The shopping bags dug into Ethan's fingers as he left the boutique, the night air rushing to meet him with a chill that cut through the haze of perfume and polished marble. He didn't feel the cold. His mind was still ringing with the sound of the receipt printer, with the whispers that had followed him to the door, with the shock on Adam Vale's face as the numbers cleared without hesitation.
He walked quickly through the mall, the polished floors reflecting his movements like a ghost. The weight of the suit, the shoes, the watch—all of it—seemed unreal. He had carried groceries in plastic bags that weighed more than this, yet those had been burdens of survival. These were burdens of transformation.
A restroom sign glowed faintly at the far end of the corridor. Ethan pushed the door open and stepped into the quiet, tiled chamber. The smell of disinfectant and aftershave lingered faintly. He set the bags on the counter and pulled the charcoal suit free.
His fingers hesitated. For a moment, he simply stared at it. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light, smooth and flawless. It felt like holding something sacred.
He slipped out of his worn shirt and trousers, folding them neatly though they looked like rags beside the luxury items. One by one he donned the new clothes: the crisp shirt, the tailored jacket, the polished shoes that seemed to grip the marble floor with quiet authority. Last, he fastened the watch around his wrist, its weight both alien and reassuring.
When he finally looked up, the mirror stole his breath.
The man staring back at him wasn't the Ethan Ivers who had walked in here. Gone were the frayed cuffs, the tired posture of someone used to shrinking in on himself. The suit reshaped him—straightened his shoulders, narrowed his silhouette, gave his reflection an aura of sharpness. His dark hair, though unstyled, suddenly seemed purposeful, a quiet rebellion against the perfection of wealth.
For the first time, Ethan understood the phrase that had always felt like a cruel joke whispered at St. Helens: clothes make the man.
He almost didn't recognize himself.
A pulse echoed faintly at the edge of his vision. The system, patient and waiting. He inhaled sharply, steadying his hands, then gathered the discarded clothes into a bag. It was time.
Outside, he flagged down a taxi, slipping into the back seat as the city lights flashed past the window. The driver asked for his destination, and Ethan gave it without hesitation: the Twilight Hotel.
As the car pulled away, Ethan leaned back, the new suit hugging him like a second skin. His heart thudded with every passing block. He had an hour until midnight. One hour until the mission's deadline.
His mind, restless and sharp, turned inward. "Dashboard," he whispered.
The air shimmered, unseen by the driver, and the familiar interface unfolded.
--- [Money Deck System v1.0] ---
Name: Ethan Ivers
Balance: $80,000
System Points: 3
Exchange: 1 Point → $100,000
The numbers stared back at him, mercilessly real. He had entered the boutique with two hundred thousand. Now only eighty remained. He had burned through more money in a single hour than his family had seen in years.
His chest tightened. The figure wasn't just a number. It was proof of the razor's edge he was walking. The system gave freely, yes—but only to bind tighter chains.
The mission still glowed faintly beneath the dashboard. The reward shimmered, the failure penalty blazed red, and beneath them, a line pulsed:
[Bonus Mission: Locked]
His brows furrowed. Bonus? Another layer. Another trap waiting to spring.
The taxi weaved through traffic, the city growing brighter as they neared downtown. Glass towers stretched high above, neon signs painting the streets below in shifting colors. He caught glimpses of late-night diners, clubs pulsing with music, businessmen moving briskly even at this hour.
And then the hotel appeared.
Twilight Hotel rose like a jewel from the city's heart. Its façade gleamed with silver and glass, every line sharp, every light carefully placed. The entrance was marked by a sweeping awning, beneath which luxury cars glided to a stop, valets in white gloves opening doors with practiced grace. Red carpet stretched across the pavement, leading into a lobby that glowed with golden light.
Ethan's chest constricted. He had never set foot in a place like this. Even from the taxi window, it radiated an aura of untouchable prestige.
The dashboard flickered again.
[Bonus Mission: Unlocked]
A prompt appeared, glowing faintly.
[Would you like to check Bonus Mission? Y/N]
Ethan's hand twitched. He wanted to. Needed to. But before he could focus, his phone vibrated in his pocket. The sudden sound startled him, and he pulled it free. An unknown number flashed on the screen.
His brows knit. Unknown. Who could be calling him at this hour?
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he swiped to accept.
"Hello?"
For a moment, only static hummed. Then a voice, smooth and unfamiliar, cut through.
"Ethan. You're at the Twilight Hotel, aren't you?"
Ethan's blood froze. His eyes darted to the glowing lights outside the taxi window. His throat constricted. The caller knew. They knew exactly where he was.
His grip tightened around the phone. "Who are you?" he asked, carefully measured, though his pulse thundered in his ears.
The voice chuckled, low and confident. "It's me. Mike. I'm the one who called you here."
The words landed like a hammer.
Ethan's world tilted. His thoughts spun. The system had given the mission. The system had commanded him to come. But now, this man claimed responsibility.
How?
How did he have Ethan's number? How did he know where Ethan was? What did he mean by called you here?
Ethan's heart pounded, but he forced his voice to remain calm. "...Yes." The word slipped out steady, controlled, though his mind was reeling.
Outside, the taxi slowed, pulling into the glowing driveway of the Twilight Hotel. Valets stepped forward, doors opening smoothly for arriving guests.
The phone was warm against his ear. The voice on the other end was patient, waiting.
And Ethan knew, with bone-deep certainty, that whatever awaited him inside the Twilight Hotel tonight… it was only the beginning.
The taxi eased to a halt at the glittering entrance of the Twilight Hotel, its polished awning glowing like the gateway to another world. Valets in crisp uniforms moved briskly, opening doors with mechanical precision, their gloved hands reaching for keys of luxury sedans and foreign imports that purred like beasts of prey. Ethan sat frozen for a moment, phone pressed to his ear, eyes reflecting the hotel's golden light.
"Who are you?" he asked again, his tone sharpened now, though he fought to keep it steady. "And what do you mean by calling me here?"
On the other end of the line, a pause. Then the voice—calm, slightly puzzled. "What do you mean? You're the one who accepted the job, aren't you?"
Ethan blinked, startled. "Job?"
The man on the phone—Mike, he had called himself—sounded genuinely confused. "Yes. I was told you'd be arriving tonight. You got my email, right? Your name, your number—it was all sent to me. You're supposed to help us out. Drive a guest around the city during his stay. That's the job."
Ethan's breath caught. His pulse quickened. The system. It had ordered him here, demanded a suit, threatened death if he failed. But now, here was this man, Mike, speaking as though it was nothing supernatural at all—just a job, a simple arrangement.
"What email?" Ethan asked slowly, cautious.
"The one my assistant sent you," Mike said, his voice matter-of-fact. "I needed someone discreet, someone reliable. Your information came through. Ethan Ivers, right? That's you?"
Ethan's mind whirled. He tightened his grip on the phone, trying to probe without revealing too much. "Who gave you my details?"
"Didn't they tell you?" Mike replied. "No? Huh. That's strange. Look, I don't really care about the middleman. All that matters is you're here, and you can handle the work."
Ethan's skin prickled. The man didn't know. He had no idea about the cards, about the system's threats, about the mission that had nearly driven Ethan mad with pressure. To Mike, this was just business. A coincidence.
But Ethan knew better. Nothing about this was chance. The system had moved pieces, manipulated events, bent reality itself to ensure he was here. And it had done so in a way that looked perfectly mundane to everyone else.
His throat tightened. If he told Mike the truth, the man would laugh in his face. No—worse. He might think Ethan insane.
So Ethan chose his words carefully. "Yes," he said at last, voice measured. "I'm Ethan. I'm here."
"Good," Mike said, his relief audible. "Head inside. Go to the front desk and ask for Mary. She'll get you sorted. We'll talk later."
The line clicked dead.
Ethan sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the screen. The city buzzed around him, horns blaring faintly in the distance, but all he could hear was the echo of Mike's words. He was part of something bigger now, something orchestrated, but to everyone else, it looked like coincidence.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, paid the driver quickly, and stepped out.
The hotel loomed above him, every line gleaming with calculated grandeur. Crystal chandeliers glowed from within, casting warm light through glass panels. The carpet beneath his shoes was rich and soft, muffling his steps as though he was already walking in another man's skin.
His new suit hugged his frame perfectly, his polished shoes clicking faintly as he approached the entrance. Heads turned—subtle, fleeting, but enough for Ethan to feel it. Women's eyes lingered a moment too long, assessing his jawline, the cut of his suit. Men glanced briefly, measuring his presence against theirs. For once, no one dismissed him outright.
Inside, the lobby opened before him like a cathedral of wealth. Polished marble gleamed under golden light, fountains whispered softly in the corners, and the air smelled faintly of roses and expensive perfume. Guests moved in elegant currents—women in sequined gowns, men in tailored tuxedos, voices hushed but confident.
Ethan swallowed hard, forcing himself to walk with steady steps toward the front desk.
A woman stood behind it, sleek and efficient, her uniform immaculate. She greeted him with a practiced smile. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Twilight Hotel. How may I assist you?"
Ethan's throat tightened again. He remembered Mike's instructions. He leaned forward slightly, voice polite but quiet. "I'm looking for Mary."
The receptionist's brows lifted faintly. For a second, Ethan wondered if he had made a mistake, if he was about to be exposed as a fraud. Then the woman's expression shifted, her smile softening with recognition. She gestured to the side. "One moment, please. I'll let her know."
Ethan stepped back, his hands tucked in his pockets to hide the tremor of tension. His eyes roamed the lobby, catching glimpses of the rich and powerful. He had studied alongside their children at St. Helens, mocked and scorned by them, but here he stood, dressed like one of them, indistinguishable in the glow of wealth.
He wasn't sure if the thought thrilled or terrified him.
Footsteps clicked softly against marble. Ethan turned—and his breath caught.
She approached with a confidence that was almost tangible, every step graceful, deliberate. Her dress clung to her in ways that drew every eye in the room, the silk fabric glimmering with each shift of light. It was cut low at the front, revealing just enough to command attention without vulgarity, her curves accentuated in a way that made heads turn subtly as she passed.
Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, framing a face that might have belonged on a magazine cover—sharp cheekbones, lips painted a deep crimson, eyes lined to perfection. A faint fragrance preceded her, sweet and intoxicating.
And yet, beyond the glamour, there was something else—an air of richness that wasn't just in her dress or her beauty. She carried herself with the kind of ease only money could teach, a quiet knowledge that every gaze in the room belonged to her and her alone.
Ethan's chest tightened. He forced his eyes down for a moment, heat creeping up his neck. She was beautiful in a way that demanded attention, but he didn't dare stare too long.
She stopped before him, her gaze curious, lingering. "You're looking for me?" Her voice was smooth, with a faint lilt that carried both warmth and authority.
Ethan straightened instinctively, forcing the nerves from his voice. "Yes. Good evening. My name is Ethan Ivers. I was told to meet you here."
Her eyes studied him, sweeping across his features, his suit, the way he held himself. A faint smile tugged at her lips, not mocking but intrigued. "Interesting," she murmured.
Her gaze lingered longer than Ethan expected, curiosity brightening in her expression. For a moment, she looked at him not like the rest had—as though he were lesser, beneath notice—but with genuine interest, as though asking silently: Why is a man like you, dressed so sharply, seeking me out tonight?
Ethan's breath caught, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. He didn't know who she was beyond a name—Mary—but already, he sensed that whatever awaited him tonight, she would be at the center of it.