Ray started his shift feeling unusually chill right from the jump.
The gym was dead quiet tonight. Already past seven. Normally by now his bones would be screaming from hauling buckets and mopping the entire damn floor.
But today?
Everything got done stupid fast.
mbers dipped early. Nobody left random weights everywhere. Even the bathroom had stayed clean since the afternoon.
Ray was sprawled out on a bench near the dead cardio machines, legs stretched out, phone in hand—but he was barely scrolling.
"This is the most weekend-y weekend I’ve felt since I started working here," he muttered, satisfied.
"Chill as fuck."
The AC humd softly, cool air washing over him. No loud ego-lifters. No grunting. No chaos.
Ray leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-closed, a faint smirk on his face.
"That slap-grab..." he mumbled under his breath.
Turns out yesterday’s madness was still paying dividends—in the form of an empty-ass gym.
Ti crawled by, but in a good way. A legit chill Saturday night. The shift was still long, hours left before clock-out, but for once he didn’t feel rushed to escape back to his tiny-ass room.
Then—
The small office door opened.
Sonya stepped out.
Still in that black crop top and tight biker shorts.
She spotted Ray posted up like he owned the place and raised one eyebrow.
Ray flinched on instinct, about to stand up—
"Ray."
Her tone was flat. Not angry.
"Relax. It’s dead in here anyway. Nothing for you to clean."
Ray nodded and sank back down, pretending to focus on his phone.
"Yeah, ma’am. Mad quiet. Just chillin’."
Sonya shook her head slightly—then gave a rare, barely-there smile.
She was usually strict, always moving like a drill sergeant. Tonight, though, she felt different. Like Boss Mode was turned off.
She walked past him, grabbed a water bottle from the front desk, then headed back toward the office without another word.
Ray’s eyes didn’t lie.
They stayed glued to her backside.
Those tight shorts hugging everything just right. Perfect hip curves. Caral skin glowing under the bright gym lights.
His brain imdiately jumped the shark.
Damn... I wanna put so of my latte on them caral cheeks.
He instantly felt dumb as hell for thinking it—but still cracked a small, guilty grin.
His mind queued up a short, lightly nasty highlight reel on autopilot.
Ray settled back down, sinking deeper into the bench, legs stretched out slow like he was on so endless vacation. Phone up. Lazy doomscrolling. Eyes half-sleepy, but his brain was starting to wake up for real.
Then—
Boom.
A short video popped up.
50 million views.
So rapper collabing with a strear. Face covered in tribal tats down to his neck. Hair looking like a rainbow got murdered by spray paint. Jeans sagging just enough to flash designer boxers.
He stared straight into the cara, throwing gang signs, yelling with the raspiest, hardest voice possible:
"I WALK NII-CHAN DOWN, NII-CHAN!!"
Ray lost it instantly.
He burst out laughing under his breath, shoulders shaking.
"Bro... this ain’t even AI," he muttered, wiping his eyes. "Hahaha..."
It hit him then.
No matter how small the alter was, there would always be so kind of digital footprint left behind.
Caras everywhere. Strears everywhere. Every app pushing live content nonstop.
While he was still quietly chuckling, sothing caught his eye.
Floating in front of his chest—faint, translucent—was the fingerprint icon. Hovering there like a thin hologram.
Ray narrowed his eyes.
Yo... I can use this even when it’s not for a mission, right?
Without hesitation, he lifted his thumb and tapped the floating icon lightly.
A faint blue panel appeared—only visible to him.
---
[Host may use features outside of daily missions.]
[No usage restrictions as long as Alter Points cover the cost.]
---
Ray’s grin stretched ear to ear. His eyes sparkled like a kid who’d just discovered cheat codes.
"Hmmm..."
A low, mischievous chuckle slipped out.
"I’ve got a good idea."
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