Hunter stared at his status window, his eyes practically glued to the translucent text.
It took a long while for the adrenaline surging through his veins to settle into a steady, burning excitent.
"A Cheat Code. A genuine System Cheat!"
"I actually transmigrated, and I got a System to boot!"
"Hell yes!"
Sure, Hunter's "Goldfinger"—his cheat ability—seed incredibly basic. It didn't even co with a "Newbie Gift Pack," and he had to figure out all the functions himself.
But Hunter was more than satisfied.
He was in the world of Fast and Furious—a parallel universe based on the Hollywood blockbuster franchise he'd loved in his past life.
The thought alone made his blood pump faster.
Fast cars. Gorgeous won. High-stakes adventure and conflict!
What man could honestly say no to that kind of thrill?
However, once the initial rush faded, a creeping sense of dread began to set in.
Before he died, the Fast franchise had churned out eleven movies. Hunter had watched everything from the first film up to F9, plus the Hobbs & Shaw spinoff. The only one he hadn't seen yet was the latest installnt, Fast X.
The early movies were manageable. They were grounded stories about Dom and his crew using their driving skills and guts to navigate gang wars and heists.
But by the mid-to-late stages of the franchise, things went off the rails.
Super-organizations capable of global surveillance appeared. Villains started manipulating nuclear powers and wielding doomsday devices.
Cybernetically enhanced super-soldiers. Private armies ard to the teeth with air, land, and sea superiority.
Recalling those details, Hunter broke out in a cold sweat.
The world of Fast and Furious wasn't just about racing and adrenaline. It was a world teeming with lethal danger.
But the mont he rembered his new System, that fear evaporated.
"A Proficiency System..." Hunter mused. "Does this an I can turn any knowledge I learn into a quantifiable skill?"
The thought made him itch to test it out imdiately.
But then, he rembered the other notification from the chanical voice.
Personal Inventory Unlocked.
Hunter focused his mind on the concept of "Personal Space."
Instantly, he felt a connection to a void—a small, distinct pocket of space bound to his consciousness. It wasn't large; roughly one cubic ter (35 cubic feet).
Hunter looked around the apartnt. The sofa had a few throw pillows and so... adult magazinesscattered on it.
Without hesitation, Hunter grabbed a pillow and willed it into the inventory.
Zip. The pillow vanished from his hand.
In his mind's eye, he could "see" the worn pillow floating inside that mysterious cubic ter of space.
Next, he grabbed the magazines. Zip. Zip. They vanished just as easily.
He spent the next few minutes like a kid with a new toy, storing items and retrieving them repeatedly. It wasn't until he tried to store the entire sofa—and failed completely due to the size limit—that he finally stopped.
Hunter stood there, his face flushed with excitent, eyes burning with intensity.
No man could resist the allure of a secret, personal dinsion.
Even though, right now, Hunter didn't really have anything valuable enough to warrant such high-level security.
"Wait... no, that's not true!"
A mory sparked in his mind. Hunter bolted toward the bedroom.
The room was sparse—just a bed and two nightstands. Following Hunter's mories, he knelt before one of the nightstands and yanked the drawer open.
There it was.
Lying inside was a gun.
More accurately, it was a legend.
A Colt M1911 semi-automatic pistol. A classic design that had served for nearly a century.
This was Arica. Gun ownership wasn't just common; it was a way of life.
Los Angeles was a lting pot of immigrants and complex racial tensions. Discrimination was real, and Asian-Aricans often found themselves targeted.
People like Hunter usually kept a firearm at ho. When the police were minutes away, a gun was the only thing standing between you and a threat.
Hunter, like most n, had an innate fascination with firearms. In his past life, he was a bit of a "keyboard commando"—he knew the specs of famous guns but had never held a real one.
He picked up the Colt M1911, the cold steel heavy in his hand.
After inspecting it closely, he realized it was a modern production model chambered in 9mm.
Compared to the classic .45 ACP version—the "man-stopper" with its massive 11.43mm round—this 9mm version was definitely "safer" (neutered).
But a gun was still a gun. Even with less stopping power, it was lethal. Plus, 9mm ammo was cheap and easy to find.
Inside the drawer, he found two fully loaded magazines and three boxes of 9mm ammunition, 50 rounds each.
Hunter knew the laws here. Just because you could own a gun didn't an you could open carry it everywhere or shoot it for fun in the city.
Hunter's mories were clear on that. Coupled with the lingering dizziness from his concussion, Hunter suppressed the urge to run out and find a shooting range imdiately.
Instead, he focused his mind.
With a thought, the Colt M1911, the spare magazines, and the three boxes of ammo vanished.
Securely stored in his Personal Inventory.
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