Paris—City of Love. Home of romance, overpriced coffee, tourists getting scammed in three languages, and Maxwell Wilson running for his life again.
"Thief! Thief! Someone catch that man!"
The old woman's voice cracked through the street like a pistol shot. A flash of black darted across the cobbled plaza—Max, dressed in dark tactical layers with only his pale grey eyes exposed. Under his arm: a designer purse that sparkled like guilt in the sunlight.
The old woman's two bodyguards gave chase. Wrong body type, wrong shoes, wrong day to be slow. Let's say the universe did not favoured them.
Max vaulted over a fence, juked through a crowd of street performers, and slipped under a velvet rope like he owned the place. Tourists gasped. Pigeons scattered. Max grinned beneath the mask.
By the time he reached the riverside bridge, the guards were sweating and cornering him like overworked nightclub bouncers.
"I'm giving you one chance," one snapped, catching his breath and gripping a baton. "Return the purse!"
Max leaned on the wooden railing casually, like this was a minor inconvenience. He gave the guards a long, unimpressed look.
"Idiots."
In swift movement he planted his hands, kicked both feet off the rail, and slammed them into their jaws. The first guard dropped like a sack of regrets. The second stayed standing just long enough to be confused about it.
Max spun, grabbed the edge of the bridge—and vanished into the river with a splash.
---
The water was freezing, but refreshing in a stupid way.
Max surfaced downstream, dragging the ziplocked purse and his phone out from under his jacket.
"They really chased me all the way here?" he muttered, pulling off his soaked mask. He brushed back his hair and slumped onto the grassy embankment.
Ring. Ring.
Speak of the devil.
He answered without looking. "Let me guess—you watched the whole thing?"
A familiar voice slid through the speaker like silk and sass. "Hello, Maxwell Wilson. You're still a mess."
"Serena." His grin widened. The mole curled with it. "I thought I'd need to commit a second crime to get your attention today."
"You've committed five in the past hour. And I don't count purse-snatching as impressive anymore."
"You used to."
"I used to have standards."
Max chuckled, laying back on the damp stones. "So what's the deal this time? Did the government finally realize you're wasting their resources tracking me?"
"They realized you're still useful."
"Oh? That's a first."
"A foreign agent stole a drive. Very classified. Very illegal. I need it back."
"Let me guess—it's 'life or death,' 'national security,' and 'you'll pay me in Monopoly money.'"
"Real money. Big job. Higher stakes than usual."
Max raised a brow. "You sound serious. That's rare."
"I'm in trouble, Max."
That made him sit up. "What kind?"
"I'm about two mistakes away from being reassigned to Alaska."
"Damn. That desperate, huh?"
"Yes. So help me, and I'll owe you."
"Owe me?" He leaned back again, grinning wider. "I want your hand in marriage."
Serena paused. "What?"
"You heard me. I steal government files, you let me put a ring on it."
"You're not Beyoncé."
"No, but I've got better legs."
She groaned. "Max…"
"Okay, fine. Dinner. Real one. No wires, no bodyguards, no listening devices hidden in your bra."
Serena sighed, then muttered, "Deal."
His eyes widened. "Wait—you're serious?"
"Only because this drive matters. And because you were top of our university class, even if now you're a glorified raccoon with pickpocket skills."
"Aw. I knew you loved me for my grades."
"I love that I can bribe you with food."
"Send the details. And don't pull the 'man with a gun in his coat' trick again."
"I won't," she said. "This time it's a woman with a sword in her heel."
The line went dead.
Max laughed to himself, slipping the phone back into the ziplock. He opened the purse and checked its contents—cash, some lipstick, phone... and wait.
Something was missing.
"The bangle," he muttered. "Where the hell's the bangle?"
The old lady hadn't even noticed it was gone. It was small, golden, ornate—practically begging to be stolen. He'd taken it with the purse... so where was it?
His eyes snapped to the river. A faint glint beneath the water.
He sighed. "Of course."
Without hesitation, he dove back in.
---
The river closed around him with a slap of cold. Max swam to the rock bed, reaching down through the muck. His fingers grazed something smooth. Thin. Round.
He grabbed it.
The moment his skin touched the bangle, it pulsed.
A hum echoed in his bones. Light radiated from the metal, golden and blinding. His chest tightened. He tried to let go—couldn't.
The light grew stronger.
And then, nothing.
---
Max opened his eyes.
He was floating. Not swimming. Not standing. Floating.
The world around him was dry. Soundless. Featureless. White.
He looked down.
No hoodie. No mask. No purse.
Instead, white robes clung to him, ancient in design—wrapped tightly around his body, leaving only his neck and face exposed. Like ceremonial garb for a wedding he never RSVP'd to.
His features were the same, but the air felt... thinner. Reality felt like it had been paused, then slightly rewound.
"Okay," he muttered. "This is definitely not Paris."
And that's when the voice came.
"Maxwell Wilson."
He turned. A figure stood across the void—humanoid, but flickering. Like static pretending to be human. No face. No gender. Just presence.
"I am K," it said.
Max squinted. "Cool. Am I dead, hallucinating, or inside someone's minimalist fever dream?"
"You have been selected," K said. "Welcome to Xianjing."
He blinked. "Gesundheit."
"This is not a joke."
"Oh, trust me," Max muttered, eyes narrowing, "I stopped laughing the second I got magically mugged by a glowing bracelet."
"Subject Forty-Four. Orientation begins shortly. Please remain still."
"...Can I get the menu of the punishments i am getting here for my crimes?"