I Somehow Became The Almighty Creator, l can create anything: Be Ware

For the first time in years, Watts enjoyed a life that felt stable, unburdened by chaos or pressing worries. Well until things went wrong.

"Damn it," he muttered, the metallic scent burning his nose.

He thought about Chloe—how she'd smiled at him the last time they'd talked.

She was the reason he had this job in the first place, the reason his life wasn't falling apart.

Now, here he was, scrambling to hide God-knows-who's blood from a security camera.

'Eve's gonna regret ever helping me if I screw this up,' he thought bitterly, wringing out the vest.

An unlikely friendship with a clever eight-year-old girl had brought a semblance of peace to his chaotic life.

She wasn't just any child—she was the fiercely protected daughter of a high-profile Los Angeles CEO.

Chloe, headstrong and resourceful, had pulled off a rare escape from her family's relentless security—only to get hopelessly lost.

That's how their paths crossed—Watts spotted her standing outside Hank's Bar one evening, looking lost and far too vulnerable in the dim, seedy light

She was a lost lamb among wolves, her wide eyes and trembling stance drawing the wrong kind of attention from a group of drunken men.

Long story short, Watts stepped in, helped her, and, well, they ended up becoming good friends.

In gratitude, Chloe's overprotective mother, Eve, pulled some strings to land Watts a well-paying job at LAX Airport as a ramp agent—a position that provided stability he hadn't experienced in years

At $20 an hour and $120 a day, the income was enough to keep him afloat. But Watts, ever the hard worker, wasn't content to stop there. To double his income, he participated in underground kickboxing fights.

Of course, these fights were illegal, held in dingy, smoke-filled arenas where all manner of crime thrived—drugs, human trafficking, and worse.

It was the underbelly of the city, a place where survival depended on grit and skill. But it allowed Watts to afford a modest yet neat condominium with a breathtaking view of the city skyline.

Today, like any other day, Watts woke up early at 7 a.m., did his usual workout routine, had a breakfast of fried eggs, toast, and milk, and headed off to work. His shift started at 9 a.m. and lasted six hours. The day seemed routine until the unexpected happened.

Three hours into his shift, Watts felt the world tilt slightly. He paused, one hand gripping the edge of the conveyor belt.

"What the hell—" he murmured as his vision blurred.

A faint ringing filled his ears, growing louder with each second. His knees buckled, and he hit the ground hard.

The last thing he registered was the sharp metallic scent in the air.

Then—darkness.

Watts jolted awake on the cold floor, the metallic scent of blood filling his nose. His gaze locked on the dark pool spreading beneath him.

"What the hell…" he croaked, forcing himself upright.

 A sharp groan escaped his lips as he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. His mind raced, desperate to make sense of the situation.

Looking around, he saw the dark pool of blood where he had been lying, glistening ominously under the fluorescent lights.

"What in the actual fuck happened? And how the hell did I get here?" he muttered, his voice shaky as his eyes darted around the room.

Instinctively, he glanced at his watch. A chill ran down his spine when he saw the time.

"Shit! I'm thirty minutes late. The boss is gonna kill me! Damn it, it doesn't matter—gotta move!"

He stumbled toward the door, but halfway there, he skidded to a halt. Turning back, his eyes locked on the pool of blood again.

He glanced back at the pool of blood, his stomach twisting. It was out of the camera's view—thank God—but still too conspicuous.

Grabbing his vest, he scrubbed furiously at the stains. The fabric turned crimson, and the coppery scent clung to his hands.

"No way in hell am I putting this thing back on," he muttered under his breath, scowling.

Tossing the vest into his hand, he slipped his shirt back on and rushed to the nearest restroom. Splashing cold water on his face, he stared into the mirror.

The face staring back at him was familiar but disheveled—pitch-black hair sticking out in all directions, emerald eyes still sharp despite the chaos, and a jawline that many had called handsome, though it didn't feel like much of an asset at the moment.

As he combed through his hair with trembling fingers, he froze. His fingers brushed over dried blood on the back of his head.

Yet, bizarrely, he felt no pain. His heart pounded as the realization dawned—he'd woken up in a pool of blood, but there were no wounds. How was that even possible?

Unless the blood wasn't his.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. If it wasn't his, whose blood was it? And why had he blacked out, only to wake up here?

He shook his head, trying to clear the spiraling thoughts. He attempted to wash the vest, but the stains refused to budge.

Frustration bubbled as he wrung the vest out futilely.

Resigned, he shoved the damp fabric back on beneath his shirt, the clammy chill against his skin only adding to his unease as he hurried out of the restroom.

Looking at his watch, he groaned. Now he was forty minutes late.

He sprinted back to his boss, who was already searching for him. As soon as the older man spotted Watts, his face twisted into a frown.

"Woah, Watts. You look like hell. What's going on with you, man?" he asked, concern laced with irritation.

Watts looked down at himself. His clothes were damp, his hair was a mess, and he looked like he'd run through a storm. He scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

"Uh… Can I head home early today?" he asked hesitantly.

His boss sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're lucky you're a good worker, Watts. But don't make this a habit."

"Thanks, boss!" Watts called after him, already hailing a taxi. He didn't bother changing his attire.

He just wanted to get home and figure out what the hell was going on.

At home, Watts collapsed onto his bed, but his mind refused to rest.

What had happened? And why was there now a strange, glowing symbol hovering in front of his eyes, refusing to disappear?

He needed answers—and he needed them now.