The stairs descended for what felt like three stories.
Darren's cheap shoes—duct tape and all, clicked against marble that probably cost more per square foot than his monthly rent. The walls were lined with art deco sconces that cast everything in warm, golden light. Not the harsh gold of the Goldscript Protocol's UI but something richer, old money gold. The kind that whispered rather than shouted.
At the bottom, a hallway stretched toward double doors inlaid with geometric patterns. Through them, Darren could hear music, something jazzy and live, a piano and upright bass weaving through conversation.
A woman in a crisp black suit materialized from an alcove he hadn't noticed. Her name tag read "Sophia" and her smile was professionally pleasant in the way that made it clear she'd seen through his outfit in about two seconds.
"Mr. Nova," she said, not a question. "Ms. Barter is expecting you at the bar."
"Ms. Barter?"
"You'll recognize her."
Sophia gestured to the double doors, which opened silently at her approach. The sound of the club washed over him—laughter, clinking glasses, the low hum of people who belonged in places like this.
Darren stepped through and tried not to gawk.
The Gilded Cage was exactly what its name promised. Circular, three stories tall, with balconies wrapping around the main floor like opera boxes. The bar dominated the center, all black marble and brass fixtures, backlit bottles arranged like a church altar. The clientele looked like they stepped out of a luxury magazine—designer suits, cocktail dresses, jewelry that caught the light like tiny warnings about net worth.
And above every single person, floating in Darren's vision: tags.
But these were different.
[STATUS: HOLDER] [SPECIALTY: SOCIAL CAPITAL]
[STATUS: HOLDER] [SPECIALTY: INFLUENCE TRADING]
[STATUS: HOLDER] [SPECIALTY: REPUTATION ARBITRAGE]
Not emotions. Not yields. Something else entirely.
"You're staring."
The voice came from his left, Darren turned and forgot how to breathe.
She sat at the bar like she'd been poured there, every line deliberate. Mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back in a style that probably had a French name he'd never heard of, Her dress was black, simple, and probably cost more than every piece of furniture in his apartment combined. Diamond earrings caught the light when she tilted her head, studying him with the kind of focus usually reserved for interesting insects.
Above her head: [STATUS: BARTER BROKER] [L. BARTER] [YIELD MULTIPLIER: 3.2x]
"You're L.B.," Darren said, impressively stupid as first words went.
"Elizabeth Barter." She gestured to the empty stool beside her. "Though most people call me Liz. Sit. You look like you're about to bolt."
Darren sat, primarily because his legs weren't offering better options.
Up close, Liz was even more intimidating. She had the kind of beauty that looked calculated—not in a fake way, but in the way a master architect designs a building. Everything served a purpose. The subtle makeup that made her eyes seem larger, the jewelry that drew attention to her collarbones, even her perfume, something expensive and slightly dangerous, felt strategic.
"Whiskey?" she asked, already signaling the bartender. "You look like a whiskey drinker. Something cheap that burns."
"I'm more of a—"
"Two Yamazaki 18s," she told the bartender, who nodded and produced two glasses and a bottle that probably required a background check to purchase. "You're welcome."
The bartender poured with the reverence usually reserved for religious ceremonies. Liz slid one glass toward Darren.
"That's a $150 pour," she said. "Don't sip it like it's Jameson. Respect the craft."
Darren picked up the glass, which was heavier than it looked and took a careful sip.
It tasted like money, smooth, complex, warm going down, with flavors he didn't have the vocabulary to describe. Nothing like the rot-gut whiskey he'd been buying from the corner store.
"Good?" Liz asked, though her smile said she already knew the answer.
"Terrifying," Darren said honestly.
She laughed. Actual, genuine laughter that somehow made her more intimidating rather than less.
"I like you already," she said. "Most Holders I meet are either too arrogant or too broken. You're... pragmatic, I can work with pragmatic."
"Holders?"
"People who can harvest Auric energy. Extract emotional capital from the world and convert it to usable assets." Liz gestured around the room. "Everyone here is either a Holder or someone who benefits from Holders, we're the invisible economy that runs beneath the visible one."
Darren followed her gesture. The well dressed people scattered across the club suddenly made more sense, they all had that same quality, like they were operating on a frequency slightly off from normal reality.
"You've been doing this for what, a week?" Liz continued, sipping her whiskey. "And you're already at what, $600 in total yield?"
"$641.98," Darren said automatically, then winced. Of course she knew. She'd been watching.
"Pathetic." Liz said it without malice, just stating a fact. "You're mining raw ore with a spoon, I operate the refinery."
"I don't understand."
"Of course you don't, that's why I invited you." She set down her glass with a soft click. "Here's what you need to know: Holders can harvest Auric energy—emotional capital—from people, but we can't trade it directly, it's locked to us. Bound."
"Okay..."
"That's where Barter Brokers come in." Liz's smile turned predatory. "I can't harvest, but I can trade the Gilt Debt you create. Think of it like... you're mining gold but you can only spend it at one specific store. I can take that gold and trade it across the entire market. Luxury goods, social capital, influence, access to places and people you'd never reach otherwise."
Darren's analytical brain was already working through the implications. "So you're a middleman."
"I'm a multiplier." She leaned closer, and her perfume made thinking difficult. "You harvest $100 of grief from some poor bastard at a pawnshop. Cute. Adorable even, but it just sits in your account doing nothing except maybe buying groceries. I take that same $100 and turn it into a $5,000 suit, a meeting with a venture capitalist, a dinner reservation that requires three months' notice."
"How?"
"Trade secrets, darling. The economy of emotion is vastly more complex than the economy of currency. Some people are desperate for authentic experiences, others need social proof. Everyone wants something, and Gilt Debt is the universal solvent."
She pulled out a phone—not a smartphone, something sleeker, with a screen that glowed the same gold as the Goldscript Protocol and swiped through what looked like a trading platform.
"This," she said, showing him a chart that made no sense, "is the Gilt Exchange, real time trading of emotional capital. Right now, Desperation is down 3% because the tech sector is hiring again. Envy is up 8% because it's awards season. Schadenfreude is always stable—people love watching others fail."
Darren stared at the screen. It was like the stock market but instead of companies, the listings were emotions. Instead of shares, yields.
"You trade people's misery," he said slowly.
"We all trade people's misery," Liz corrected. "I'm just better at it and I can make you better too."
She set down her phone and turned to face him fully. This close, Darren could see the calculation in her eyes. She was measuring him, evaluating, running some internal cost benefit analysis.
"Here's my offer," she said. "I mentor you. Teach you efficiency, targeting, optimization. I give you access to my network, my resources, my knowledge. In exchange, I take 20% of your yield for thirty days."
"Twenty percent?"
"I'm being generous. Most Brokers take forty for first timers." She signaled the bartender for a refill. "But I see potential in you, that little spreadsheet you made? The efficiency tracking? That's Broker thinking. You're wasting it on amateur hour harvests."
Darren's vision flickered, Golden text appeared, overlaying Liz's face:
[CONTRACT OFFER: BARTER PROTOCOL]
[TERMS: 20% AURIC YIELD FOR 30 DAYS]
[IN EXCHANGE FOR: LIFESTYLE ACCELERATION PACKAGE]
[BENEFITS: MENTORSHIP, NETWORK ACCESS, RESOURCE ALLOCATION]
[SIGN: Y/N]
"You can see it, can't you?" Liz said, her smile knowing. "The contract prompt, the system wants you to accept. It likes efficiency."
Darren read through the terms again. Twenty percent didn't sound like much, but of course, that was how these things worked. The devil was always in the percentages.
"What's the catch?" he asked.
"Smart boy." Liz finished her second whiskey. "The catch is that once you see how profitable this can really be, you'll never go back to harvesting pocket change from coffee shops. You'll want more. Need more. And by the time the thirty days are up, you'll either sign on for another term or you'll have become someone who doesn't need me anymore."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you keep stumbling around Seattle like a blind man at a gold mine. You'll probably make rent, maybe even survive but you'll never thrive, and darling—" she leaned in close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes, "—survival is so much less interesting than success."
The contract prompt pulsed, waiting.
Darren thought about his $641.98 bank account, about the hospital waiting rooms and coffee shop lines, about Victor Chen and his $150 rent increase and the casual cruelty of a system designed to grind people into dust.
He thought about the man at the pawnshop, crying over his father's watch.
Then he thought about never having to be that man.
"If I sign," Darren said, "do I get a suit that doesn't have duct tape on the shoes?"
Liz's laugh was sharp and delighted. "Oh, we're going to have so much fun."
Darren mentally selected [Y].
The contract flared gold, and warmth spread through his chest, not the cold emptiness of harvesting, but something else. Something that felt like doors opening, like invisible walls coming down.
[CONTRACT ACCEPTED]
[BARTER PROTOCOL: ACTIVE]
[LIFESTYLE ACCELERATION PACKAGE: UNLOCKED]
[WELCOME TO THE REAL GAME]
Liz raised her empty glass in a mock toast. "Congratulations, Darren Nova. You just leased out 20% of your soul."
"Selling my soul would be too cliché," Darren said, and he was surprised to find himself smiling. "I'm just leasing out 20% of the emotional fallout."
"I like the way you think." Liz stood, smoothing her dress. "Come on. First order of business: we're getting you out of those tragic clothes, I know a tailor."
"At 9 PM?"
"Darling," Liz said, already walking toward a door Darren hadn't noticed before, "when you operate on Gilt, time is just another negotiable resource. Keep up."
Darren grabbed his whiskey—waste not—and followed her into the hidden economy of emotion, where everything had a price and he'd just agreed to pay it in installments.