Urban Harem God: Harem With My Ultimate Copy & Paste System!-Chapter 18: Side Quest?

Jayden headed back to the condo but dipped out fast—like, really fast. Tribeca's cool and all, all that upscale calm and artsy loft energy, but tonight? Nah. That downtown peace wasn't hittin'. He needed noise. Chaos. Flash.

Something that screamed "look at me" the same way he did just by existing.

He flagged a cab, slid in like a casual billionaire, tossed out the address—11th Avenue—and leaned back like a king ready to be chauffeured to his next spontaneous bad decision.

The city passed by in a blur of neon and history. They slid through SoHo with its artsy chaos, cruised past Union Square where weirdos and fashion kids coexisted in weird harmony, then up through Flatiron where the buildings looked like they had LinkedIn profiles.

Greenwich Village brought that old-school poetry vibe, all charm and whispers of jazz—but then Chelsea hit different.

Up here? The skyline flexed. No more cute bricks and indie cafés. Now it was glass, steel, and the occasional snarl of a $300,000 car idling just to flex on pedestrians. That high-performance hum that said, "Yeah, I'm compensating, but at least I'm loud about it."

As they rolled into Midtown West, towers scraped the night sky like they were trying to outshine the stars. They passed 711 11th Avenue, and there it was: Porsche Manhattan. The dealership didn't just display cars—it showcased fantasies. Each one behind glass like an award-winning slut in a silent auction.

The cab rolled to a stop beside DeWitt Clinton Park, right across the street. Streetlights flickered above like they were struggling to keep up with Jayden's glow. He stepped out, the city's sounds sliding into his ears—distant sirens, a deep bassline from a car speeding by, some dog yapping like it paid rent.

The park? Quiet. Dim. A couple benches chilling under tired lamps.

He picked one near the edge, dropped onto it like a casual god, one arm stretching along the backrest. Across the street, just past some tired-looking vans and the black iron fence, Porsche Manhattan gleamed like it had something to prove.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the sky bleeding into the skyline. Midtown pretended it slept—but let's be honest, it just power-napped between flexes.

He didn't even glance at the person sitting on the other end of the bench. Didn't care. Could've been a tourist, a ghost, or a stalker—none of them were more interesting than what he was scrolling through on his phone.

And why was he here?

Simple.

Buy. A. Porsche.

Easy, right? So damn casual. Just another Tuesday night, sitting across from a seven-figure showroom, planning to drop some commas like it was light work.

"Honestly, if my past self saw this, he'd cry, piss, and throw up—all at the same time," Jayden thought, smirking.

Spite tastes real fucking good when you've got the cash to back it up.

But the hue of his past still clung to him like a bad habit he hadn't kicked—like some stubborn cologne from a broke ex—it was there, faint, annoying, and hard to scrub off.

That heaviness in his chest wasn't drama—it was real. His heart was pounding for no good reason—marinating in the moment, trying to prep his heart.

Because apparently even when you're hot and rich, trauma still likes to sneak in like an uninvited bitch.

Like, here he was, sitting across from Porsche Manhattan with on his card in the bank, and somehow, he still couldn't get his legs to walk across the damn street.

That's why he stayed seated. In the shadow. Half-hiding like some glitch in the matrix. It wasn't about logic—it was the feeling. The pressure. The mental jam-up.

You can buy 99% of the cars on this planet, and yet here you are, stuck like your brain ran out of RAM.

"I agree it's not rational," he muttered, frustrated. "But I'm not here to make sense—I'm here because my heart can't shut up."

He scrolled through Porsche models like he was picking out a snack.

"I can afford most of these, right?" he thought, smirking. "And the more I spend, the more I get back. So why the hell not?"

He told himself it was about planning. Like, he was just thinking it through. What car, what color, what vibe, you know? But deep down? It wasn't that. It was the weight of the moment.

Back then, dreaming about this kind of life was how he survived. Sitting in broken chairs, googling car specs like he was manifesting shit through sheer hunger. This right here? This was the dream. And now that he could actually live it?

He froze.

Because somehow, having the power didn't make it easier. It made it heavier.

Thankfully, the bench he chose was tucked under one of those dim-ass park lamps, so he wasn't glowing like a celebrity sighting. A rare moment where he didn't stand out.

"Wait... is that good or bad for me?" he muttered.

Attention was a weird thing—it had two faces. Either flattering or fatal. But unless someone had a sniper scope on him, he wasn't stressing.

"I mean, I stood out even when I was broke, crusty, and built like a trauma playlist. So why worry now that I'm god-tier handsome and rich as fuck?" he whispered with a half-laugh, flipping through car pics like he wasn't casually having a moment.

He used to stand out for all the wrong reasons—broke, unwashed, face like sleep deprivation with a punchline. Now he stood out in a good way—rich, hot, and dipped in something dangerously divine. So why the hesitation?

"I stood out when I was damn near unlovable. Why the hell should I feel weird standing out when I look like this now?" He chuckled dryly, flipping through Porsche pictures again like the answer was hidden in the rims.

He was a Porsche guy. Always had been. Sleek. Loud when needed. Sexy but not trying too hard. That was the dream car, even back when he could barely afford bus fare. That's the first thing any teen dreams about once they touch money—somewhere to live, family if you got any (he didn't), hot-as-hell cars, and women.

Then maybe, like, toothpaste.

Just as he was mentally marrying a Porsche 911 Turbo S, something broke his vibe—

muffled sobs.

He froze. Looked sideways.

Sobs. Muffled. Quiet. But there.

Next to him, still in that dim little pocket of the park's gloom, sat a girl—teen, maybe his age.

Hair messy in that "I gave up hours ago" kind of way, like she intentionally let it fall around her face just to hide from the world. Her body? Rich girl built. Expensive curves, those long toned legs you only get from pilates or generational wealth. She was definitely money, even if her current state said otherwise.

Clothes weren't cheap—she wore brands that whispered rather than screamed—but everything was wrinkled and off, like she threw it on during a breakdown. And her makeup? A fucking mess. Mascara smudged like war paint, eyeliner halfway to her temples, foundation crying off her skin in streaks. She looked like she hadn't slept in days—maybe she hadn't.

Jayden sighed, closed his phone with a lazy flick, and leaned back on the bench.

"Well... guess God wanted to add a side quest tonight."