Erich Hughes has just closed a successful financial operation. He'd bet against the Chinese and Russian real estate markets.

  He stood up from his desk. Model propeller planes lined the shelf with a bikini girl poster, model battleships with the famous Yamato at the center, and an absurd number of model tanks. Next to the models sat stacks of books on economics, technology, finance, aerodynamics, and aviation.

  He knew the war had caused a negative population effect in both countries. More than that, the Chinese real estate market had been forming a bubble since 2020 a sign that plenty of financiers and economists hadn't ignored but had hoped wouldn't get too bad. Erich put all his chips against the Canadian, Californian, and Chinese real estate markets. For one simple reason: eventually, the manufacturing costs and profit margins that Chinese companies relied on would stop being competitive. They'd start generating losses.

  A flight stick sat to the right of his laptop; a throttle lever used for flight simulators on its left. He even had a Gentex HGU-55/P helmet.

  Erich had studied how financial markets behaved in the '90s and early 2000s. He used that historical precedent not to predict the future, but to know exactly where to place his bets. And he knew he had to bet on this real estate market. His whiteboard was covered in calculations, not just the probability of something going wrong, but how bad it would be when it did.

  He opened his laptop. Stayed in his room drinking coffee and placing bets on various sites just for fun. He didn't leave the house. He lived in a place surrounded by wheat fields that doubled as a crop duster's homestead in the United States. He had a hangar next to the house, entirely his property ,the fruit of several successful bets against emerging markets that had grown out of control.

  His house was sparse. The living room had one functional sofa, a television, and a table. The kitchen was small: two pans, two pots, four plates in case guests ever came, and two spatulas. In his hangar sat a Cessna, the closest thing he had to flying. He'd bought it months after moving in. The house had a living room and kitchen that weren't even separated by doors, and an office where Erich spent five days a week running financial operations.

  The first hours of his workday consisted of reviewing the semi-annual and quarterly revenue reports from governments around the world, annual reports on reserves and debt loads across economies figuring out which ones to bet against. He had multiple screens for this, and all he did was read news, place bets when the crisis was already inevitable, but the visible signs hadn't appeared yet.

  In his office he did everything: buying foreign currency and selling when it climbed, betting on shares of emerging companies and his most lucrative business: betting on negative outcomes and financial catastrophes. His rule was simple, like Murphy's Law: everything that can go wrong will go wrong. It's only a matter of time and statistics before it happens.

  He received a call that same day. There was an aircraft auction, and there were musume units available. He lit a cigarette and drank his coffee, then shut off his screens.

  Erich climbed into his Toyota Tacoma and headed toward an auction of obsolete musume units destined mostly for spare parts and museum displays. He drove through the infernal American traffic, people working on the streets, watched a train convoy moving tanks across a rail crossing. Something you see every day. Until he reached the auction market in Mississippi.

  There he saw dozens of musume units, giant women chained to posts, waiting to be auctioned. Erich walked past them all. Most of the buyers were private pilots or museum enthusiasts. Corporate men in suits making phone calls to check whether the bank had approved their financing. Erich was different. He didn't need to call a bank for a loan. He had all the cash to buy a musume unit outright. That day he was looking for a Fighting Falcon Block A. The prices were exorbitant, and every seller required bank authorization and financing to purchase their units.

  A pair of men approached him. One was a Black man wearing heavy gold jewelry and a zoot suit. The other was a fat white American with grease stains on his shirt. They said:

  "Looks like you've got a thing for tall girls. We've got one with a brain that is like a potato. She's for sale, no financing needed. Wanna come see her?"

  Erich asked what they meant, and they were blunt: a girl, three meters tall, who didn't move, didn't eat, didn't drink water. Just sat or lay down all day.

  He followed the men. They showed him several military equipment: cannons, missiles, even light armoured transport vehicles. But Erich wasn't looking for a weapon or a woman. He wanted to fly. And he found one who caught his attention.

  He noticed a tattoo on her shoulder. The inscription read: 338 MΔΒ.

  Erich asked how much.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The men said two million dollars.

  Erich drove back to his house at 160 miles per hour, pulled a briefcase full of cash from under his sofa, tucked a pistol into his waistband, and drove back to the black market. He set the briefcase in front of the men and said:

  "I'll take her. Any problem?"

  "That's more than we asked for."

  "I know. But I want her. Does she still have the Hiten suit?"

  "It'd take us a week to get the engines and her specific suit together. Come back on Friday and we'll settle the price."

  "Splendid."

  The men unchained the musume unit. She didn't want to get up. Couldn't get up. She just lay on the ground like a person in a vegetative state.

  The men told Erich: "I doubt she'll fly, but you can have all the fun in the world with her. Spectacular tits."

  They used a crane to lift the musume and set her on a trailer hitched to the bed of Erich's truck.

  Erich drove calmly on the way back. He watched the traffic worsen getting out of Jackson Mississippi. Once he hit the open highway, it thinned out. He felt the wind touch his arm hanging out the window, put on a pair of aviator sunglasses to block the sun, and drove with an enormous smile on his face.

  He was about to fulfill a dream. To feel the wind on his body.

  Erich slowed down as he approached his neighborhood. He parked the truck inside the hangar and unhitched the trailer. He spoke to the girl.

  "Get down, please."

  She didn't even dignify him with a blink. So he went to the kitchen.

  He pulled out a pan, poured olive oil, set the burner to low, and started working ground beef with bread. He made two balls, bigger than his own hand. Flattened them slightly, placed them in the hot oil. Flipped them several times, seasoned with pepper. Then he laid a slice of mozzarella on each patty, waited for the cheese to melt, and put each piece of meat on a bun.

  Dinner was served.

  After eating, Erich went back to the hangar. The girl hadn't moved. He passed a flashlight across her eyes, they reacted normally to the light, which meant no brain damage. He pulled out a USB-C cable with an avionic computer adapter and connected it to the back of her neck, then plugged the other end into his ThinkPad. He opened the command console, downloaded civilian diagnostic software, and typed:

  “SUDO /sys diag”

  The screen ran the commands slower than usual. But he could see it: all systems nominal. All systems functional.

  Erich went back to the house, grabbed the second hamburger, walked back out, set the plate next to her, and said:

  "I know you're functional. I know you're alive. And I know you're listening."

  Then he turned to leave. A whistle passed his right ear. He saw a rock fly at inhuman speed, impacting the wheat field and generating a small explosion.

  Erich didn't turn around. He just flipped her off.

  He went back inside, turned on his computer, and played flight simulators. He couldn't sleep that night. Not because of the coffee or the cigarette, but because of the excitement that he had the smallest possibility of fulfilling a dream he'd carried for years.

  When Erich saw sunlight cutting through his office window, he went to the kitchen and made four fried eggs with plenty of bacon. Two for himself, which he ate right there.

  He grabbed a carton of orange juice, put the remaining food on a plate, and carried it to the hangar. To his surprise, the museum hadn't moved but the plate was empty. Maybe a homeless person or a rat had eaten the hamburger. But Erich was certain the musume had eaten it.

  "Good morning. Want breakfast?"

  The musume, expressionless, didn't answer.

  "Alright. Here's breakfast." He left the plate beside her along with the orange juice.

  He turned back toward the house. A nut grazed his right ear, the whistle louder this time. The nut hit the ground and sprayed dirt into the air.

  Erich cooked hamburgers again that evening and followed the same routine: deliver food, receive no response from the musume, walk away. This time a bolt passed his left ear, flying even further, the whistle sharper.

  Erich went back to the hangar and lit a cigarette next to the musume. He watched as one of her nostrils twitched.

  He laughed. A small laugh, but a laugh all the same.

  Then he just left.

  Erich slept peacefully that night. He knew his dream would come true eventually. Just a matter of time.

  Before falling asleep, he got a call from, Pachuco, the pimp who'd sold him the musume. “The suit was ready. I have a gift for you. Come pick it up Friday.”

  The next morning, he followed his routine: feed the musume, work his coldly calculated financial bets. But this time he didn't go examine the musume or bring her dinner. He left early and drove to a Home Depot. There he bought a grill, the cheapest one available two bags of charcoal, and six kilos of good quality Argentine and Brazilian beef.

  Erich came back, assembled the grill in front of the musume, loaded the charcoal, and lit the fire with the patience of a saint and cardboard from a pizza box.

  The musume sat there. Motionless.

  When the coals turned white, Erich spread them out and began placing well-cut pieces of meat, seasoned with nothing but salt, on the grill. He brought a six-pack for himself and six tall boys for the musume, which he left at her side.

  He waited for the meat to start smelling, that smell that grilled beef has, beautiful and rich and that was what broke her composure.

  Erich began cutting pieces for himself and eating in front of her. He made sure the meat was close enough to the woman's nose. Then he turned away and the musume stood up.

  Erich already knew. He'd seen her shadow.

  "You can grab meat from the grill. I left some beers for you. You don't have to talk but enjoy the food."

  The musume said: "Why are you doing all this? You don't have to make all this food. I don't even know why you bought me."

  "Because you must be hungry," Erich said. "That's why I made grilled meat."

  "But why did you buy me, you asshole? You clearly don't want to fuck, so tell me. Why did you buy me? I'm just an F-4 Phantom. I'm just obsolete scrap. I don't understand why you bought me and paid more than I'm worth. You clearly didn't take me to a chop shop, so just tell me what the fuck is going on in your head."

  "You're not obsolete scrap," Erich said, eating his meat and cracking open a beer.

  "You know I can't clean. I'm not going to be your fucking maid."

  "You're free not to. I didn't even buy you with that in mind. If I wanted to fuck, I would've gone to a whorehouse."

  "So, what do you want from me, asshole?"

  "Exactly what you're doing right now. Wake up. Act. Stand up. Live. Enjoy your life."

  The anger left the F-4 Phantom's face. She had no words. She picked up a tall boy, cracked it open, and drank