After getting off nearby and returning using parkour, getting rid of my clothes and returning to the orphanage was a trivial affair.

  My roommates snored like the sound of old engines; they didn't even notice when the window opened silently and I slipped into my bunk like just another shadow in the room.

  Seeing myself in the shared bathroom mirror, I couldn't help staring at my reflection longer than necessary. Having "good genetics" was an understatement.

  My imperfections had been erased. Although it was still me, my skin, nose, and jaw had been refined so much that I now had the face of a young heir to European aristocracy. It was a face designed to please and deceive.

  The next morning, I ignored the caretakers' surprised looks, muttering a vague excuse about "early puberty." I sat down to eat calmly, surrounded by the noise of the TV on in the common room.

  "...sources confirm that st night LexCorp Industries suffered a high-tech robbery and an attempt on heir Luthor's life. Authorities are looking for an unidentified suspect, dubbed the 'Ghost of Metropolis'..."

  I took a sip of my watered-down milk to hide a crooked smile. "Ghost." I liked it. It had css.

  School was a boring and tedious formality. While the other kids struggled with basic division, I discreetly took my notebook out of the Inventory and wrote in a ciphered nguage I invented on the fly, emptying my memory onto the paper.

  Stark Industries: Stocks will nose-dive and rise exponentially in [X] years, when Tony is kidnapped in Afghanistan. Buy at the dip.

  Gotham: Dangerous territory. Avoid direct confrontation for now; keep under observation.

  Chitauri Invasion: Estimated arrival date...

  It was my bible of the future. And thanks to the security of my dimensional Inventory, no one would ever be able to read it.

  When night fell, it was time to make a decision. I wanted to recover my hidden Sonic Weapon, but my instinct—and my new Threat Radar—screamed at me that Ground Zero was still "hot," full of A.R.G.U.S. agents and surveilnce.

  It wasn't worth the risk for now.

  I opted for a different approach: reconnaissance. I dedicated the night to investigating the city's underworld and understanding how the local criminal gears moved.

  With my Tactical Map and my Inventory, it was ridiculously easy to ambush low-level thugs, "kidnap" them momentarily in dark alleys, and extract information before knocking them unconscious.

  The night was long and productive. I stood watching the sun rise over the horizon, lost in my thoughts of conquest, until reality hit me: I still had to go to school.

  I returned to the orphanage dragging my feet, feigning terrible insomnia, and headed to school with a face of pure exhaustion that needed no acting.

  I simply sneaked onto the school building's roof and slept there, with an arm set to wake me up an hour before dismissal.

  Upon waking, with a clearer mind, I went straight to the principal's office. I had a pn.

  "Mr. Principal," I said firmly, "I need to request a special arrangement. I have learned everything elementary school can offer me. Being in css is a waste of time for both of us."

  The principal looked at me with skepticism, thinking it was a joke or a trap by an arrogant kid pying adult.

  "Oh, really?" he said, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pencil. "Prove it."

  He started writing equations and math problems. First simple ones, then complex. I took the pencil and answered everything with speed.

  However, when I noticed the questions reaching an advanced high school level, I stopped deliberately. I knew the answer, but I didn't wish to stand out too much. Being a "child genius" is useful; being a "b freak" attracts S.H.I.E.L.D.

  The principal, seeing a prodigy in his public school, got excited. "This is incredible. We can process a grade skip. You could go straight to high school..."

  "No," I interrupted him softly but firmly. "I do not wish to skip grades. I wouldn't fit in with older students, and bullying would be inevitable. I wish to learn on my own, at my own pace, but keeping my enrollment here."

  The principal thought about it, tapping his fingers on the desk.

  "Alright. I understand you want to self-study as a child genius or enjoy more pytime. But I have conditions. If I allow you to miss in-person csses, you must represent the school in all interschool academic contests. And your exams must always be outstanding."

  "Deal."

  I left the office with a special permit signed by his own pen. I returned to the orphanage to inform my caretakers with an innocent smile. There was a small celebration for my "genius," but I was only smiling for one reason:

  The time was now mine.

  When the small celebration ended, I lied saying I would go study with a private tutor and that I would probably arrive very te. No one questioned the "child genius."

  On my way, I used the Tactical Map to search for the best training spot. I ignored commercial gyms and headed to a Mixed Martial Arts dojo in an industrial district. It was a serious pce, smelling of sweat and old leather.

  Although they hesitated at first upon seeing a child, my new physical constitution and a serene attitude convinced the instructor to let me try the css and pay tuition the next day.

  After the session, now accompanied by the darkness of the night, I put on my mask and started moving across the rooftops activating my Stealth and Parkour. However, my field of vision was becoming a disaster.

  (+0.004 Parkour) (+0.003 Parkour) (+0.02 Unarmed Combat Skill)

  The floating messages appeared with every jump and every strike I threw at the air. It was annoying and distracting.

  I stopped on a ledge and opened the system menu. I searched the settings, located in a discreet corner of the interface, until I found what I needed.

  There were many advanced functions locked, but I found the "Notifications" tab. I disabled the floating window system for minor gains, leaving active only voice messages for critical events or major level-ups.

  "Much better," I whispered, with my view cleared.

  However, before closing the menu, my eye caught a checkbox marked by default at the bottom of the list, written in almost imperceptible gray letters.

  [Interface Simplification: ENABLED] Description: Hides the Levels of "System Tools" (Map, Inventory, Radar, Store) so as not to overwhelm the novice host with irrelevant technical data.

  I frowned. "Irrelevant?" I muttered. "In my world, information is power."

  I unchecked the box.

  Instantly, the interface flickered. When I opened my Inventory and my Map again, they were no longer generic windows. Now they had cssification tags in the upper right corner:

  III. SYSTEM POWERS (UNIQUE TOOLS) Note: These tools are intrinsic to the system and their level represents their technological/magical complexity.

  DIMENSIONAL INVENTORY [Level 6 - Spatial Anomaly] Cssification: Minor Supernatural. Capacity: 10 x 10 (100 Slots). Special Module: [Dual Storage]. Ability to stabilize and contain inert matter and living biological organisms in suspended animation.

  TACTICAL MAP [Level 5.4 - Military Grade] Cssification: Cutting-Edge Technology. Functions:

  Environment Mapping: Generates a 2D holographic blueprint of the terrain and marks items of interest (Quest/Loot) within a 500m radius.

  Threat Radar: Identifies and tracks the position of hostiles in real-time (Red Dots).

  Visual Prediction: Projects enemy "Vision Cones" and calcutes green lines of "Safe Routes" to avoid detection.

  I felt a bucket of cold water fall on my ego.

  Until now, I had treated these tools as absolute divine powers. I thought my Map saw everything and my Inventory could hold anything. But those cssification tags were a sp of reality.

  "My tools are powerful, but they aren't foolproof," I understood, feeling a new kind of respect (and fear) for the system. "If I face something Grade 7 or higher, like Stark technology or real magic, my tools could fail. My map could lie to me."

  That revetion etched itself into my mind as I closed the menu. I had to be more paranoid.

  Once that was done, I proceeded with the pn I had left halfway. I didn't want to attract the attention of big shots like Kingpin or the Triads yet; that would be suicidal.

  So, guided by my map—now conscious of its limits—I located a mid-sized gang moving "angel dust" and small arms in the district.

  I showed up at their main warehouse, emerging from the shadows.

  The reception was as expected. Laughter. Three guys drew their pistols and aimed at my head.

  "A kid on Halloween?" joked the leader, a guy with tribal tattoos climbing up his neck. "Beat it before we fill you with lead, runt."

  "I recommend you don't shoot. It's inefficient, noisy, and dangerous for you," I said. My voice, distorted by the mask, came out with a gravity so deep and serious that it wiped their smiles instantly. "I'm only here to offer a logistics service. I am the Ghost."

  I took a step forward, ignoring the barrels.

  "I can move 50 kilos of your merchandise from point A to point B in seconds. No trucks. No risks. Without police dogs smelling anything."

  "Oh, really?" The leader looked at me with skepticism and tossed a compact package of drugs at my feet. "Prove it."

  I crouched down and touched the package.

  Inventory: Store.

  The package vanished into thin air. It simply ceased to exist.

  The gang members took a step back, visibly scared, lowering their weapons out of pure instinct.

  "Magic?" one whispered.

  "Is he a mutant?" asked another, with fear of the unknown in his eyes.

  I walked calmly to the other side of the warehouse, about ten meters away, and extended my hand.

  Inventory: Retrieve.

  The package materialized in my palm with a slight sound of dispced air.

  "I'm a human trunk," I lied, simplifying my power so their limited minds could understand it. "Nothing goes in and nothing comes out without my permission. The police can strip me, scan me, or interrogate me, and they won't find anything. I charge 20% of the shipment value. Payment upfront."

  The leader smiled. Fear quickly gave way to greed. "Deal, magic boy."

  "Not magic boy. You can call me Ghost," I corrected coldly.

  Under the mask, a slight smile made the bck fabric wrinkle slightly where my mouth should be, giving me an even more unsettling appearance.

  During the next two nights, business was booming. I moved merchandise worth half a million dolrs. My Inventory was full of synthetic drugs and illegal weapons for hours, crossing police checkpoints like it was nothing, only to be emptied upon delivering the cargo.

  My personal profit: 50,000 in cash. Dirty, fast, and easy money.

  Ding! [Achievement Unlocked: Novice Crime Lord] Criteria: You have used your superior gifts for high-level illicit activities and efficient criminal logistics. Reward: +0.4 Charisma. Reputation: "The Ghost Transporter" (New urban rumor generated).

  Ding! [Hidden Attribute Unlock] The System has recalibrated the importance of social influence for the Supervilin route. Unlocking attribute visualization:

  [Base Stats Update] Charisma: Level 5 (Base: Elite Genetics/Unique Attractiveness) ? Level 5.4 (Bonus: Rising Criminal Aura). Description: Your presence imposes unnatural respect; people tend to obey or fear you. Agility: Level 5.3 (Elite Teenager). Perception: Level 5.3 (Elite Teenager). Strength: Level 5.3 (Elite Teenager). Intelligence: Level 6.4 (Tactical Genius).

  In a few hours, I had handled logistics that would have taken this group weeks of pnning and bribes. I felt untouchable. The system, the money, the power... everything flowed toward me.

  With the job done and my pockets stuffed with wads of bills, I retreated before dawn. But as I walked through the dark streets, the euphoria faded slightly.

  I still had a loose end that bothered me like a pebble in my shoe: my Sonic Weapon.

  It was A.R.G.U.S. technology, too valuable and dangerous to leave lying under some rubble. I had to recover it.

  I approached Ground Zero cautiously, stopping just when the spot where I hid it entered the 500-meter radius of my Tactical Map.

  From that cover position, I opened my map. The zone where I hid it blinked on the interface.

  My Threat Radar cssified the general perimeter as "Moderate Risk Zone," but, strangely, it traced a bright green line—a supposedly "free and safe route"—straight toward the weapon's hiding pce.

  The temptation to trust the System and run to get it consumed me, but my instinct stopped me dead in my tracks.

  "It can't be that easy," I thought.

  The levels of my tools kept echoing in my mind, sowing doubt. My Radar was Level 5.4 (Military), but what worried me most was the Level 6 Inventory.

  "Maniputing space should be a Level 10 (Supernatural) feat or higher," I analyzed coldly. "That mine is only 'Level 6' implies it's an imperfect version."

  "Maybe it leaves energy residue, maybe it's detectable by advanced sensors... I don't know. But that uncertainty made me panic at the thought of relying on it as my only escape route."

  I had caused monumental chaos just a few days ago: the attack on Luthor, the massive theft of fragments, and, worst of all, the brutal murder of an A.R.G.U.S. soldier.

  And now the path was clear? No.

  My brain went over the variables. S.H.I.E.L.D., A.R.G.U.S., maybe even independent vigintes... Everyone would be on high alert.

  That the radar showed a clear path meant only one thing: the trap was so well hidden that it exceeded the Level 5.4 of my detection.

  If I went myself, blindly trusting my low-level tools, I risked falling into an invisible web I couldn't escape from.

  I stopped under the flickering light of a streetmp and looked at the dirty money in my hands.

  "I can't go myself," I murmured, and a cold, calcuting idea crossed my mind. "But money buys will. And will buys cannon fodder."

  I smiled. I didn't need to be a brave hero diving into danger. I needed to be a puppeteer.

  If there was a trap waiting for me at Ground Zero, I needed someone else to stick their hand in the fire for me.