Urban Harem God: Harem With My Ultimate Copy & Paste System!-Chapter 10: New York Ain’t Dreamin’, Snowfall & Sealed Gates

Snow had a way of making New York look soft—even when it wasn't. Like the city had thrown on a white coat to cover up the bruises.

The streets were quieter tonight, muffled under a fresh layer that hadn't yet turned into the filthy brown slush it usually became by morning. Steam curled from grates like ghosts warming their hands. Headlights glowed a little hazier, cutting through falling flakes that danced like they had somewhere to be. Somewhere important.

The kind of snow that felt almost cinematic—like someone had hit the slow-motion button on reality.

Storefronts glimmered with Christmas lights even though it was still weeks early, and everything smelled faintly like roasted chestnuts, car exhaust, and overpriced coffee. A few people still wandered—joggers in denial, a couple holding hands like the world couldn't touch them, and the always-there dog walkers who looked like they'd rather be anywhere but here. freewebnσvel.cѳm

Cabs slid down the avenues a little slower, like even they respected the silence. Or maybe just the ice.

And then there was him.

Just one teenager, hood up, boots crunching into fresh powder like he was personally offended by every step.

Jayden muttered something halfway between a curse and a whimper, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. "The fuck—when did it even start snowing?" His voice came out in a frosty puff. "Swear it was clear skies when I knocked out. This is some actual bullshit."

But even as he curse, it didn't just keep him warm—it wrapped him in it. Like the cold didn't matter. Like the world could bite and he'd just keep walking.

And that's what he did. Past the corner bodega still blasting bachata like the owner refused to acknowledge winter, past the silent rows of parked cars already wearing snow like hats, past the flickering lampposts that made everything feel like a music video no one was filming.

Slowly, the city shifted around him.

The graffiti faded. The buildings got taller, cleaner. Trees started popping up—actual, real trees with roots and intention. Not just the random potted ones shoved in concrete like decoration. The streets widened, the sidewalks smoothed out. The brownstones turned to glass.

Not just buildings anymore, but statements. Homes designed to say you can't afford to look inside.

Jayden knew the area. Tribeca. The kind of neighborhood where the doormen had better dental than most teachers. Where Teslas were the "humble" car, and every dog wore a coat more expensive than his old rent. The snow here wasn't even the same—it felt quieter.

Cleaner. As if it respected the tax bracket.

He stopped under a glowing streetlamp, blinking up at a penthouse towering above him like it knew something he didn't.

He exhaled, letting his breath fog up and vanish.

"This better be worth it," he muttered, even though deep down, he already knew it was.

It wasn't just a new place.

It was a new fucking world.

****

Jayden slowed his steps, boots crunching softly in the snow, as the looming silhouette of the first building of Silvercrest Residences finally stood in full view—an unapologetic beast of architecture.

A vertical flex of glass and stone that didn't just reflect wealth—it weaponized it.

Every panel of its surface gleamed like it had better things to do than acknowledge your existence unless you came with a last name that appeared in Wall Street circles or luxury auction invites.

The gate ahead looked like something out of a heist movie—sleek, dark, and humming with quiet authority. Off to the side sat the security booth. Not some crusty box with a coffee-stained desk and an old guy half-asleep watching reruns—no.

This thing was armored, probably bulletproof, and lowkey looked like it could deploy a drone if you coughed too loud.

And standing in front of it? A man built like a walking tank. Thick arms. Wide shoulders. Navy blue jacket with a badge that screamed zero tolerance. Jayden swore the guy had veins bigger than his patience.

"You lost, kid?" the guard asked, stepping forward like he owned the pavement.

Jayden blinked, then glanced behind him like someone else might be catching stray bullets. He pointed to himself with a raised brow. "Me?"

"Yeah, you." The guard looked him up and down—boots to curls. "Ain't like there's anyone else out here but me and you. You don't look like you live here. So, again... what do you want?"

Jayden let his head tilt slightly, face deadpan, tone dry as winter air. "I do live here."

The man actually laughed. Loud. Confident. Like someone had just handed him the best joke of the month.

"Listen, I've worked this gate seven years. Seven. Not once seen your face. You think people can just waltz in and claim property around here? Come on, kid. Look at you."

Jayden let out a low whistle. Then slow-clapped.

"Seven years? Damn. That's... impressive, really. Holding down a job like this for that long? That's dedication. Not everyone's cut out for high-stress roles like yours. Button-pressing. Gate-watching. People-squinting. Sounds exhausting, honestly."

The guard's face shifted. Smile gone. Brow folding into sharp creases. "What'd you just say, kid?"

Jayden shrugged, his voice light and laced with sarcasm so sharp it could gut a pig. "I mean, hey—I'm just saying. Most people would've cracked from the mental strain of opening gates all day. You? You turned it into a lifestyle. That's elite endurance."

"You're asking for a beating."

Jayden raised both hands, smirk playing on his lips like he was barely restraining a laugh. "Uh-huh! Easy there, champ. I'm just admiring greatness."

The guard stepped in again, puffed up now, but Jayden moved first—calm, slow, confident as fuck. He reached into the inside pocket of his heavy coat and pulled out a sleek folder from the system inventory. Official documents. Printed on high-thread synth-paper with the system's black-and-gold insignia glinting in the light. Embedded seals. Glowing data threads.

The whole thing looked like it could buy and sell your average mortgage banker.

He handed it over like it was nothing.

"Ownership docs. Floor 64. Name's Jayden L. Cross. Go ahead, read it out loud if you want."

Then, with a lazy half-smile, he added, "Oh—and don't ever get fired... who's gonna open the gate for me, huh? I was kinda hoping to see you around. You've got that... I dunno, dependable face. Like a sad golden retriever who knows how to tase people."

The guard froze.

His eyes scanned the paper. Once. Twice. His fingers gripped the edges tighter like they were slipping. And Jayden? He just stood there. Hands in pockets. Breathing in the cold like it tasted better on this side of the glass.

The man's expression changed. Real slow. That dawning, jaw-tensing, oh-shit-I-just-fucked-up look. His pride didn't just sink—it deflated. Like a tire in the snow, wheezing down under the weight of a truth he didn't see coming.

Jayden watched it happen. Watched that switch. That internal flip when someone realizes they were talking down to a king without recognizing the crown.

"Welcome to the business world," he thought. "Where the only thing heavier than power—was proving you had it."