[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary

The sky stretched endlessly above, glowing over crystal waters that mirrored the towers of Maxwell Corporation’s headquarters.

Finally, a day off.

Neville breathed in the crisp, controlled air, the kind only a planet with a full weather control system could produce—clean, unchanging, and almost too perfect.

His fingers brushed over the cool metal of the Polaroid camera slung around his neck, a recent splurge from the System Mall. It had weight, history, and a certain quiet promise in its design.

Photography had become more than just a pastime—it was his way of pressing pause on a life that never seemed to slow down. Capturing the details others overlooked gave him a kind of peace nothing else could.

[Host is looking particularly relaxed today! ( ´▽` )] Shelly’s voice cheerfully echoed in his mind, lighthearted as always. [This guide will now enter hibernation mode to conserve energy points. Try not to get into trouble without me~]

"When have I ever gotten into trouble?" Neville murmured, lips quirking.

The jogger passing by glanced at him oddly; he offered a sheepish smile in return before turning his attention to the compact digital camera in his other hand—another Mall find, one that printed photos instantly.

[Would Host like a chronological list or alphabetical order?]

"Go to sleep, Shelly."

[Happy day off, host! (｡♥‿♥｡)]

Her voice faded into a faint hum at the back of his mind, and for the first time in days, the world felt still.

<=

"This—" he had muttered to himself earlier this morning, "—this hobby might be the only thing keeping my brain cells from total collapse."

Shelly had approved, naturally, before retreating for the day. Neville took the gift of solitude without complaint.

=>

Sunlight slipped through the planet’s atmospheric shields, scattering into fractured rainbows against the steel-and-glass skyline around Central Park. Neville raised his camera, adjusting the focus.

An elderly Alpha was crouching in front of a small hover drone, His weathered hands guiding the child’s smaller ones with infinite patience. Something in Neville’s chest tightened at this sight.

Click.

The familiar whir of the photo developing brought an unexpected smile to his face before he realized it was there.

Neville gave the print a few casual shakes—a habit from Earth that probably did nothing but felt satisfying nonetheless—and watched the image bleed into view.

The grandfather’s smile appeared first, deep and unguarded. Then the boy’s serious little face, his tongue poking out as he focused on the controls.

It reminded him of the days of dead-end jobs—barista, delivery driver, warehouse graveyard shifts—capturing moments had been his way of finding beauty in the norm.

A coping mechanism to keep his mind sharp and his spirits high. Some might find these jobs and experiences annoying or even lowly, but Neville knew better.

He had learned his lesson the hard way the day his old phone slipped from his hand and hit concrete—he watched years of irreplaceable moments vanish in seconds. No backups, no cloud storage. Every smile, every messy sunset over the docks, every scrap of proof that Neville had once been in that world—gone.

That day had taught him something no one could talk him out of. Memories deserved more than a place in a fragile device.

Never again. His fingers brushed the solid frame of his camera. These beauties didn’t care about glitches or system failures. They captured the moment and made it real—something you could touch, hold, and never lose or delete.

Neville snapped himself back into the present, letting the hum of the district pull him forward.

The streets had begun to swell with the weekend crowd. Vendors lined the walkways, hawking everything from dubious "antique" trinkets to so-called authentic ancient delicacies that, on closer inspection, looked suspiciously like regular nutrient solutions made thick and added some food coloring.

Click.

By the fountain ahead—a masterpiece of engineering that bent water that defied earthen logics of gravity—three young Omegas huddled close for a holographic selfie.

Neville raised his camera to capture their happy moment.

Click.

It was just in time to catch the moment one of them teetered dangerously toward the fountain. One of them lost balance and yelped, saved only by her friend’s quick reflexes before they all dissolved into bright, carefree laughter.

Their laughter spilled across the plaza—bright, sharp, and unashamedly happy.

Click.

Neville found himself smiling faintly as he shook the developing Polaroid.

He had only made it another hundred meters when the perfect shot revealed itself—sunlight spilling through the canopy, carrying with it the faint, fabricated sweetness of the company’s botanical park’s synthetic flowers.

He adjusted his position carefully, fingers tweaking the digital camera’s settings to catch the delicate weave of light and shadow. His mind was on the framing, the colors, etc. He was just about to press the shutter when something in the corner of the camera’s view caught his attention.

There, half-concealed behind a scatter of ornamental sculptures, stood Ethan.

Neville’s grip tightened on the camera. The polished, easy-going smile Ethan wore at the office was gone—stripped away to reveal something colder, heavier. That expression was all edges and quiet pressure.

With him was a tall man who kept flicking nervous glances over his shoulder. He was showing something to Ethan. Between them, a reinforced briefcase sat open, its contents hidden from Neville’s angle.

Ethan reached in and retrieved a small, unlabeled spray bottle, his movements deliberate, almost careless in their precision.

What’s inside that bottle? Neville wondered, his curiosity piqued.

Whatever was in that bottle was important enough to meet in secret and place in a tightly secured briefcase. Yet Ethan was handling it like a toy he had grown bored with.

Since his hobby was about capturing moments, this was one of those moments.

Click.

The captured photo showed Ethan mid-toss, the bottle suspended in a perfect arc between his hands, the tall man’s tight face with barely concealed anxiety.

Adjusting for a new shot, Neville caught sight of another man in the background—the logistics worker he had seen gossiping and loitering around before. He was partially hidden by the trunk of a decorative tree.

Click.

The next photo caught the logistics worker’s outstretched hand reaching for the bottle. It was captured like a piece of incriminating evidence.

Neville ducked behind the sculptures, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He looked down at the second photo, beginning to develop the photo.

It really looked like he was capturing an illegal-looking handoff.

Evidence of... something. But what?

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.

"Gossip and evidence," he mused quietly. "Am I an interstellar paparazzi now?"

Shaking off his distracting thought, he peeked out again, ready to risk one more shot. But his view was suddenly blocked by the sleek, descending silhouette of a landing hovercar.

"Oh, come on," Neville groaned, lowering his camera. His complaint died in his throat when he recognized the vehicle’s official crest.

Then he froze. He knew that car.

It was the kind of hover car that whispered old money—expensive, discreet, and built to impress without ever having to try.

Bryan appeared as if out of nowhere with his signature smile already in place as he moved to open the door with the efficiency of a man who had done it a thousand times before.

The door swung open.

Grayson Maxwell stepped out. Every movement was measured, deliberate elegance trained into muscle memory.

Morning light caught on the faint, natural sheen of his black hair, tracing the sharp lines of his face, and his silver eyes scanned the plaza with the unhurried movements of someone who had a military background before he had been anything else.

His "casual" was another man’s luxury gala: dark slacks cut to perfection, a button-down that looked like it belonged in a museum more than a closet.

He was a perfect subject. And Neville was a photographer.

Neville’s finger moved before his brain caught up.

Click.

The flash went off.

A full, unapologetic camera flash—bright, stupid, honest-to-gods camera flash enough to be noticed in broad daylight like a mini sun.

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh—

Neville didn’t wait to see the reaction. He scrambled and dropped into a crouch and ducked behind the nearest styled hedge—a shrub so well-groomed it probably had its maintenance budget—with a muffled thump.

His knees hit damp grass hard enough to sting, but he barely registered the sting, too busy stabbing at the camera’s settings like a man disarming a bomb.

He risked a glance and saw Grayson’s head turned sharply, silver eyes narrowing directly onto the source of the light.

Beside him, Bryan’s smile only widened—never loud, but somehow louder than laughter—as if he had already been expecting this little show.

He clearly saw him earlier.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Neville’s fingers shook as he finally found the right dial and killed the flash. He tried not to imagine the exact number of ways this could end badly. Of all—shiiiii—

"Mr. Hope?"

"Mr. Hope?"

Neville flinched, a curse hanging on his lips.

Iris stood a few feet away, her hair was uncharacteristically disheveled from a light jog. She looked down at him, her expression was a mix of concern and outright confusion. She tilted her head, looking at his undignified position.

"Are you... hiding?" He could hear the uncertainty in her voice as she asked

"I—no." Neville stammered as he pushed himself up while brushing the dirt from his knees. He felt a flush creep up his neck, trying to salvage his dignity. "Just, uh... getting the angle. For photography."

Iris’s gaze dropped to the two cameras hanging around his neck, then zeroed in on the fresh photo in his hand.

"...What is that?"

"This?" Neville said while raising the camera slightly.

"It’s a camera," he explained, secretly relieved that the focus of the attention wasn’t on why he was on the ground. "It’s a recreated version of an old technology. It takes pictures, prints them instantly on special paper."

Iris’s eyes lit up and sharpened with genuine fascination. She moved closer with the reverent expression of someone approaching a religious artifact.

"Physical photographs?" She extended a hand, her voice softer. "May I?"

Neville hesitated, then passed her the digital camera while keeping a death grip on the Polaroid. Iris turned it over in her hands with careful reverence, running a thumb over the smooth casing and making a low hum of intrigue.

"Where did you even get these?"

"Trade secret," Neville said with a weak, apologetic smile. His tone was dry, almost defensive, as he drew the other cameras closer. He couldn’t exactly explain that he got it from the System Mall.

"Remarkable," Iris breathed and murmured, more to herself than to him. "It prints in real time? Is this purely mechanical? No neural interface, no holographic projection?"

"Nope. Just light, chemistry, and a little patience." Neville found his confidence returning. He pulled out the other photos he’d taken and spread them on a nearby bench with care like a street vendor showing his wares. "Each one is a unique picture. No copies, no backups—unless you photograph the photograph. That one," he pointed to the digital camera she held, "was upgraded with modern tweaks."

Iris leafed through the small stack with a growing, genuine interest. Her fingers were deft and careful, treating the photos like delicate documents, slowing at the street scenes and portrait shots.

"These are excellent," she murmured, offering a rare, soft smile at the shot of the grandfather and grandson. "You’ve got an eye for—wait."

Her fingers stilled. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a focused stillness that was far more intimidating than any frown. Her expression barely shifted, but Neville caught it anyway—the faint tightening at the corner of her eyes as she reached the photos of Ethan.

"This was taken today, isn’t it?" Her voice was level, all traces of her earlier warmth gone.

Neville’s throat felt dry. He gave a short, reluctant nod. It wasn’t worth pretending otherwise. It wasn’t a question; it was a confirmation.

Iris studied the photo for another long, silent moment, her gaze flicking between Ethan and the man he was meeting. When she finally met Neville’s eyes, her expression remained neutral.

"Would you mind if I take these?" She held up the photos of Ethan’s exchange. Her tone already says that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. "Just these."

"I... okay," Neville shrugged like it didn’t matter, though his grip lingered a fraction too long before he let them go.

"Take them." He handed over the entire stack, and she took it without a word.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She carefully spread and sorted the photos and separated the ones she would take. Her movements were precise, efficient.

Then, her thumb brushed over the next photo in the stack—it was a portrait of Grayson. She paused. For a split second, the corner of her mouth ticked upward in a flicker of something he couldn’t guess. Amusement? Something else?

Before he could get a word in, she was gone, jogging back the way she came.

Neville stood there with the remaining pictures at hand. He replayed the last thirty seconds in his mind. After stashing the remaining photos away, including the picture of Grayson, he wondered what that reaction meant.

Late afternoon had shifted into early evening by the time Neville made his way back toward the dorms. The walk felt different, for the first time in a long while, his mind drifting on the quiet beauty of the interstellar era.

The city’s twin moons cast a silver glow across his apartment. Neville stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the glittering rivers of hover-car traffic below.

Today hadn’t just been about fulfilling another task. It had been about this: the quiet hum of a living city, the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet. A painful reminder that he existed here, in a world that was real.

He raised his camera, framing the bustling hover cars and twinkling lights against the backdrop of the moonlit sky.

Click.

The perfect end to a perfect day off.

As the photo developed, Neville remembered the picture still tucked in his pocket. He pulled it out, studying Grayson’s captured image in the artificial light of his office.

Grayson’s face stared back at him. He felt a small, undeniable thrill inside him.

Two percent from a single meeting. Despite the suspicion in Grayson’s eyes, despite the walls he so clearly had up, he still made a crack in his armor.

A small victory. The first of many.

With a faint, satisfied smile, Neville opened an old, leather-bound picture album he’d acquired from the System Mall. He carefully slipped the photo of Grayson onto an empty page.

It was a tangible record of progress, a sign that he was one step closer to completing his mission.

At least, the photo turned out well.