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My Femboy System-Chapter 52: Isles of Slumber
Chapter 52: Isles of Slumber
I turned to Jazmin sharply, my voice slicing through the chaos like a whip.
"Go, now! Slip past the pit and descend the tower before this whole floor starts eating itself."
His eyes flicked to mine. Still smoldering from the heat of the previous game. "Where?"
"To Graywatch," I said, panting, barely keeping upright. "Find the Velvet Cathedral. Ask for Lysaria. Or Salem. Either of them. Belay our current situation and tell them—"
"Tell them I carry your scent," Jazmin said, lips curling.
"Exactly."
He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. That alone proved he was smarter than most of the Tower’s sycophants. One blink, one feline nod, and he vanished down the hall, golden dress trailing behind like a curtain call at a very messy opera.
He slipped into the pit just as the walls screamed again—not like collapsing stone, no, it was deeper than that. It was the groan of architecture breaking its own rules. The tunnel convulsed inward behind him in an avalanche of obsidian and golden dust. One second he was there. The next? Gone.
"Shit," I hissed.
"Fuck," echoed Willow, ever supportive in her vocabulary.
The rubble sealed like a tomb behind him. No time to mourn or swear at the sky. I turned and barked, "Move!"
We ran—me first, blood trailing from my coat, limbs screaming from the last match’s toll, pride still burning like I’d swallowed a lantern. The others followed, silent and swift. The Tower roared around us like it had been holding its breath through the whole game and now couldn’t stop exhaling destruction.
The elevator at the end of the corridor looked too smooth, too innocent, like a coffin pretending to be a convenience. We dove inside just as the walls cracked again and the ceiling peeled like paper.
The doors closed with a sigh that sounded far too smug.
And suddenly, everything was quiet.
It was that sharp, unnatural quiet. The kind that made you aware of every heartbeat, every shallow gasp, every strained muscle. A capsule of steel and magic, floating through the gut of a Tower that no longer knew what to do with us.
My mind, ever loyal to masochism, immediately returned to Vincent’s words.
"I’ve been restricted from entering Graywatch."
Not by the Tower. Not by a the "Maker" or a blood curse or some elegantly worded bureaucratic banishment. Something older and unknown to me.
This new piece of information was crucial because it meant that I didn’t need to kill him.
I didn’t even need to fight him again.
The idea lodged in my brain like a thorn. Not because I didn’t want to. Gods, I did. I wanted to end him with a bullet dipped in ink and vengeance.
But if I could break his contract—crack the clause binding him to the Red Mistress—he’d be neutralized. If not defeated, then defanged. A god without an altar. A gun with no trigger.
The elevator shuddered softly. My stomach shifted like reality had just shrugged.
Then the doors opened to the fourth floor: Sloth.
The world beyond them was a lie crafted into perfection.
We stepped into a lush, luminescent greenroom—no, a greenhouse. The air smelled of sweet rot and ancient humidity, the floor soft beneath our boots, lined with moss and cracked tile. Blue glowing flowers coiled up the walls like lazy serpents, twisting into the glass ceiling overhead. The petals pulsed with slow, throbbing light, like each one was dreaming of sex but hadn’t quite committed.
At first I thought we were still indoors.
Then I saw the vines had shattered through the wall.
And beyond them—
The jungle.
A full island. Massive. A riot of green under an unreal sky.
And in the distance, a shoreline wrapped in soft white sand, the ocean stretching endlessly into a thick fog that sat on the horizon like a secret someone had buried under cotton.
Soft harp music played. Not from any visible source. It was just...there. Sliding across our skin like silk left in warm wine.
Couches—lavish, velvet monstrosities—were scattered across the beach like someone had tried to build a brothel in a resort and just said yes to both.
Guests were sprawled across them. Some half-naked. Some entirely collapsed. Others giggling to themselves like they’d heard the world’s dirtiest joke and were trying not to confess it.
Leo stepped forward. "Well," he said, adjusting his gloves, "I think I just walked into a goddamn fantasy novel written by a drunk furniture salesman."
Willow, already naked and giddy with glee, twirled like a drunk goddess at a bonfire. "This," she purred, arms outstretched to the jungle sky, "is my religion."
She dove into the water with a laugh, splashing herself like a high priestess of hedonism baptizing her own sins. Leo followed with zero shame and zero clothing, wading in after her like a devoted disciple. Miko just arched a brow, muttered, "We’re all going to die horny," and resumed scanning the treeline for traps, perverts, or divine punishment.
I barely heard them.
Because the sky above us—so grand, so endless, so full of stars—
Was fake.
The stars were plastic, dangling from strings like cheap promises. The moon, a shallow lamp. And the sky, painted. The illusion shattered the moment you looked too hard.
Tower wasn’t even pretending anymore.
"This is all a trick," I muttered.
"Of course it is," Aria whispered, stepping beside me. "But it’s a pretty one."
She looked mesmerized. And I didn’t blame her. She seemed to wear wonder like armor. But I didn’t have time for seduction by scenery. Instead I pushed forward, scanning the horizon.
We needed the elevator. The exit. Whatever hideous mechanism the Tower would make us crawl through next.
That’s when the attendant approached.
They wore a mask painted with a sleeping face, lips puckered in eternal rest, eyelids heavy. Their robes were soft, scented like crushed lilies and old promises. They extended a tray.
On it: a single drink. Glowing blue. Cold. Condensation sliding down the glass like temptation on a deadline.
"Your elixir," the attendant said.
"No thank you," I replied. "I prefer to hallucinate the old-fashioned way."
They didn’t argue. Just faded back into the mists.
I turned to the others. "I’m scouting the island. The whole thing. I want eyes on every corner and a path to the next floor. And if possible, we may find Vincent."
Aria stepped forward. "I’ll come with you."
I was about to tell her no but her eyes were already pleading.
And gods, I was too tired to argue.
"Fine," I sighed.
We made our way through the jungle.
Not a simple stroll. This wasn’t terrain designed to be walked. It was designed to consume. The plants grew thick and tall, curling with unnatural beauty, their leaves slick with oils that shimmered strangely under the false starlight.
Every step crunched with wet moss and the occasional slick of something too slippery to be just mud.
And Aria—gods.
She kept glancing at me.
Her cheeks were redder than the foliage. Her breathing unsteady. Lips parted like she wanted to say something. Or bite something.
It wasn’t heatstroke. I knew that look. I’d seen it in brothels. In mirrors.
"Something wrong?" I asked casually.
She jumped. Literally flinched. "N-no! I’m—fine! Just a little warm!"
I glanced down at her hands. She was holding her skirt oddly. One hand behind her back.
Odd.
But I let it go.
Eventually, we crested the final ridge of the cliff face, hands slick with sweat, lungs heaving like old bellows. The climb had been brutal—roots twisted like arthritic fingers, moss-covered stone slick beneath our boots, and the ever-present hum of the Tower thrumming beneath our skin like a second pulse. I pulled myself up over the lip and crouched low, brushing away a veil of hanging vines that smelled faintly of cedar and something...older.
Then I saw it.
Below us, nestled in a pocket of jungle where the trees bowed outward like servants keeping their distance, was a flicker of firelight—delicate, orange, and steady, licking gently at the dark.
My breath hitched.
And there, beside the flame, draped casually over the broken limb of a leaning tree, was a coat. Not just any coat—his coat. Black, long, and sharp-lined, cut like it had been tailored by someone who’d murdered the last person to try and measure him. Even from this distance, it carried his signature: that easy, dangerous elegance, that weaponized apathy stitched into fabric.
Vincent.
Or at least the shell of him.
Slung loose, empty.
But unmistakable.
I squinted down at the campsite, heart pounding a little faster now—not from exertion but from that familiar, unwelcome buzz of inevitability.
"Gotcha," I muttered, fingers drifting toward the revolver holstered at my side, the cool metal like a secret held too long.
I turned, ready to whisper to Aria, to point out the sight below and tell her to keep quiet, circle wide, keep low—
But Aria wasn’t there. My stomach dipped. Not in fear but in knowing.
And when I turned back—
Vincent was behind me.
Not the coat. Not the shadow.
The man himself.
He was close, uncomfortably so. His presence filled the air like smoke—unannounced yet ever present.
"Predictable," he said. His voice was a dry ribbon of silk and disdain. As calm as a prayer. As quiet as a threat.
I moved before I thought, whipping the revolver at his head.
But he was faster.
An axe—sleek, minimal, and brutal—was already pressed against the skin of my neck, forgiving only in that it hadn’t moved yet. We were a breath apart. Two lunatics orbiting the same obsession. Bloodied clothes, fractured pasts, both of us walking contradictions with too much pride and not enough room to coexist. His eyes held mine. They shown no fury, no glee, just exhaustion. Polished, practiced exhaustion.
"I’m tired of this farce," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
His grip didn’t tighten. If anything, the tension in his shoulders slackened.
"I propose a ceasefire."
I narrowed my eyes, just slightly, absolutely stunned. "Why?"
He let out a long breath, almost a sigh. "Because continuing on like this is pointless. This cycle. This dance. You, me, knives at throats, cards on tables. All we’re doing is dragging each other closer to ruin while the Tower laughs behind the curtain."
He turned then, slow and unhurried, stepping toward the cliff’s edge. His silhouette caught in the firelight below, looking carved from shadow and something softer.
"I know what you’re after. The Red Mistress. So am I. You want to stop her. I want to fulfill my contract."
He paused. The jungle wind stirred his coat behind him, as if it missed his body already.
"So let’s make it simple." He turned back, expression unreadable but no longer sharp. "A race."
I raised an eyebrow, fingers still curling loosely around my revolver’s grip.
"A race?" I repeated, as if tasting the word for weaknesses.
"To her," he said. "No tricks. No traps. No blood. No misdirection. Just speed. Whoever reaches her first, wins."
I didn’t say no. Not immediately. Because part of me wanted to laugh in his face, call his bluff, remind him that I’d just torn him down finger by finger with my own brand of madness.
But then the silence stretched and my mind started working—grinding, calculating, chewing on the bones of his offer. A race to the Red Mistress. On the surface, it sounded clean. Noble, even. Could I outrun him? Maybe. Could I outsmart him again? Possibly. But outfight him?
That was the real question.
Even with our chips reset, our bodies bruised and breathless from battle, I knew what I was facing. An assassin, shaped by precision and perfected over years of killing better men than me, even when faced against impossible odds.
I had the cards, yes.
But he had certainty, and experience. That terrified me more than anything. Perhaps this really was the best way to settle things.
I smirked—crooked, dangerous, and maybe just a little desperate. "Agreed."
I lowered my gun. We didn’t shake hands. We didn’t hug. We just nodded, and that was enough. Without another word, he vanished into the jungle beyond.
And I turned—
To find Aria pushing her way through the underbrush, every leaf and fern parting for her like she was some hesitant jungle priestess caught mid-blush. She stumbled slightly on a root, one hand catching a tree, the other awkwardly hovering near her thigh.
Her face was the color of freshly spilt wine—deep, flushed, caught between guilt and heat. Her breathing was quick, chest rising and falling beneath that thin starwoven bodice in a way that might’ve been exertion... or something far less innocent.
My gaze lowered on reflex.
And then I saw it.
Her palm was coated with something...wet.
A glint of light caught it—a shimmer along her fingertips, slick and pearled, unmistakable even in the low light. The sheen curved from the base of her fingers to the web of her thumb, the way only one thing does. My brain registered it a half-second too late.
She followed my eyes.
Saw the realization blooming behind my raised brow.
And gasped like I’d just accused her of treason.
The hand disappeared in a flash, vanishing into the folds of her skirt like it had a hit out on her dignity. She wiped furiously, face burning brighter than the damn fire we’d just left behind, smearing the evidence across silk like it owed her interest and a month’s back rent.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just arched a single brow.
A slow, pointed movement.
She froze. Squeaked—audibly—and then clutched her elbow in a desperate act of normalcy, which only made it worse.
"Long walk," she muttered, barely above a whisper, not meeting my eyes.
"I can tell," I replied dryly, voice wrapped in silk and a smirk.
She groaned softly and turned away as we descended the path down the cliff, silence hanging between us like a curtain of unspoken heat. Leaves brushed against my coat as we moved. The vines seemed to retreat from her like they were trying to give her privacy. I didn’t laugh—but gods, I wanted to.
The firelight behind us flickered once, then vanished into the foliage, swallowed whole by the jungle.
And below us, waiting like a heartbeat slowed by lust and expensive wine, was the greenhouse.
It glowed faintly in the shadows—a pulse of blue light and bioluminescence weaving through flowers that curled against the windows like lovers too lazy to leave bed.
I walked in, my thoughts still spinning from Vincent’s proposition. The race.
If he’d been lying, it was the best lie I’d ever tasted. If he hadn’t—then we were past the bloodshed, past the posturing. Past poker knives and altar blades.
Now came something leaner.
Sharper.
A game of speed and cunning. A sprint through labyrinths of sin, chasing a woman whose name cracked kingdoms.
I made for the desk tucked beside a wall wrapped in moss-veined stone, scrolls and loose parchment scattered across the top. Ink had dried in long, curling streaks—someone had written here in a hurry. Or desperation. Either way, it smelled like a clue.
I reached out, fingers already tingling with that subtle thrill of mystery—
When I felt a tug on the hem of my coat.
Gentle and deliberate.
I turned.
Aria stood there, close. Too close. Close enough I could see the soft shimmer of sweat on her collarbone, the way her pupils had dilated just slightly. Her hand still held my coat, knuckles white from gripping too tightly, like if she let go the floor might vanish under her.
Her lips were parted. Her breath came in soft, nervous bursts.
And her eyes—gods—her eyes were molten. Wide. Not afraid, but trembling with something deeper. A kind of held-back tidal wave, barely bridled behind decorum and indecision.
I could feel her heartbeat without touching her, like the air between us was drumming.
"Aria?" I asked, voice low, caught somewhere between caution and curiosity.
She licked her lips and swallowed.
"Cecil," she whispered.
Just my name. But it hit harder than any gunshot. Softer than any song. There was a pause.
A long one, like the Tower itself leaned in to hear what would come next.
"Let’s have sex."