God Complex

Chapter One

Tires screeched to a halt. “Of all days, God, why today?” cried Jason, a common deliveryman. He's transporting a delicate, half-a-million-dollar Chinese vase sensitive to the elements, but was stuck in a gridlock at night while a rainstorm loomed overhead. If he doesn't leave traffic soon, the valuable artifact would be damaged, and he'd be ruined.

Thinking, he came to a reckless decision. If he wanted to secure his livelihood, he had to drive dangerously, disregarding every safety law. Squeezing the throttle, he maneuvered through the tightly packed vehicles, using his arms to steer and his legs to push through. He progressed, creating a path but barely avoiding other cars, scratching them in the process and enraging their already furious drivers.

Jason was a man with insurmountable responsibilities. Because of his lower-class background, he faced more drawbacks than advantages, so he would rather risk physical harm than flounder through this life-changing order. Besides, the fragile package, allegedly ordered by Russian oligarchs for a showcase, was not only valuable but also deadline-driven. If he was even a second late, he would forfeit not only the promised tip but also his job and possibly his freedom.

If that happened, he would disappoint his sister battling leukemia and fail his gorgeous wife, Rachel Rothschild, who had stood by him since their wedding. Though he might face insults from his wealthy in-laws, who would remind him of his uselessness and how he would never live up to the Rothschild family standard, it wouldn't hurt as much as the thought of letting down the two people he truly cared about. They were his pride and joy, weighing heavily on his heart, and they motivated him to speed off on his scooter, ignoring the havoc he left behind.

He did it.

Jason reached the other side, and the open highway greeted him with waves of fresh, cold air, which he welcomed with a smile. He now had about two minutes left before his time was up, yet he felt hopeful because his destination was already in sight. The Rothschild's Hotel, the largest hotel and tourist attraction in Greystone City, was just a street away. He was going to make it. He wasn't going to be a disappointment.

He danced on his scooter, his mind racing with thoughts about the tip. Since the recipients had definitely prepared an enormous opening for the artifact, his gratuity would be nothing short of two thousand dollars. With it, he would treat his sister to some decent meals since it had been ages since she had one, and pay as much as he could towards her medication through her health program. As for his beloved wife, he would finally indulge her with her favorite dessert on their anniversary tomorrow.

“Yes, that's what I'll do,” Jason grinned, swaying side to side on his scooter. Just imagining his family's delight as they received his gifts filled him with joy. His eyes sparkled with hope, and a laugh escaped his throat. But in an instant, his smile vanished, and his face whitened in panic. The appearance of two black Cadillacs that sliced into the intersection, targeting only him, had turned his joy to panic. “Hey, slow down!”

He yelled, his arms flailing wildly as the two Escalades advanced. They didn't slow down, forcing his heart to pound in anticipation. With a deafening honk, they slammed into him, their combined force lifting him and his scooter off the ground, shattering his legs and drawing a blood-curdling scream from his lips.

As if that weren't bad enough, luck seemed to desert him altogether when another vehicle—a midnight-colored Lamborghini—slammed into him and his already overturned bike from the opposite direction. The impact sent him and his trusty scooter flying through the air, and crashing against a cement guardrail with a deafening smash. Scattering his skull and major bones, and sending everything into pitch darkness. In that moment of Jason's death, a thunderous clap shook the sky, followed by raindrops and an internal mechanical voice.

The voice prompt. ‘EARTH 1218: ONLY COMPATIBLE HOST DETECTED. NAME: JASON LEE GRANT. APTITUDE: 100 PERCENT WILL TO LIVE. STATUS: DECEASED. PERFECT. OVERWRITING PERMISSION PROCEDURES TO SYNC CELESTIAL WITH HOST... DONE. TOO SLOW. INCREASE SYNCING SPEED TENFOLD BEFORE CELESTIAL'S WAR-DAMAGED ESSENCE DISSIPATES... DONE.’ With those words came flashes of white lights that swept through Jason's unconscious body so fast they weren't perceived by naked eyes.

Speaking of eyes, two minutes had passed since the accident, and Jason's lifeless body lay soaked in the rain, noticed by passersby who dared not call emergency services. Who could blame them? The packed cars bore silver skull badges that glinted in the darkness, and plates marked with the graffiti of the infamous “Black Outfit” syndicate. Commoners knew better than to intervene. But if indeed it was the Outfits, the country's ruthless cartel rumored to be controlled by the wealthiest family, the Stones, why target a mere delivery boy? Something larger must be at play here.

One by one, the attackers cut their engines, disappearing into the night. For a brief moment, only the patter of rain broke the silence until a triumphant shout rang out from a well-built man. He donned an impeccable black overcoat suit adorned with a silver skull badge, and his perfectly groomed mustache accentuated his sapphire eyes. The man exuded authority yet celebrated drunkenly inside his Lamborghini. “Yes! Hell yeah! We got the bastard!” he applauded, nodding to the Cadillac carrying his ten gunmen. “Good job, boys. You're all getting a raise.” His gaze then met the disappointed look of an older companion in the car, but he ignored it. Instead, he grabbed a silenced pistol in one hand and a half-empty whiskey bottle in the other, taking a swig before stepping out to join his men.

The companion previously beside him was their syndicate's consigliere. He had gray hair touching his shoulders and his face bore three long stab marks, while he wore an imposing black trench coat outfitted with multiple gun patches. He had a gloomy air about him, and, clenching his jaw, he also stepped out of the car.

“With all due respect, young Master Dominic. You've compromised the entire operation.” The consigliere spat behind the half-drunken man, his face contorted in a fierce scowl. “If a single witness reports this to the authorities, our syndicate will be at risk. And if that happens, the new grand boss won't hesitate to take action against you. He might just.” The consigliere's words cut off as he noticed Dominic's sudden rigid stance. It's his reaction after being reminded of his new precarious place in the family, something he hoped the whisky would help him forget.

Steely, Dominic turned back to him, his gun clenched so hard his knuckles had turned white. He shot the man a glare, but the aged consigliere returned the gesture, locking eyes with him, not intimidated in the slightest. The other henchmen trembled at the standoff, anticipating a bloodbath, but then Dominic eased off the moment with a sudden outburst of laughter.

In between his mirth, he said, “Wow, mister Song, I now see why you became my grandfather's personal consigliere and mercenary. It’s probably because only you had the courage to look him in the face and be honest.” Then his eyes went dead. “But let me remind you, I'm not that old man. Question my decisions or talk out of line with me, and you will face the consequences. Understand?” The direct threat made the rest of the henchmen quiver, but the consigliere himself wasn’t fazed. He had served the Stones long enough to be scared of nothing. As Dominic paced to where Jacob's body lay, primed to deliver a headshot. The man followed.

The man kept speaking, but Henry toned him out, disdainfully examining the body he was about to put a bullet in. Exasperated, the consigliere froze in his tracks and heaved a breath, his eyes darkening. “Your attitude is because of the succession plan, isn't it?”

Those few words did it. With their severity and authenticity, they broke through the little resolve Dominic had. They reminded him of his failure and how he hadn't secured the position as heir to the Stones fortune. How he had been beaten by his psychotic half-brother, Dominic's Stone, the current director of Stone Holdings and new Capo of their family's syndicate.

It seemed the consigliere had figured him out. He had understood that the reason behind Henry's attitude toward the mission wasn't merely incompetence but defiance toward the person who had sent him on the task: his brother, the orchestrator.

Dominic simmered from being called out. He turned to face the consigliere, rage pulsing through his veins. But instead of a solid metal bullet to the head, which the consigliere had expected, he received something else from him. He shouted. “Of course this is about the succession plan. It has always been about the succession plan! I alone ran the syndicate for years, overseeing its dealings, assassinating anyone who dared to oppose the family with this gun of mine. I alone brought more power to the family than any other descendant. But…”

He lowered his voice, struggling to contain his emotions. “In the end, Grandfather made Dominic his heir, leaving me with nothing. Not a thing! I now kiss my half brother's feet and,” he gazed down at Jacob's body with disgust, setting the gun on his forehead, “I have been reduced to his lackey, who now kills lowlife delivery boys just because he wants loose ends eliminated before marrying that Rothschild chick... damn them all.”

He snarled and nestled his finger on the trigger, primed to fire. At that very moment, however, deep within Jacob's consciousness, a sharp neon blue glow permeated, followed by the instantaneous mechanical voice.

‘CELESTIAL SYNCED SUCCESSFULLY. SYSTEM COMMENCING REJUVENATION OF HOST'S BODY: REPAIRING SKULL FRACTURES, DONE. REPAIRING SPINAL CORD DISLOCATION, DONE. REPAIRING LEG AND ANKLE DISLOCATIONS, DONE. REPAIRING INTERNAL INJURIES, DONE. REPAIRING BRUISED SKIN, DONE. SCANNING. HOST BODY REJUVENATED SUCCESSFULLY. COMMENCING RESURRECTION OF HOST,’ the system notified. Jacob's body then began physically mending itself in real time.

Because of the downpour and darkness, Dominic, standing over Jacob, could not hear the delivery boy's bones snapping back into place or see the bruises on his head miraculously healing. He fired his gun. That was a big mistake.