry, amused smile and slipped out through the privacy curtains.

I turned back to my exhausted sister, stepping silently over to her chair. I gently stroked the top of her head, noticing the heavy, puffy bags under her eyes from a full night of crying.

"Sis," I murmured softly, shaking her shoulder. "Time to wake up, sleepyhead."

Mary’s eyes fluttered open behind her wire-rimmed glasses. Her gaze drifted from my swollen, split lip to the massive black-and-blue bruising covering my face.

"I've been officially cleared, Sis," I said, gesturing to the open doorway. "Let's go home and sleep this off. Wait—stop—fuck!"

Before the words could fully leave my mouth, Mary bolted upright and threw her arms around my neck, squeezing me with the force of a hydraulic press. A brutal, agonizing ache shot straight through my bruised ribs.

"Gentle, you damn Amazon!" I choked out, managing a strained laugh despite the blinding pain. "They're going to drag me right back into admissions if you break what's left of my skeleton!"

She pulled back, her hands gripping my sore shoulders as she glared at me, her face a mask of fury and raw heartbreak. "You almost died last night, Rick! I can't lose you too. We lost Mom and Dad, and now this? Tell me the truth—was it Scott Tang's crew?!"

I picked up her heavy leather jacket and tactical bag from the floor, throwing them over my arm. "Let's move. I'm completely naked under this thin paper gown, and we can discuss the local nobility in the security of the car."

Recognizing the futility of an argument in a public corridor, Mary sucked in a sharp breath, nodded, and led the way out toward the blinding midday sun of the hospital parking lot.

We climbed into her battered, faded two-door sedan. Mary turned the ignition, the engine catching with a rough, uneven idle. She shifted into reverse, the gears grinding with a harsh, metal-on-metal thud that made my newly unlocked Driving skill scream in sympathetic agony. She was absolutely obliterating her synchros and killing her transmission with every single shift.

"Brother, how are you really feeling?" she asked softly, keeping her eyes glued to the asphalt road as we pulled out into traffic. "I hate this. I hate being completely useless."

I watched her profile, seeing the utter helplessness etched into her features. In this city, the corporate nobility got away with everything. Even with her badge, the internal affairs division and the high courts wouldn't touch a high-born bloodline unless they were caught red-handed with a smoking gun.

And the smart ones always insulated themselves, using low-tier street thugs and desperate servants to execute their dirty work to completely avoid administrative blowback.

"Don't worry about it," I said, my voice cold, steady, and utterly devoid of the fear she expected. "I won't ever let myself be caught off guard again. I was careless, Mary. But those trust-fund parasites can't touch me anymore. I promise you that."

Even with my eyes swollen nearly shut, an undeniable shift in my aura filled the cramped cabin of the sedan. Mary glanced at me, a sudden realization dawning on her. The weak, predictable boy who went down in an alley last night was gone. Standing in his place was an adult whose confidence bordered on predatory.

A small, sad smile touched her lips. "I almost forgot... happy birthday, little brother. What a thoroughly crappy way to spend your eighteenth, right?"

"No," I replied, watching the city streets flash past. "To be completely honest, last night made me feel like the Azure Dragon itself looked down and took pity on my pathetic existence. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can tear down any obstacle in my way. I’m going to completely ace the entrance exams, get into Star University, and secure a fortune. I'm taking care of you for a change, sister."

Mary let out a soft laugh, clearly treating my sudden declaration as the naive, childish fantasy of a concussed teenager. "Yeah? Well, playing the role of a spoiled older sister living off her wealthy younger brother sounds like an absolute dream. Get rich quick, kiddo, I'm ready to retire."

We eventually arrived at our home—a weathered, six-story concrete apartment complex nestled in the lower-income district. We had been forced to liquidate our family home after our parents passed just to clear our outstanding medical debts and funeral expenses. The silver lining was this modest, one-bedroom unit on the fourth floor; we bought it outright when the housing market took a massive dive, ensuring we at least had a permanent roof over our heads. I took the living room couch; Mary took the bedroom.

We rode the creaking elevator up to the fourth floor and walked down the dimly lit hallway to apartment 4-7. Mary unlocked the deadbolt, throwing the door open.

"Sis, go grab a cold beer from the fridge and decompress," I said, heading straight for the bathroom. "Let me wash the hospital smell off myself, get some real clothes on, and then I’m fixing us a real dinner."

Mary stopped in her tracks, looking at me like I had grown a second head. "Did the blows scramble your frontal lobe? Rick, your culinary repertoire begins and ends with instant ramen. I am not eating sodium-flavored cardboard tonight."

I paused at the bathroom door, deploying my Acting skill with a defensive, playful shrug. "I’ve been secretly studying the culinary arts via late-night cooking channels for months. As a newly minted adult, I need to know how to fuel my body properly. No more couch potato status. I’m getting into peak physical form."

Mary stepped closer, her expression shifting back to deep maternal concern. She placed the back of her cool hand firmly against my forehead, checking for a recurring fever before a small smirk broke across her face. "Well, your skin is cool. I must have accidentally walked out of the ER with the wrong brother."

I flipped her a casual middle finger over my shoulder as she started laughing, stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind me.

Fifteen minutes later, after a scalding shower that washed away the dried blood and hospital antiseptics, I walked into our cramped kitchen. Mary was currently soaking in a hot bath, leaving me alone with our meager pantry. I raided the refrigerator, pulling out ground beef, onions, garlic, and a few wilting greens.

My Medicine skill instantly ran a biological breakdown of the ingredients, calculating exactly how the proteins, iron, and micronutrients would accelerate my cellular repair and reinforce my damaged bone tissue. A high-density meatloaf with seasoned, roasted vegetables was the optimal choice.

The absolute secret to a god-tier meatloaf is a thick, caramelized glaze made from a precise ratio of processed tomato ketchup and dark brown sugar.

By the time Mary emerged from the bathroom, her skin flushed pink from the steam, the small apartment was completely filled with the rich, savory aroma of baking meat and roasted garlic. She sat down at our small, two-person laminate dining table, her eyes widening in absolute shock as I set a perfectly glazed, steaming platter between us.

She took a hesitant, slow bite of the meatloaf. Her eyes instantly snapped wide open, shimmering with stars as the rich, savory flavors exploded across her palate, sending a literal jolt of pure culinary euphoria straight to her brain.

"Rick..." she breathed, looking at me as if I had just turned water into wine. "You are officially banned from ever letting me touch the stove again. This is absolutely incredible! How did you do this?"

For the next thirty minutes, the lingering horror of the previous night completely faded into the background. We ate like royalty in our tiny, run-down kitchen. It was the absolute best eighteenth birthday present I could have ever asked for.

Once the table was cleared, Mary walked over, wrapped her arms around my head from behind, and pressed a warm kiss to the crown of my hair.

"Goodnight, birthday boy," she whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion. "Don't stay up late. I have to catch the early morning tactical shift."

I watched her retreat into her bedroom, listening closely until the sound of her rhythmic breathing signaled she was completely dead to the world.

I waited another ten minutes, keeping the television on a low, droning static channel to mask any sudden noises. Once I was absolutely certain she wouldn't surprise me, I reached into the cushions of the couch, pulled out a long, flat-head screwdriver, and slipped over to the heavy iron floor vent hidden directly beneath the rear frame of the sofa.

I systematically backed out the two retaining screws, set them aside, and reached deep into the dusty structural recess. My fingers brushed against a heavy, textured polymer surface. I slowly hoisted out a massive, military-grade plastic transit case.

My mother and sister had absolutely no idea this case even existed. My father had shown it to me in absolute secrecy years ago, whispering that it was an insurance policy for a dark day. Back then, I was far too young, reckless, and inexperienced to handle the sheer weight of what lay inside. But tonight? Tonight, everything had changed.

A solitary tear slipped down my cheek as I looked at the black case, realizing my father was still protecting me from beyond the grave.

I sat cross-legged on the linoleum, spreading a clean, lint-free white cloth across the floor. I punched the five-digit mechanical combination into the locking lugs. Click. Click. Snap.

The heavy lid popped open, revealing a pristine, factory-new Beretta M9A4 9mm semi-automatic handgun, nestled in custom-cut dense foam alongside three ten-capacity magazines.

The moment my eyes locked onto the weapon, my newly unlocked Firearms skill surged to life. Thousands of hours of operational combat knowledge flooded my consciousness. I instantly understood its precise cycle of operation, its effective terminal ballistics, windage adjustments, mechanical tolerances, recoil impulse management, and specialized cleaning protocols.

Slide back. Chink. Thunk.

My hands moved with terrifying, fluid autonomy. Within thirty seconds, the weapon was completely field-stripped into its primary components. I picked up the cleaning rod and specialized oil from the case, systematically polishing the match-grade barrel, lubricating the slide rails, and tuning the trigger assembly until the mechanical action was as smooth as raw silk.

Chink. Chink. Chink. Chink.

I systematically pressed thirty rounds of high-velocity ammunition into the three steel magazines. A lot of tactical amateurs advocate for carrying ten-plus-one in the chamber, but in my current situation, leaving a live round sitting under a cocked hammer is a textbook definition of statistical stupidity.

If an eleventh bullet is your primary tactical insurance policy, you’re an absolute moron who shouldn't be handling a firearm in the first place. Never pull the trigger unless your sight alignment guarantees a fatal hit; it conserves ammunition and drastically mitigates the risk of an unpredictable collateral ricochet.

I engaged the frame-mounted decocker and safety lever, presenting the weapon in a low-ready stance to map the precise weight, ergonomics, and center of gravity of the Beretta.

Possessing the synthetic muscle memory and spatial intelligence of a master marksman is fundamentally different from pulling a physical trigger for the first time. It’s exactly like binging high-definition pornography to decipher the mechanics of human intimacy—your very first real-world performance is still going to be a wild, unpredictable ride.

Considering I was technically an untouched virgin in both of my lives, I couldn't definitively verify that specific analogy, but I had certainly consumed enough adult media across two separate realities to appreciate the sentiment.

I rapidly reassembled the Beretta, wiped down the workspace to ensure not a single trace of carbon or gun oil remained, and locked the case back inside its subterranean hiding spot beneath the couch.

My father had explicitly told me this specific piece of hardware was entirely clean—no registration trail, no ballistic profiling on file with the central bureau, and completely untraceable through standard law enforcement networks. As long as the physical frame wasn't recovered by forensics, it didn't exist.

My old man had procured it for the explicit purpose of neutralizing threats off the clock. He was a phenomenal police officer, but he wasn't blind to the inherent rot within the bureaucratic machine. Mary still possessed a rigid, naive devotion to the rule of law; she needed to learn the art of tactical flexibility, just like Dad.

The final phase of my evening required digital supremacy. I pulled my battered, mid-tier laptop onto my lap, fired it up, and instantly began completely scrubbing the operating system. The original network architecture was a joke—virtually transparent to any low-level corporate script-kiddie. But with my Computer Use active, I was about to turn this cheap consumer plastic into a digital fortress.

I completely wiped the hard drive, repartitioning the core logic areas from scratch and establishing a localized, encrypted kernel that bypassed standard internet service provider tracking algorithms.

Sitting in the absolute pitch-black of the living room, the cold blue light of the monitor illuminated a sinister, wide grin spreading across my face. My fingers danced across the mechanical keyboard like a concert pianist, executing a silent, multi-layered digital intrusion straight into Scott Tang’s personal smartphone. Within three minutes, I had completely mirrored his device, downloading his entire encrypted stash, private messaging history, cloud storage, and financial ledger.

"Holy shit, Scott..." I muttered, pausing as a series of hidden transactions flashed across my screen. "Your beloved twin sisters, Nadia and Nichole, are systematically draining your offshore accounts right under your arrogant fucking nose. And here I thought you guys were a tight-knit family."

My fingers didn't stop moving. The smirk on my face grew wider, sharper, and infinitely colder.

"Well, ladies... you took far too little. Let me help you balance the books."

I intercepted the twins' active extraction script, injected a custom piece of malicious code into the banking portal's interface, and added an extra zero to their current transaction string. The pending $100,000 transfer instantly morphed into a clean, unrecoverable $1,000,000 extraction, routed directly through a series of untraceable shell companies before settling into an anonymous wallet.

"A cool million looks so much better on a ledger," I chuckled softly to the empty room. "Oh, girls... you are completely, irrevocably ruined. High-tier hacking is way too much fun."

I slammed the laptop shut, connected it to the charger, and stretched out across the worn cushions of the couch, pulling the blanket up to my chin with a profound sense of absolute satisfaction....

Later that night, as Mary crept out of her bedroom to start her early morning shift, she stopped dead in the hallway, her skin prickling with goosebumps. She could have absolutely sworn she heard the distant, dark chuckling of a vengeful ghost echoing through the quiet apartment.