Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

Let me take a moment to address the sheer fucking absurdity of what I'd just done. Here I was—plummeting forty stories toward certain death—all because I decided to play hero for a woman I'd known for exactly three hours. Three hours. That's not even enough time for Amazon Prime same-day delivery, but apparently it was enough for me to risk splattering my enhanced ass across Collins Avenue.

What kind of brain-dead, testosterone-poisoned logic was that?

I could've walked away. Could've grabbed Amanda, tucked her in with Madison, whispered a quick "you'll be fine, babe" like some bargain-bin James Bond, and then drafted a smarter rescue plan for Charlotte's mom—because let's face it, kidnappers don't kill their bargaining chip early.

Basic logic. Common sense.

But no. Instead of common sense, I decided to channel Tom Cruise's Scientology-fueled insanity and BASE jump without a parachute.

I could've checked the group chat blowing up with Miami's elite—horny heiresses, neglected trophy wives, power-hungry socialites—all ready to throw themselves at the new god on their block. I could've built a rotation that would make Hugh Hefner crawl out of his grave, salute, and then cry into his silk pajamas.

Instead, I chose to fucking skydive without equipment because… what? I thought I was Captain America after one too many Marvel trailers?

The wind didn't just whip me—it shredded me. My body was a ragdoll caught in a hurricane made of frozen knives. Jesus Christ, it hurt worse than Jack Morrison's sucker punch back in Computer Science class. And that asshole had put his whole angry, small dick anger and jealous soul into that punch.

Who knew one cheap shot in a dingy classroom would butterfly-effect me into freefalling through Miami's skyline like some discount superhero mid-nervous breakdown?

My eyes watered from the wind, but even through the blur of neon and moonlight, the system's sense of irony was crystal clear. Of course it would all come full circle now. Not with Jack's fist—nah, that was just the trigger.

The real ignition point was me standing up in front of that class and declaring my dick energy to the entire room like it was a TED Talk.

That was the spark. The punch was just the drumroll before curtain rise.

Bam—fist to the skull, system awakened, life permanently hijacked.

And speaking of poetic justice, let's not forget the cherry on top: I'd just fucked his girlfriend. Sofia didn't just surrender in my old house—she begged me to brand her, begged me to rewrite her entire identity around mine.

Oh, my Little Ghost. My freshly broken-in devotee. I was actually going to miss her. Why the fuck hadn't I added her to the official harem roster call?

That was a rookie mistake.

Her face blurred in my head, softer now, glowing with post-sex satisfaction. Amanda safe with Madison—that part was handled. Harold? Broken beyond repair. That box was checked too. But Charlotte Thompson losing her mother? My adoptive mom at home? My twin sisters who thought I walked on water? My women who hadn't even tasted half of what I had in store for them?

Those stakes cut sharper than the wind tearing my skin open.

"Master, can you stop the internal monologue and just buy the fucking jacket?" ARIA's voice cut through my death spiral like a Verizon ad in the middle of your favorite song.

"You fun-killing AI," I snarled into the hurricane screaming past me. "If this were a movie, you just blue-balled the entire audience. This is supposed to be my reflective-before-death scene! The part where readers cry, maybe touch themselves a little, before I get reincarnated into some fantasy hentai world!"

ARIA, as always, didn't give a single calculated fuck.

"System," I roared, my voice ripped apart by the wind, "buy me the fucking jacket!"

[DING! 5000 SP DEDUCTED]

"WAIT! What the fuck!" I shouted into the hurricane as the jacket materialized around me, stitching itself onto my body like a swarm of metallic spiders. "You said it was 1000 SP—what the hell, dude! Don't tell me I just got scalped by my own system!"

The moment it locked onto me, everything changed. Gravity stopped feeling like a death sentence and more like an overly aggressive Uber driver I could finally rate one star. My plummet slowed, not into flight exactly, but into control—like someone had swapped my freefall with an invisible elevator. My stomach still lurched, but my trajectory bent to my will.

Then the system spoke again.

[You senselessly risked your life and bought emergency equipment during freefall to make a dramatic statement. The system reflected your reckless actions with surge pricing. An additional 4000 SP has been deducted for stupidity tax.]

I blinked. "Wait—stupidity tax? Oh, fuck you. Did my system just develop a snarky personality?"

No reply. Just the smug silence of a machine that knew it was right. Great. Even my AI and system thought I was an idiot.

But goddamn!

The thing was a masterpiece—somewhere between Tom Ford on a cocaine binge and Tony Stark on his third divorce. On the outside? Sleek, black leather, cut sharp enough to make runway models cry. But beneath the surface? Pure madness.

Nanoscale fibers wove themselves into an adaptive camouflage system that shifted color, texture, even shadow, making me blend with anything. Bulletproof wasn't even the right word—the material drank kinetic energy like whiskey, spreading impact across its surface until it barely tickled. A bullet would feel like a paintball, a car crash like a body check.

But the real jewel? The gravitational field manipulators—microscopic engines that turned freefall into a dial I could spin. Terminal velocity or feather drop. Meteor or mist.

The city below called to me like a stage. Now the only question was: should I land like a flaming meteor for maximum dramatic effect… or touch down soft as a ninja and vanish into the night?

"Master," ARIA cut in, voice colder than liquid nitrogen. "Even if you wanted drama, a meteor landing would still snap both your legs. Then you'd crawl into your showdown with kidnappers like a discount zombie."

I sighed. "So, you're saying… no superhero landing, huh?"

"Land softly. Save the theatrics for when you actually win."

Her voice sharpened, business mode activated. "I've traced Margaret's possible location. There are three facilities—off-grid, no camera coverage. They're all clustered in the same industrial district. If we want precision…"

"Yes, ARIA," I muttered, twisting in the air as neon Miami lights bent around me like I was a god rewriting gravity. "Do what we've been avoiding."

A pause. I could almost feel her hesitate.

"…You want me to use the satellites?"

"Pull the trigger. Proceed," I growled, the jacket glowing faintly as I hovered above the city like a demon who'd just learned to fly.