Ken glanced at the woman, then at her raised hand—unsure but intrigued. With a half-shrug, he grabbed it, stepped out, and gave her another once-over. She was about five centimeters shorter than him, but striking in a way that was hard to ignore. Still, the cash she was waving around in that satchel of hers? That was the real showstopper.
He arched a brow and said, "Alright, who exactly are you?"
Then, scanning the area, he added, "And where did that kitten scamper off to?"
The woman gave him a slow, almost theatrical once-over, head tilted with a smirk tugging at her lips. Without bothering to answer, she spun on her heel and started strutting away like she owned the whole damn forest.
Ken's frown deepened. "Hey! I asked you a question—who are you?"
Without turning, her voice rang out coolly, "The monster's gone... for now. If you'd rather not end up as its next snack, you might wanna move those pretty shoes and follow me."
That shut him up—at least for the moment. With a huff and a touch of reluctant curiosity, Ken fell into step behind her.
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at a clearing where a small, surprisingly tidy wooden house stood like a secret waiting to be found. The woman marched up, popped the door open with casual confidence, slipped off her shoes, and tossed a glance over her shoulder.
"Come in, if you're not too scared of rustic charm."
Ken took a long look at the house, then at her. "You live out here all by yourself?"
"Hmmm," the woman answered half-heartedly.
"Um...", as soon as Ken opened his mouth.
Ding!
A strange, sharp chime buzzed in Ken's mind like a glitch in reality. What the... He blinked, instinctively scanning his surroundings. But nothing. No alarms, no pop-ups—except for the woman in front of him, who looked completely unfazed. She didn't seem to hear a thing.
She turned, arching a brow at him.
"Are you coming in or not?"
Ken gave a slow, absentminded nod, still slightly dazed, and followed her inside. But just as he stepped through the doorway—
Ding!
Another sound exploded in his mind, followed by a crisp, robotic voice that practically oozed smugness.
"The ShapeShifter ability has been added to the shop."
Shop? Ability? What is this, a game?
Before he could question it, the voice continued, louder and clearer than before.
"Hello, dear host. Welcome to the Distrust System."
Ken muttered something under his breath, completely lost.
The system, undeterred, went on cheerfully like it had been waiting eons for this moment.
"Yes, host! Today, you have officially entered this world. Your mission? Collect as much distrust as humanly—or inhumanly—possible. The less you trust others, the more money you earn. Oh, and bonus: every time someone lies to you, the system copies their power. You can buy that too."
It said a lot after that. Rules, features, whatever. But Ken?
He heard one thing and one thing only.
Money.
His ears perked. His posture straightened.
Did it just say... money?
A strange glint shimmered in his eyes. The confusion melted away, replaced by something sharper. Hungrier.
He didn't know what this system was, or what twisted world he'd just been dropped into—but if money was involved?
Oh, he was listening now.
While Ken was busy having a conversation—with a literal voice in his head, no less—the woman on the other side, who had received absolutely zero response for far too long, finally turned around.
Her eyes landed on Ken, who was just... staring at her. Unblinking.
A low groan escaped her lips. "Ugh," she muttered, a look of pure disgust spreading across her face.
'Hah... these disgusting humans never change.'
But just as quickly as the revulsion came, a slow, twisted smile curled on her lips. She licked them with deliberate slowness, her mind dancing with the delicious thought.
'Ahhh… really. I could just eat this one alive.'
Before she could say more, Ken blinked and snapped back to reality as if caught mid-daydream.
"Ahem, where are you lost at?" she asked, voice sharp like a slap wrapped in silk.
Ken looked at her, barely suppressing the mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Lost? Me?" He chuckled lightly. "Not at all. I'm still right here… looking at you."
His gaze casually—a little too casually—dropped to her waist, lingering a second too long.
.
.
.
Staring at the nearly bare table, where only a tower of ten greasy plates remained like a culinary graveyard, the woman narrowed her eyes and hissed through gritted teeth, "This bastard—was he fasting for a decade or something?"
Half her food stash was gone, just like that. Her ration, carefully hoarded with blood, sweat, and a little larceny, now reduced to scraps thanks to one greedy glutton.
Murdering him was already on the agenda, but now she'd have to rob some poor human's pantry again. "Ugh, just great," she muttered with a dramatic sigh. "More thievery, less me-time."
Her gaze drifted to Ken, who sat there with his stomach bulging under his clothes like a proud war trophy.
A slow, wicked smile curved her lips.
'Heh… at least he'll be well-seasoned.'
After stuffing himself like he hadn't seen food in a decade, Ken let out a long, satisfied sigh and leaned back against the worn-out cushion. Within minutes, the heavy fog of sleep rolled over him. His eyelids drooped, breath deepened, and soon, he was snoring softly like a man who had no idea he was seconds away from dying.
The woman stood at the door, arms crossed, watching him sleep with a deadpan stare.
"Disgusting human," she muttered under her breath, pulling her long coat tighter around her waist. "You eat me out of house and home, and then you sleep like a baby? Let's see how long that lasts."
Without saying a word, she turned away, headed to the kitchen corner, and reached behind a loose wall panel. She pulled out a curved blade—compact, stylish, and gleaming subtly in the dim light.
Quiet as a whisper, she stepped toward his room. The door creaked just slightly, but he didn't stir. Typical.
She approached the bed, staring at the lumpy blanket rising and falling with every breath. Her eyes narrowed.
"Sleep tight, dummy. This is the last dream you're ever getting."
She raised the knife high, took a breath, and—
Thunk!
She plunged the blade deep into the blanket, twisting it hard.
No sound. No scream. Just fabric.
Her smile faltered.
With one sharp tug, she yanked the blanket back—and froze.
There was nothing underneath but a few pillows stacked carefully to mimic the shape of a sleeping body.
Her hand tightened on the hilt of the blade.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
From behind her, a low voice murmured with lazy amusement,
"You know, for someone planning murder, you're really predictable."