Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 313: Birth of a Multiversal Cyber Criminal

The lock clicked, the door creaked open, and in she walked—nineteen, dressed sharp, but looking like life had just body-slammed her into next week.

White button-up slightly untucked, beige skirt still crisp despite the war she probably had with her office chair, glasses perched on her nose like they were the only thing holding her shit together. She was the picture of a young, overworked professional who spent her day drowning in tech jargon and bug fixes—like she'd just walked out of some tech startup's office.

If professionalism had a tired, sexy cousin, it was her.

She didn't even make it two steps inside before sighing like the weight of the world had personally beefed with her. The long couch in the middle of the living room?

Yeah, that was home now. She slumped into it with all the grace of a corpse, kicking off her heels mid-motion.

The living room itself looked like it belonged to someone who had their life together—a massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, sleek-ass coffee table with not a single misplaced item, a standing lamp casting a soft golden hue across the space, and a couch so expensive it probably cost more than her monthly rent. Everything was aesthetically perfect.

Except for her.

"Fuck, I'm tired," she groaned, throwing an arm over her face like she was auditioning for a tragic movie scene.

Digging into her purse, she pulled out her phone, fingers moving on autopilot as she shot off a text:

"Home safe. Bout to pass out. Night."

She didn't even wait for a reply before tossing the phone aside, blindly reaching for the remote, and turning the TV on. Netflix lit up the screen, the home page scrolling by in a blur as her mind debated what to watch.

Some drama? Maybe a comfort sitcom? Oh, screw it—whatever autoplayed first. The background noise was just a formality anyway. She barely lasted five minutes before her exhaustion did a full knockout combo on her.

One second, she was watching. The next? The TV was watching her.

Updated from freewёbnoνel.com.

Mouth slightly open, body twisted into a position that was definitely gonna hurt in the morning, and—oh yeah—drool.

Real attractive.

If anyone had walked in right now, all her professionalism from earlier? Gone.

****

Waking up on the couch was a different kind of suffering. She cracked her eyes open, blinking at the blurry ceiling like it personally offended her. Her neck? Stiff as fuck. Her arm? Dead to the world.

And the drool? Yeah, dried at the corner of her lips—real classy.

Classy.

She groaned, stretching like a damn cat before flopping back down with a sigh.

She groaned again, stretching like she had been hit by a truck before slumping back down. For a moment, she debated just going back to sleep. But nah, she had shit to do. At least today wasn't a busy day.

Music. That was priority one. She grabbed her phone, scrolled through her playlist, and hit play. The speakers blasted her morning soundtrack, instantly giving life to the apartment. Bathroom. Shower. And hell yeah, she was singing. Loud, off-key, probably annoying enough for the walls to file a noise complaint. But she was feeling herself.

Wrapped up in an oversized T-shirt and some comfy pants, she floated through her morning routine like a professional. Dishes? Done. Breakfast? A simple but solid meal. And finally, work. She had bills to pay and that meant assignments to finish

Dragging her satisfied, well-fed body to her workspace, she reached for the door handle, mind already shifting gears into 'time to get paid' mode.

Then she opened the door.

And froze.

Her stomach dropped. Her breath hitched.

She didn't scream at first.

Nah, her body just locked up, like her soul forgot how to move. Like the Wi-Fi connection between her brain and limbs had just... dipped. Hard. Her fingers stayed frozen on the doorknob, eyes wide open, pupils shaking like a glitching camera trying to focus. She didn't even blink—couldn't. Her breath? Gone. Stolen. Like the air had dipped too, said "fuck this, I'm out."

And there he was. Or... what was left of him.

The paste. That goddamn paste. Like someone dropped a watermelon from a skyscraper and forgot to clean it up. Only difference?

This wasn't fruit.

This was flesh.

Her baby brother.

Her pain-in-the-ass, always-sneaking-ice-cream, refusing-to-fold-his-laundry little brother. The boy who used to call her "sis" with that annoying grin that made her wanna slap him and hug him at the same time.

Only his head survived the apocalypse. That innocent, clueless face of his. Still wide-eyed. Still staring. Still... there. Like his soul hadn't realized the rest of him was gone. Just gone. Flattened. Smeared like goddamn strawberry jam on the carpet she literally paid for last month.

She felt her knees betray her—traitors—crashing to the floor as a choked-out sob broke through her throat like it had claws.

"N-no... nonononono—fuck—" She crawled toward the mess, hands shaking, legs jelly, stomach flipping like a damn washing machine. "What the fuck—what the actual fuck is this?!" Her voice cracked, broke, shattered.

She reached for his face, just his head—just something. Anything. His hair was still soft. Still warm. Still him. And the worst part? That stupid expression. Like he died surprised. Like he died scared. Like he didn't know it was coming.

She screamed. Like lungs-be-damned, neighbors-call-the-cops level scream.

Throat raw.

Heart in absolute riot mode. Her whole body was breaking apart and gluing itself back together every second just so it could break again. Her face was soaked. Tears? Snot? Who cared. She was ugly crying and didn't give a single fuck.

Her nails clawed at the floor. "Why him?! Why—why the fuck did it have to be him?!"

She'd just slept. That was it. She took a nap. One fucking nap. And now the only person who still called her "sis" like it meant something—was pulp. Gone. Stolen. Deleted.

And the silence that followed? It wasn't peaceful. It was wrong.

She didn't even know when she crawled to her phone.

One second she was sobbing into the floorboards like they owed her answers, next thing she knew her hands were fumbling through her purse like she was digging for a lifeline. Her fingers barely worked—slippery with sweat, shaking like hell—and the phone slipped once, twice, hit the damn floor with a clack, but she picked it back up like a robot possessed.

She didn't even know who she called first. Just hit the contact with "Mom" on it like it was oxygen.

The phone rang. And rang.

Please pick up. Please. Please.

And when her mom's voice finally answered with a gentle, "Hello?" like it was just a regular day, like she was maybe chopping onions in the kitchen or folding laundry or scrolling Facebook—

She broke.

****

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