Halie took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to slow. She tentatively reached out, her fingers passing straight through the blue holographic screen. It was an illusion of light, but the information it presented was terrifyingly real.

The Kismet System's mechanical voice echoed in her mind, a cold recitation of her current state.

"Subject: Halie Avila. Spiritual Power: D-Class. Physical Condition: Severe facial disfigurement, vital signs weak."

A red warning box flashed on the screen. "Alert: Genetic collapse in progress. Without immediate energy infusion for repair, subject will face organ failure within thirty days."

Halie clenched her jaw. The death clock didn't scare her. It focused her. "How do I get energy?" she asked the air, her voice steady.

The system's interface shifted, presenting three options for a main quest line. The first two were assassination missions, each with a mortality rate hovering over ninety percent.

Her eyes locked onto the third option, the one glowing with a soft, golden light: Save the sterile males of the galaxy. Obtain life energy by forming bonds.

Her rational mind, the mind of a top scientist from her past life, knew that hunting beasts with this broken body was suicide. She didn't hesitate. Her finger pressed the third option.

A pleasant chime sounded, and the screen erupted in a shower of golden fireworks. "Newbie gift package has been distributed."

A searing heat bloomed on her right wrist. She looked down to see a small, black tattoo of a Möbius strip materializing on her skin.

Acting on instinct, she focused her mind on the tattoo. The space in front of her warped, and she was sucked into a vortex of light.

She found herself standing in a pristine, white space. Her breath hitched. It was her lab. The state-of-the-art biomedical laboratory she had used back on her doomed planet, Blue Star. Every piece of equipment was exactly where it should be.

She rushed to a familiar sterile workstation, her fingers tracing the cool metal surface. A profound sense of security washed over her, a feeling she hadn't realized she'd been missing.

The lab's central computer lit up, informing her that her current access level was low. She could only use basic purification equipment and the storage space.

Halie wasn't discouraged. She knew that even with basic tools, her knowledge from a past life was enough to cause a storm in this world.

With a thought, she exited the space, returning to her trashed bedroom. The pain in her body seemed to have lessened, dulled by the surge of adrenaline and hope.

The system screen popped up again. "Please draw your first target." A deck of blurred photo cards spread across the display.

Halie randomly tapped the one on the far edge. The card flipped over, revealing the face of a man. He was hauntingly beautiful, with a chiseled jaw and silver hair, but his skin was unnaturally pale, and his eyes held a chilling emptiness.

"Target Information," the system intoned. "Coleman. S-Class male. Completely sterile due to a genetic defect. Exiled by his family to the Southern District."

Halie's memory banks churned. She realized with a jolt of dread that this Coleman was someone the original Halie had relentlessly bullied during their academy days, all to show off her own status.

She rubbed her temples, groaning in frustration. The original owner wasn't just a waste; she was an idiot who made enemies everywhere. This was a hell-difficulty start.

"Alert," the system chimed in. "Target's spiritual power is in a state of extreme instability, on the verge of a violent collapse. Host must proceed to pacify him within twelve hours, or the mission will fail and the host's genetic collapse will accelerate."

Halie opened her personal terminal, intending to check her assets and buy a ticket to the Southern District.

A glaring red notification filled the screen. All her primary accounts had been frozen by her family. Her remaining balance was a pathetic few hundred star coins.

A cold laugh escaped her. Seraphina had worked fast. The cold-blooded efficiency of the Avila family was on full display.

She turned and marched into the walk-in closet, rummaging through the original Halie's collection of luxury handbags and unopened, expensive jewelry.

Halie stuffed the gaudy, impractical items into a nondescript black duffel bag. They were her ticket to survival. She would sell them on the black market.

While clearing out a drawer, her fingers brushed against a formal-looking document. It was a military marriage matching notice, assigned by the Empire's central AI.

The groom's name was Erwin, a Major General in the military. But below his name, a stark red stamp declared that he had already filed a unilateral request for a forced dissolution of the match.

Halie stared at the arrogant red ink. Her first instinct was to tear the useless paper to shreds, but a cold, calculating light gleamed in her eyes.

"A unilateral dissolution without my signature? How convenient for you, General," she muttered, carefully folding the document and slipping it into her pocket.

It might be a useless match now, but in the political games of the capital, even a broken contract could be weaponized later. Right now, however, she had only one immediate priority: get money, get to the Southern District, and find Coleman to save her own life.

She changed into a set of practical black cargo pants and a hoodie, pulling the hood up to hide her scarred face. Hefting the heavy duffel bag, she walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Just as Halie pushed open the heavy iron gate at the back of the Avila villa, her terminal vibrated violently. Her father's name, Maximilian Avila, flashed on the screen.

She answered with a cold smile. Maximilian's furious roar blasted from the speaker, making her ear ache.

He screamed at her for hitting her sister, for shaming the family name. He officially, and with great relish, stripped her of her inheritance rights.

Then came the final judgment. "You are hereby exiled to the Southern District," he declared, his voice devoid of any warmth. "You can rot there for all I care."

Halie didn't cry or beg. Instead, a calm, almost pleased tone entered her voice. "Okay." Then she hung up.

The phone call had saved her the trouble of making an excuse to leave. Her destination was now officially sanctioned.

As dusk settled and a storm brewed on the horizon, she arrived at the underground black market. The hood of her sweatshirt and a deliberately lowered voice hid her identity.

She entered a dimly lit pawn shop, slamming the duffel bag onto the scratched counter. A cloud of dust puffed into the air.

The greedy pawnbroker tried to lowball her, his eyes glinting with the kind of disdain reserved for fallen aristocrats.

Halie said nothing. She simply let a tactical knife slide from her sleeve into her hand. She casually dragged the blade across the countertop, carving a deep, clean line into the wood.

The broker's eyes widened. The undisguised killing intent in her gaze made a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He quickly revised his offer to a fair market price, transferring the credits to her anonymous account.

With the money secured, Halie didn't waste a second. She hailed a battered hover-taxi on her terminal, paying a premium for a driver willing to go to the Southern District.

The taxi sped through the storm, the glittering neon lights of the city slowly giving way to decaying industrial ruins. The contrast was stark.

Halie leaned back and closed her eyes, replaying the system's data on Coleman, running through every possible scenario for their meeting.

Two hours later, the taxi screeched to a halt at the end of a pitted, unpaved street, kicking up a cloud of acrid dust.

"Out," the driver snapped, clearly anxious to leave. This place felt cursed.

Halie stepped out of the car. The wind whipped sand against her scarred cheeks, stinging her skin. She pulled her hood tighter.

Dragging her suitcase, she followed the weak signal on her terminal's map toward the only lit building in this wasteland: the Southern District Biological Research Institute.

The institute's gate was rusted and imposing. As she approached, two burly, hostile-looking guards blocked her path.

They mocked her hooded appearance and demanded a steep entrance fee.

Halie didn't argue. She slapped a wad of freshly exchanged cash onto one guard's chest and spoke a single name, her voice cold.

"Coleman."

At the mention of that name, the guards' expressions shifted. A flicker of fear, of apprehension toward that "mad scientist," crossed their faces. They silently stepped aside.

Halie walked through a dim, damp corridor. The air was a nauseating mix of disinfectant and the smell of something rotting, something vaguely plant-like.

She stopped in front of a heavy, sealed metal door. The name 'Coleman' was scrawled on it in faded red paint.

She took a deep breath. Just as she raised her hand to knock, a loud crash of shattering glass erupted from within, followed by a low, bestial growl.

A powerful wave of spiritual energy pulsed through the metal door, making her head spin. The system's red alert flashed frantically in her vision.

"Alert: Target Coleman is on the verge of a spiritual power riot. Danger level: SSS. Host is advised to evacuate immediately."

Halie didn't move. Her eyes narrowed. She entered the universal override code provided by the system. With a soft beep, the metal door hissed open.

The moment it opened, a violent gust of energy and glass shards blasted toward her. She instinctively threw her arm up to shield her face.

Through the gaps between her fingers, she saw him. The man in the center of the room, panting like a caged animal.

His silver-gray eyes locked onto hers, filled with nothing but the desire to destroy.

The violent energy subsided. Halie lowered her arm, her eyes taking in the devastation. The lab was a wreck, precision instruments shattered across the floor.

Coleman stood like a cornered wolf, his hands braced on a cracked metal workbench, his chest heaving. His knuckles were white from the force of his grip.

He slowly lifted his head. When he saw it was her-Halie-the rage in his silver-gray eyes was instantly replaced by a thick, choking wave of disgust and disbelief.

A hoarse, grating laugh escaped his throat, the sound of sandpaper on glass.

He started toward her, one slow step at a time. The pressure of his S-Class spiritual power descended on her like a physical weight, forcing her knees to tremble.

Halie gritted her teeth against the crushing pain in her bones. She bit her lip, straightened her spine, and met his murderous gaze without flinching.

He stopped just half a step away, towering over her. He sneered, his voice laced with mockery. "Well, well. Look what the storm dragged in. To what do I owe the honor, Your Highness? Have you come to slum it with the rats in the Southern District?"

Her mind reeled as the original Halie's memories flooded her. She saw it clearly now: the way the former heiress had used her own spiritual power to whip this man, this genius who had been cast out by his family simply because he was sterile.

Halie didn't answer his question. She just stared at him, her gaze calm and piercing, taking in the raw pain twisting his handsome features.

Her silence was the one thing he couldn't stand. It was the same look of detached pity she used to give him, the look that said he was less than trash. It broke him.

He lunged, his hand clamping around her throat. He slammed her back against the cold metal door with a sickening thud.

Halie's vision swam as her lungs screamed for air. Her hands clawed at his wrist, but his arm, though trembling violently, was like iron.

With his free hand, he ripped open the front of his coarse shirt. The sound of tearing fabric was unnaturally loud in the silent room.

The shirt fell away, revealing a back crisscrossed with old, faded scars. Whip marks. Every single one a masterpiece of the original Halie's cruelty.

He released her throat and staggered back a step. Then, he did something she never could have predicted.

He fell.

He dropped to his knees on the floor, on the carpet of shattered glass. The shards bit into his flesh, and blood began to seep through his trousers, but he didn't seem to feel it. He just tilted his head back, his expression a mask of utter despair and humiliation, and looked up at her.

"Is this what you came to see?" he choked out, his voice trembling. "The final joke? The sterile waste, finally broken?"

Each word was a fresh wave of uncontrolled spiritual energy. The lights overhead flickered violently, hissing with stray electricity.

Halie pushed herself off the door. Ignoring the stinging in her throat, she took a step forward. Her eyes darted across the floor, her sharp mind calculating the safest path. She carefully cleared a small patch of the shattered glass with the side of her boot before she knelt directly in front of him, feeling the sharp edges of the remaining shards press dangerously close to her knees through her cargo pants, a stark reminder of the physical reality of this chaotic moment.

She reached out, her hands ignoring the cutting aura of his chaotic energy, and cupped his cold, sweat-drenched face.

Coleman flinched, a primal instinct to pull away. But her palms were warm. A warmth he had craved his entire life but had never been given.

Halie looked directly into his unfocused silver eyes. She gathered all her strength and spoke a single, clear, and steady phrase.

"I'm sorry."

The words hung in the air. His body went rigid. The collapse of his spiritual sea paused for a fraction of a second.

It was all the time she needed.

Halie closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed her lips firmly against his.