Chapter 2: The Perverted System

A sharp, brutal throb banged against the back of Morales’ skull, so violent it forced a choked groan out of his throat. He clutched his head with both hands, his knuckles turning white as his body trembled on the creaky, thin mattress of his bedroom.

Then, just as quickly as it had struck, the blinding pain flushed away like ice water washing over a burn.

In its place came absolute, crystal clarity.

Morales sat frozen, staring at the faded wallpaper of his cramped, dimly lit room. The scent of aging wood and threadbare sheets filled his nose as eighteen years of memories settled permanently into his mind.

He knew everything now.

His name was Morales Brown. His biological father and mother had died in a horrific car wreck when he was only six years old, leaving him without a single living relative in the world.

The only people who took him in were the Radcliffs, his mother’s closest, most loyal friends.

They had taken a frightened, orphaned boy into their modest home and raised him as their own son.

Life hadn’t been luxurious, but they were a family.

Until three years ago, when Mr. Radcliff suddenly collapsed from heart failure at forty-two.

Since then, Anna Radcliff had carried the entire household on her shoulders. She worked backbreaking shifts just to keep the roof over their heads and put food on the table for Morales, who had just turned nineteen.

They weren’t completely destitute, but money was so tight that scraping together enough cash for a proper meal felt like winning a small lottery.

Morales slowly lowered his hands, staring down at his pale palms in the dim light.

"So..." he muttered, his voice echoing softly in the quiet room. "I really reincarnated into another world..."

He leaned back against the headboard, a low, incredulous laugh bubbling up from his chest. His mind flashed back to the cold motel room, pistol gun raised at his forehead.

’You’ll make a lot of money in your next life.’

"Who knew?" Morales whispered, his lips curling into a dry smirk. "Was that gangster’s last words actually some kind of twisted blessing? Did that bastard really give me a second chance at life to become filthy rich?"

[Ding!]

Before the thought could fully form, a blinding white light detonated inside his mind.

The physical room seemed to blur around him as a sharp, resonant chime echoed directly between his ears. In his mind’s eye, a sleek, glowing translucent interface expanded, floating against the darkness of his subconscious.

[System Initialization Complete.]

[Host: Morales Brown]

[Do you accept the binding of the System? (YES / NO)]

’A system? I’ve read novels and watched Anime’s about it.’ Morales didn’t hesitate for a single second. "Yes."

[Binding confirmed!]

A smooth, slick voice, sounding like a mixture of honey and polished silk, purred directly inside his head.

[Welcome, Host! This is your Debauched System. If you prefer a bit more flair, you can also call me your Pervert System, your Lewd System, your Corrupt System, or your Degenerate System. The choice is entirely yours!]

Morales blinked, letting out a soft scoff. "Plenty of lecherous names for a system..."

[A grand system requires an honest title, Host,] the voice chimed back smoothly, almost sounding proud.

[Allow me to outline my primary objective. I was created for one clear, noble purpose: to make you bastardly rich by fucking beauties.]

Morales’ eyes snapped wide open.

He sat bolt upright on the bed, staring blankly at the floating text in his head. His mind raced back to the gunman in his past life, the brutal, blood-soaked moment right before everything went dark.

"Holy shit..." Morales gasped out loud, running a hand through his hair. "Was that gangster a god or what?! How the fuck did his words work out this perfectly?!"

He took a deep breath, narrowing his eyes as he questioned the voice inside his head. "Wait a minute. So you’re telling me you’re going to make me richer by having me fuck people like a glorified toy boy all over again?"

[Yes and no, Host,] the System replied instantly, its tone laced with sophisticated amusement.

[Your path to wealth this time around is far classier. You are not fucking for them as a servant or a commodity. You are fucking because it is your innate, god-given special ability and it serves a far greater cause. You are the master of your own domain, Host.]

A slow, wicked smile spread across Morales face.

The lingering anger from his past death evaporated, replaced by the familiar thrill of an opportunist who had just been handed the keys to the kingdom.

"Now that," Morales said softly, his voice dropping into a low purr, "sounds a whole lot better."

"Host approval recognized," the System declared. [Initiating physical attribute optimization...]

The moment the words faded, a sudden, explosive surge of heat erupted from the center of Morales’ chest.

"Ngh—!"

Morales gasped, clutching the edges of his mattress as liquid fire coursed through his veins. It didn’t burn with pain, it radiated with raw, terrifying power.

He could literally feel his muscle fibers tearing apart and knitting back together into denser, tighter, more athletic strands. His chest expanded, his waist tapered, and his posture straightened as his spine aligned perfectly.

The heat surged upward into his throat and face.

His jawline reshaped itself, the bone structure sharpening into clean, aristocratic angles. His skin cleared, every flaw and minor blemish dissolving in seconds.

Deep within his eyes, his irises shifted, burning away their dull tone to reveal a striking, electric blue.

At the same time, his brown hair vibrated with heat, shifting root by root into a vivid, fiery red.

Finally, the thermal surge rushed downward, pooling straight between his thighs.

Morales felt a intense, heavy throbbing sensation in his lower body. He gasped, looking down at his worn sweatpants. He grabbed his waistband and pulled it forward to take a look.

His jaw nearly hit the floor.

His length was noticeably longer, thicker, and far more imposing than anything he had possessed in his past life or this one.

"Holy hell..." Morales breathed out.

A dark, unrestrained grin stretched across his face. He looked like an absolute degenerate as he ran his hands up his newly sculpted chest, feeling the sharp contours of his abs through his thin shirt.

He touched his cheekbones, his jawline, running his fingers through the thick, silky strands of his new red hair.

A horrific, delightfully wicked smirk took over his entire expression.

Spotting a dusty, full-length mirror attached to the back of his closet door, Morales scrambled off the bed and rushed over to stand in front of it.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Reflected in the glass was a young man who looked like he had been sculpted by a master artist. His broad shoulders tapered down into a lean, powerful frame.

His fiery red hair framed a face of ridiculous symmetry, highlighted by eyes so fiercely blue they practically glowed in the dim room.

Morales tilted his head, running a hand over his chin.

"Well..." he whispered, a low chuckle escaping his throat as he checked out his reflection from every angle. "This body looks way cooler than my former one."

He posed for a second, admiring the sheer physical perfection the System had granted him. But as he stood there staring directly into those striking blue eyes in the glass, the atmosphere in the room subtly shifted.

The degenerate smirk slowly faded from his lips.

He stared deeper into his own reflection, a heavy, cold wave of discomfort settling right in the pit of his stomach.

Morales lowered his hand, looking down at his fingers before looking back up at the mirror. The quiet of the room pressed in on him, making his chest feel heavy.

"Still..." he murmured softly, his voice carrying a strange, hollow weight. "It feels uncomfortable as hell... standing here in another person’s body."

He touched his chest, feeling the steady thrum of a heart that didn’t originally belong to him.

"I’m just a fucking degenerate pretending to be Morales Brown..." he whispered to the empty room, his eyes dimming slightly. "While the real kid... the innocent one who actually suffered... is dead."

"Morales! Dinner’s ready! Come down before it gets cold!" Anna’s loud, warm voice shattered the silence, echoing straight up the stairwell from the kitchen downstairs.

Morales blinked, the sudden call snapping him out of his dark thoughts. He took a deep breath, standing up straight as his eyes regained that sharp, dangerous edge.

He looked at his reflection one last time, smoothed down his shirt, and turned toward his bedroom door.