The World Only Easter Egg

I never knew I have it in me, but surprisingly I do. Riana, Cardi Bee and me, go at it for all night long, and despite I only have probably a few hours of good night sleep. Still, it was enough for me, I guess thanks to me being just 17 years old, even so I have sex like an orc. Thankfully, Cardi Bee and Riana were really matured that they knew which is sex time and which is normal time. Thanks to that we were able to be casual with each other’s.

The artificial hum of the Starlight Regency Hotel’s central air conditioning was a soothing counterpoint to the distant rumble of Hollywood morning traffic. Though the city below was already a chaotic symphony of hurried drones and neon advertisements, my private suite remained an oasis of curated calm.

Sunlight, sharp and insistent, sliced through the blackout blinds I hadn’t bothered to fully close, painting stark, geometric patterns across the plush carpet of my Suite. This day, this place had become like an office, audition zone and a haven of my sexual palace.

A ceramic mug, still radiating warmth, sat beside my tablet, the dark surface of my coffee steaming lazily. The rich, earthy aroma of the freshly brewed Columbian roast—a rare indulgence in this recycled-nutrient-drink-dominated world—mingled pleasantly with the faint scent of polished wood and expensive linens. On it, Cassandra’s meticulously crafted training schedule for the two girls unfurled like a military campaign plan.

“Hmph.” I hummed, a low, appreciative sound escaping my throat. Cassandra, bless her efficient soul, didn’t miss a beat. The structure was airtight, a professional masterclass in nascent star development.

Morning media drills, designed to hone their public speaking and interview prowess; intensive vocal lessons that would push their ranges and refine their delivery; PR behavior coaching, which I suspected Cardi Bee would find particularly… challenging, given her natural inclination towards unfiltered expression; and choreography blocks that would stretch their bodies and minds.

“They both really need, hard reform…” I leaned back in the ergonomic chair, a mild amusement flickering in my gut. Cassandra was doing her job, and doing it damn well.

The girls, especially Cardi Bee, needed that structure. Just last night, outside these walls, she was a very lively, all raw energy and unapologetic appetite. A beautiful, chaotic mess.

But a mess, nonetheless, needing a firm hand to sculpt her into something sustainable, something that could withstand the glare of the relentless public eye. If left unchecked, her spontaneity could be a goldmine of viral moments, or a catastrophic liability. That cannot happen, because if that were to be left alone, then the same sort of thing would happen, just like what happened to Cardi B on my previous earth.

‘The Old Cardi B cannot happen to My Cardi Bee’ My pen, a sleek stylus with a satisfying weight, tapped thoughtfully against the tablet’s casing.

“For now, I’ll let Cassandra handle them,” I murmured, more to myself than to the silent room.

“She’s got the staff, the experience. I’ll check in later myself.” My gaze drifted over the carefully timed intervals:

‘7:00 AM – Media Presence Fundamentals,’ ‘9:00 AM – Vocal Range Expansion: Belt & Whisper,’ ‘1:00 PM – Public Image & Brand Alignment.’ It was a tight schedule, But still manageable.

Nicole, ever present, ever efficient, stood nearby. Her tablet, a slimmer, more minimalist design than mine, glowed softly in her hands. She gave a crisp nod, her short-cropped hair barely swaying.

“That’s the best move, Sir… Although you’re the visionary… Let Cassandra manage the tactical minutiae… and the paperwork…. She is, after all the best at it,”

“Exactly,” I confirmed, a sense of quiet satisfaction settling in my chest. Nicole understood me, which surprisingly she always did.

My role wasn’t to micromanage vocal exercises or choreographic nuances; it was to see the bigger picture, to lay the foundations for an empire, to identify the diamonds in the rough and then delegate the painstaking work of cutting and polishing to the experts. Cassandra was one such expert, and Riana and Cardi Bee were about to discover just how sharp her tools were.

The coffee had cooled to a comfortable warmth, and the morning sun had crept higher, banishing the shadows from the room. My focus, however, remained sharp, honed by Nicole’s next report. She stood before me again, tablet in hand, but the casual air had shifted to something more pointed, more investigative.

“The background check on Cardi Bee is complete, Sir,” Nicole stated, her voice devoid of inflection, purely factual. Her thumb flicked across her tablet, sending a stream of data onto my screen. Lines of text, financial logs, grainy old photos – a digital life laid bare.

‘That is… something,’ I scanned it, my gaze lingering on a faded image of a girl, much younger, with eyes still holding a spark of innocence that had clearly since been tempered by the harsh reality of the streets.

“Well? it was Cardi Bee report, right?” I prompted, taking another sip of coffee, the slight bitterness a familiar comfort.

“Yes, it is Sir…” Nicole nodded, her expression unreadable.

“She’s clean…. No family, no criminal record of any kind, no existing management contract. Orphaned since she was ten, been living solo ever since. Perfectly moldable… So far,” She paused, letting the implications hang in the air – no messy family drama, no legal entanglements, a blank slate for me to write upon. It was precisely what I looked for in talent; minimal external noise, maximum internal potential.

“That’s Good news,” I affirmed, my own voice calm.

“That means no loose ends to unravel later.” Loose ends were the bane of any large-scale operation. They could snarl plans, create unforeseen complications, and generally be a pain in my ass. Cardi Bee, for all her fiery personality, seemed refreshingly uncomplicated on paper.

“Except…” Nicole’s finger swiped again, bringing up a new section of the file. My eyes narrowed. “She had debt… Fifty thousand dollars... which is due in a week…. She owed it to the local loan shark, South Bronx ring.”

‘Fifty thousand. Huh…‘ My eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. That was a significant sum for someone with no visible means. It explained a lot, though. The hunger in her eyes, the desperate edge hidden beneath all that bravado.

“She’s that broke?” It wasn’t a judgment, merely an observation of fact. A talent with nothing to lose was often a talent willing to do anything to win.

Nicole’s lips twisted into a knowing smirk.

“Yeah. And if I had to guess, she didn’t just follow you home for the pure love of rap…. She probably sees you as a ticket out—maybe even trying to be your side girl or baby momma.” Her gaze was direct, challenging. She knew my tendencies, my reputation, and she wasn't afraid to voice the unvarnished truth.

“Heh… that part was true, she said them herself…” I chuckled quietly, a low rumble in my chest. The idea wasn’t exactly surprising. In this hypersexualized society, where status was often intertwined with who you associated with, and celebrity babies were a commodity, it was a common aspiration. And frankly, after a night with her, the thought wasn't entirely unappealing. She was a force of nature in bed, too.

“She’s not wrong for trying,” I conceded, the corner of my mouth lifting. Her ambition, even if laced with personal gain, was still ambition. A powerful motivator.

Nicole’s smirk widened. “You don’t seem bothered.”

“I’m not.” I settled back, meeting her gaze steadily.

“If she’s loyal, she’ll get everything — fame, comfort, even that title if she earns it. I don’t care how she came in; I care how she performs.” It was a simple philosophy, one that had served me well. Opportunity was a two-way street. I offered a path to unimaginable heights, and in return, I expected dedication, loyalty, and results.

How they found their way onto that path was secondary to how they walked it. Cardi Bee’s desperation, her ambition, could be harnessed. It could be her greatest strength, binding her to my vision, not gonna lie, her kind of hustle is respectable, she does got talent in both rap and also sex. That part is real.

I set my coffee mug down with a soft, decisive clink against the polished obsidian of the table. The sound seemed to punctuate the air, signaling a shift from analysis to action. My tone, though still calm, resonated with a new, firm authority.

“We’ll clear the debt…. Quietly. Make it disappear before it bites her.” No need for a ticking clock of predatory lenders to distract my new asset. I wanted her focused, untroubled by external pressures.

Nicole’s head dipped in an immediate, efficient nod. “On it. Want me to send Ms. Ramona the coordinates?”

“Already done,” I replied, a small smile playing on my lips. My network was always a step ahead. Ramona, a woman of shadow and swift action, was likely already mobilizing. Beside I also have Sunday to deal with things like this far more secretes.

“I want her clean before we start shaping her... No baggage. No distractions… just so no one would come to haunt her later on…” The slate needed to be entirely blank, not just mostly.

“That is quite amazing of you, Sir…” Nicole’s lips curved into a genuine grin, a rare sight that spoke volumes of her approval.

“Still… You’re turning a firecracker into a proper investment, Sir.” Her use of ‘firecracker’ perfectly captured Cardi Bee’s volatile, exciting energy.

“That’s the point,” I said, a flicker of something akin to pride stirring within me.

“Trouble can be profitable if you know how to bottle it.” It was a philosophy I lived by.

The world was full of raw, untamed energy, often dismissed as problematic. But with the right vision, the right infrastructure, and the right touch, that chaos could be channeled, refined, and transformed into something spectacular. It was about seeing potential where others saw only risk.

Cardi Bee reminds me too much of the old world’s Cardi, I mused internally, a memory from my past life flashing through my mind. The original Cardi B, a whirlwind of charisma and controversy, who, despite her undeniable talent, often found herself embroiled in public dramas. Fame had a way of amplifying flaws, of breaking what was unique and authentic under the immense pressure of public scrutiny.

I’ll fix what fame broke before. This new Cardi Bee, with her raw talent and pliable background, was a chance to do it right. To build a legend on a foundation of control and strategic guidance, rather than letting pure, unbridled chaos dictate her trajectory. I could bottle her fire, yes, but also direct its heat, ensuring it burned brightly without scorching everything in its path.

Her debt, her desperate circumstances – these were not liabilities, but leverage for me. They created a dependency, a loyalty born of rescue, that I could cultivate and solidify. She wouldn’t just be a star; she’d be my star, a testament to my ability to sculpt destiny.

Done with the need to talk about Riana and Cardi Bee, I wear my VR gear and moved into my private VR suite. I sat in my chair, a ridiculously plumbed thing of ergonomic leather and brushed steel, feeling the gentle thrum of the building’s core servers through the floor.

My fingers traced idle patterns on the cool armrests, the sensation a grounding point in the digital sea. Before me, the giant holographic display burned a cool, serene blue, a silent ocean waiting for a storm. Data streams, like schools of bioluminescent fish, swam in lazy circles at the periphery.

"I have the update for Space Marine global metrics updated, Sir." Sunday's voice was a calm, mechanical cadence that seemed to emanate from the air itself, smooth and devoid of static.

"Alright, Show me," I said, the words barely a whisper, but the system caught them, parsed them, obeyed.

The blue ocean exploded.

Towering bars of emerald and gold erupted from the display, graphs charting sales and user engagement that shot upward like skyscrapers built in fast-forward. Viral analytics spider-webbed across the central viewport, glowing a feverish, infectious red-hot. It was a symphony of success, a fireworks display of pure metrics. Woven between the raw data were live feeds from MeTube, news tickers, and social media spirals.

A clipped, excited anchor’s voice echoed through the room, sourced from a floating news panel.

[“—Warhammer 40K: Space Marine has now officially sold two billion copies worldwide, making it the best-selling game of all time by an almost ludicrous margin!”]

I took a slow breath, the cold, filtered air of the room filling my lungs. The number was… too abstract, almost felt like a statistic. But the noise, the sheer cultural volume of it, that was real.

Another anchor, on a different feed, chimed in, her face a mask of professional awe.

{“Analysts say its success has completely paralyzed the gaming industry. The so-called Triple A studios have remained utterly silent in the face of Meteor’s absolute dominance. It’s a total rout.”}

“Heh… that is nice to see…” A soft chuckle escaped me.

“Two billion, huh?” I mused aloud to the empty, data-filled room. “That’s nearly half the planet.”

“It is, Sir… And the servers are holding stable under the load. It’s a monumental achievement. You’ve made history again, Sael.”

I didn’t need to turn. I knew the cadence of that voice, the subtle click of those heels on the polished floor of My Meteor Studio VR HQ.

Sabine. Meteor Creative COO, and a woman whose mind was as sharp as the line of her jaw. I finally turned my chair to see her leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over a stylishly severe black blazer. A proud, almost possessive smile played on her lips.

“Not history,” I corrected gently, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “To me that is a Just results…. Predictable ones, if you have the right blueprint... anyone can do it, IF they have the right tools…”

She pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, her presence making the vast space feel more human, more real. The holographic light played over her features.

“You do realize this is the first time a single piece of entertainment—game, movie, anything—has outpaced every other medium in raw revenue in its opening month? You didn’t just break the ceiling; you launched a rocket through it and left a new one in orbit.”

I gestured back toward the screen, where the financial projections were still cascading. “How much per copy, Sunday?”

The AI’s response was instantaneous. “Retail price $400 per unit…. No distribution platform fees applied. All sales are full, in-house transactions processed through the M.S. Mall.”

“Mon Dieu~” Sabine’s eyes, already wide, went saucer-round. She did the math in her head, her lips moving silently for a second.

“So… that’s… eight hundred billion dollars…. In gross profit.” She said the number like it was a physical object she was afraid of dropping.

A slow smirk spread across my face. I couldn’t help it. “AND it was mostly Pure profit... Since, we own the store, the product, and the factory. They just hand us the money…. Without using Vapor, meaning we don’t have to pay the middle man…”

Sunday, ever the precise accountant, added a layer of context.

“After accounting for production, marketing, and global server infrastructure costs, net revenue stands at seven hundred and forty-five billion dollars.”

“Phew~” I let out a low whistle, leaning back in my chair. The leather creaked softly under my weight.

“Well, shit... That’s better than some countries’ GDP. We could literally buy a small nation…. Probably get a bulk discount as well...”

“Hahaha~” Sabine laughed, a rich, genuine sound that cut through the corporate tension. “What would you even do with a country?”

“I don’t know. Turn it into a giant-themed park. ‘Warhammer World.’ Charge another four hundred bucks a ticket.” I shrugged.

“The point is, we have options.” The sheer weight of the number was surreal. Eight hundred billion. It was more money than anyone could ever spend. It wasn’t wealth anymore; it was a tool, a weapon, a fundamental force of nature sitting in our corporate accounts.

And it was all because some part of my old otaku heart had insisted that the universe needed to know the glory of the God-Emperor. The thought was simultaneously humbling and utterly hilarious.

My gaze drifted back to the silent news feeds, the talking heads still marveling at the phenomenon. A different thought emerged, colder, more strategic.

“And the other game companies?” I asked, my voice losing its playful edge. “Any movement from them? Any statements that aren’t carefully prepared corporate silt?”

“All Silent, Sir,” Sunday reported.

“Their PR teams have shifted all focus to minor, upcoming releases. They are actively avoiding any direct confrontation or commentary on Meteor Studios... The strategy appears to be one of tactical retreat and ignored.”

“Hmmm….” I hummed, a low sound of amusement deep in my throat.

“So, the giants have learned to play dead…. Hoping if they stay very still, the new predator will just… pass them by.” It was a smart move. The only move they had left. A head-on fight would be financial suicide.

Sabine moved to stand beside my chair, looking up at the displays showing our terrified competition. “You’ve turned the entire market into your personal playground. They’re not even trying to swing back.”

“Not yet,” I said, my eyes narrowing slightly as I scanned the data streams. The reflection of the glowing graphs shimmered in the dark lenses of the smart-glasses on my console.

“This is just setting the stage. This…” I gestured to the billions of dollars hanging in the air, “…isn’t the endgame. It’s the buy-in. It’s the resource pool.”

‘Every hit like this,’ I thought,

‘Pushes Meteor closer to being untouchable…. It builds a moat of money and cultural influence so wide that no one can cross it. But fame like this is a double-edged chainsword. It invites attention—the wrong kind. The kind that doesn’t try to compete on the virtual battlefield but looks for weaknesses in the real world. In my family. In my past. I’ll need to stay three moves ahead. This money isn’t for yachts and private islands; it’s for shields. For armies. For the next, bigger battlefield.’.

The scene began to close around me. I waved a hand, and the gargantuan holographic projections dissolved, their light fading from the room. The sudden dimness was punctuated only by the soft, ambient glow of standby lights on various consoles.

“So,” she said, her voice a mix of awe and a new, playful curiosity.

“What does a man who just made seven hundred and forty-five billion dollars in pure profit do next?”

I finally turned away from my reflection and looked at her, a slow, easy smile returning to my face, my previous serious train of thought shelved for now.

“Honestly?” I said, the playful lilt back in my voice.

“I’m thinking about lunch…. I’m starving. And then… I might call Riana and Cardi. See if they’re free to… celebrate. Last night was just the warm-up.” I winked.

“A profit margin like this deserves a proper, hands-on audit.”

Sabine rolled her eyes, but the proud smile was still there. “Of course it does. You’re a creature of habit, Sael…. Making a hit and then straight to sex….”

“Gotta maintain a balanced diet,” I said, standing up and stretching. The numbers were filed away, a problem for future-me. Present-me had more pressing, and far more enjoyable, engagements to pursue.

There is no harm to that, probably.

The Los Angeles skyline was a sprawl of dying neon and rising electric dreams, a circuit board etched against a sky the color of a day-old bruise. From my balcony at the Starlight Regency, the city hummed its constant, low-frequency song of ambition and exhaust. The air tasted of distant ozone and the faint, sweet tang of smog—the signature cocktail of New USA west coast.

I lounged back in a plush chair, a tablet resting on my lap. The glowing reports from Sunday detailed the streaming numbers for our latest Meteor releases. They were good. Better than good, actually. Seeing the stories I’d loved on another Earth finding such avid fans here… it was a quiet, profound satisfaction that never got old. It was nice. Honestly, it was.

“Beep! Beep!” My phone buzzed on the glass table beside me, a sharp vibration that cut through the city’s drone. The screen lit up with a name that was synonymous with pop royalty.

Mariah Kari: “You’re hard to reach, Mr. VT.”

‘Hehe~ look who it is~’ A smirk touched my lips. The directness was appreciated. In a world full of corporate-speak and ass-kissing, a little boldness was refreshing.

My thumbs tapped a reply.

“Depends who’s calling.”

The three dots appeared instantly, dancing with an almost impatient energy. Then the screen shifted, her caller ID photo—a glamorous, smoldering headshot—filled the display. I accepted the call and brought the phone to my ear.

“Heard you’ve been making music with Wayne West and Heminem…. Did you forget about me?” Her voice was exactly as it was on record, smooth and sultry, but with a live-wire energy that recordings could never capture.

“I’m offended… if you DO forget about me, you know”. She said coyly

I couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “Haha… I’m just waiting for you to make the first move.”

Her laugh was a rich, melodic thing. “Then consider this it... How about, you and me… Dinner tonight?”

The offer hung in the air, thick with unspoken potential. Collaboration. Publicity. Maybe a bit of fun. Why choose just one?

“Sure, Text me the place,” I said, my tone even.

“I already did,” she purred, and the line went dead. A second later, my phone chimed with an address for a place in Beverly Hills called Luxé. Of course she had. She was Mariah Kari. She expected a ‘yes’.

“See you there, ”I stood, stretching my young limbs that housed a mind twice their age. Time to suit up, I guess. This is my first time having a dinner with a diva, am I nervous, of course I am, that was Mariah Carey, well, Mariah Kari for God’ sake. Anyone would.

******************

Luxé Beverly Hills lived up to its name. It was a temple of wealth, all Art Deco curves and shimmering surfaces. Inside, colossal chandeliers dripped with thousands of crystals, scattering the soft glow of ambient lighting across polished marble floors. A trio played smooth, soulful jazz in a corner, the sound almost drowned out by the low, moneyed murmur of conversation.

Outside, it was an utter chaos. Paparazzi swarmed the velvet ropes like piranhas, their cameras flashing in a continuous, silent explosion. Since this is the pot where Hollywood elites would always come to have ‘dinner’ and ‘lunch’ so to say.

Pop. Pop-pop-pop. The light burst against the tinted windows of my hired town car like frantic morse code. This was the part of the game I was still getting used to—the spectacle.

The driver opened my door, and I stepped out into the sensory overload. The shouts were a garbled mess, where every reporter tried to get my reactions, by saying whatever they want.

“Sael! Over here!”

“Who are you here with?”

“Is it true about you picking up a stranded hoe?”

I ignored them, the sleek black suit I wore feeling like both armor and a costume. My mask, that simple, smooth piece of anonymizing black material, was my most important accessory. It hid the youth of my face and projected only what I wanted: mystery, control, the Meteor aura. Conversations stuttered and hushed as I walked through the restaurant’s entrance. I could feel the weight of a hundred stares, a mix of curiosity, envy, and pure, unadulterated gossip.

And then I saw her.

Mariah Kari was waiting near the hostess stand, a vision of calculated perfection. Her dress was a slash of deep, dangerous red that clung to every curve. Diamonds sparkled at her ears, her throat, her wrists, catching the light with every tiny movement. She was the embodiment of old Hollywood glamor, a living trophy.

She saw me, and a perfectly practiced pout graced her lips. “You made me wait, mystery man.”

“Had to look good for your headlines,” I said, my voice modulated just enough by the mask to sound older, smoother.

“You’re cute, Sael” She laughed, a sparkling, genuine sound this time, and closed the distance between us.

She didn’t offer a handshake. She simply looped her arm through mine, her touch confident and possessive. The scent of her perfume was intoxicating—jasmine, night-blooming flowers, and sheer, expensive dominance.

Together, we turned our backs on the staring crowd and let the obsequious host lead us to a secluded booth in the back. It was shrouded in dim, golden light, a private stage within the public theater.

Outside, I knew the reporters were already losing their minds. I could imagine the headlines flashing on CMZ:

“Sael VT’s Secret Date with Mariah Kari — New Power Couple?”

Once we were inside, I got the first-class treatment, and went straight to our table, were me and Mariah got served as quick as possible. The food was impeccable, not that I paid it much attention. It was a prop after all.

The main event was the woman across from me. Her confidence was a tangible force, but it met the calm, analytical walls of my own demeanor and slid right off. I think she liked that. She was used to men either fawning over her or trying too hard to alpha-dog her. even to me right now, I am over the moon, I grew up listening to Mariah from my old earth and do dream of salacious thing about her as well. now she is here within my reach.

She leaned forward between courses, the neckline of her dress doing most of the talking for her. Her voice was a teasing whisper.

“You said we’d collab…. Yet, I see Wayne and Heminem on your roster, not me.”

I took a sip of the ridiculously expensive red wine. It was good. Really good. “You’re on my mind, Mariah. But I don’t rush art... also, I kinda forget about us a little bit.”

“You’re naughty, you know…” She reached across the table, her fingers playfully brushing against the back of my hand. Her skin was warm. “And, you just like making women wait... I like that,”

I met her gaze, my smirk hidden behind the mask but evident in my tone. “Oh really? perhaps I only do that to the interesting ones.”

Our little bubble of charged banter drew glances from the other diners. I could feel them without looking—the sidelong looks, the whispered asides. It was half gossip, half envy. The king and queen of the moment, holding court.

As a plate of some intricate chocolate dessert was placed between us, she didn’t retreat back to her side. Instead, she slid closer in the circular booth, her hip pressing against mine. She rested her hand fully over mine, her touch no longer a brush but a claim.

“So…. will you be willing to work with me?” she murmured, her eyes locked on mine, challenging, promising.

I turned my hand under hers, not to hold it, but to rest my fingers lightly on her wrist. I could feel her pulse beating there, a rapid, excited rhythm. I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping to a low, smooth register that was for her alone.

“Sure, why not… I have enough time to squeeze you in to my schedule…. By the way… the other offer…. Still stand, right?”

“You’re dangerous…. But…. Like I said, before… it still stands… now that I see you, perhaps we can even get into a scandal… if you want to…” She held my gaze for a long moment, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her flawless features.

‘Oh… she is on, damn~ I’m hot… I’ll be sure to fuck you senseless Mariah… just wait,’ I thought, listening to the distant, muted pop-pop-pop of cameras from beyond the windows. And looking at the 30 years old hot diva in front of me, for sure I’ll be tapping that ass later.