The tailor's shop was in Pioneer Square, tucked down an alley that Google Maps insisted didn't exist.
Liz's car—a Tesla that drove itself while she answered emails on her golden phone—had dropped them at the mouth of the alley at 9:47 PM. The streets were empty except for the homeless laying down for the night and a few tourists stumbling between bars.
"This way," Liz said, heels clicking on wet ground.
Darren followed, still nursing the last sip of $150 whiskey that he'd somehow been allowed to take from the club. The alley smelled like rain on old brick. No signs. No lights except a single bulb above a door that might have been black or just very, very dark blue.
Liz knocked three times. Paused, knocked twice more.
The door opened immediately.
The man behind it was ancient—or at least looked that way. Bent at the shoulders, shrinking hands, white hair that might have been styled or might have just given up. He wore a vest covered in pockets, each one holding measuring tapes, chalk, pins, and things Darren couldn't see.
But his eyes.
His eyes were young, sharp and golden.
Above his head: [STATUS: HOLDER] [SPECIALTY: SOCIAL LUBRICANT]
"Elizabeth," the old man said, his voice surprisingly strong. "Another project?"
"Another investment, Che." Liz stepped inside, gesturing for Darren to follow. "This is Darren Nova, he needs the full treatment."
Che studied Darren with those unsettling golden eyes, and Darren had the distinct impression of being stirred like livestock.
"Hmm, off the rack disaster, polyester blend, duct tape on the shoes—creative, but tragic." Che circled Darren slowly. "Posture is decent, shoulders back. That's salvageable but the energy..." He made a tsking sound. "He screams 'please hire me' from across a room."
"That's what we're fixing," Liz said, settling into a leather chair that looked older than the building. "I want him unreadable, Invisible to the people who matter, hyper visible to the ones who don't."
"Ambitious." Che disappeared through a curtain at the back of the shop. "Strip to your underwear, boy. I need to see what I'm working with."
Darren looked at Liz, who was already scrolling through her phone, completely unconcerned with his modesty.
"He's seen it all before," she said without looking up. "And darling, if you're going to be squeamish about vulnerability, you chose the wrong economy to join."
Fair point.
Darren stripped down to his boxers—thankfully a relatively new pair, only two or three holes—and stood in the middle of the shop feeling like an idiot. The space was larger than it had appeared from outside, stretching back into darkness. Bolts of fabric lined the walls, but not the kind you'd find at JoAnn's. These looked alive somehow. They caught the light in a weird way, moved when there was no breeze.
Che emerged with a measuring tape that glowed faintly gold and began taking measurements with the efficiency of someone who'd done this ten thousand times.
"Arms up. Breathe normally. Stop slouching, that's fear posture, we're eliminating that." He wrote down numbers in a notebook with handwriting that looked like it belonged on ancient scrolls. "What's your target demographic?"
"I'm sorry?" Darren said.
"Who are you trying to impress? Tech sector? Finance? Academia? Each requires different signaling."
Darren looked at Liz, who finally glanced up from her phone.
"He's going to be working mixed environments," she said. "Coffee shops, galleries, corporate lobbies. He needs to be a chameleon. Unremarkable enough to avoid security, remarkable enough to command attention when necessary."
"Ah. The grey man approach with a peacock option." Che nodded approvingly. "Expensive, but effective. The fabrics alone will run you..." He paused, looking at Darren. "Do you even understand how this works?"
"How what works?"
Che gestured around the shop. "I don't take dollars, boy. I take Gilt."
"Social capital," Liz clarified. "Che specializes in weaving emotional resonance into clothing. His suits don't just fit—they communicate, they make people trust you or fear you, or dismiss you, depending on what you need."
"That sounds insane," Darren said.
"Most valuable things do." Che pulled out a bolt of fabric that looked like charcoal but shifted to navy when he moved it. "This is woven from Confidence extracted from trial lawyers. Three hundred units, It makes people assume you belong, even when you don't."
He produced another bolt, this one a deep burgundy that seemed to absorb light. "This is Competence from surgeons. Two-fifty units, wearing it makes people think you know what you're doing, even if you're clueless."
"And this—" A third bolt, slate grey with almost imperceptible pinstripes. "This is Indifference from CEOs. Four hundred units, the most expensive, because it's the rarest, It makes you functionally invisible to anyone who considers themselves important."
Darren's head spun. "You're telling me clothes have... emotions woven into them?"
"Everything in our economy has Gilt woven into it," Liz said. "Food, furniture, real estate. Che just happens to specialize in status markers." She stood, walked over to examine the fabrics. "I'm thinking the Confidence base, Competence accents and Indifference lining. Make him look like money without screaming new money."
Che nodded, already pulling more bolts. "Smart. The full package—suit, two shirts, tie, shoes, accessories, that's running about five hundred units of Social Capital."
Liz pulled out her golden phone and tapped through a few screens. "Done. Bill it to my account, take it out of his first month's yield at the exchange rate."
"Wait," Darren said. "How much is five hundred units in actual money?"
"Depends on the market," Liz said. "Right now? About $5,000, but you're not paying in money, you're paying in the social capital you'll harvest over the next month. Think of it as a business loan with invisible interest."
"A $5,000 suit?" Darren's voice climbed an octave.
"A $5,000 investment," Liz corrected. "This suit will get you into rooms that would normally require a pedigree and a trust fund. It'll make targets lower their guards. It'll signal to other Holders that you're not amateur hour anymore." She crossed her arms. "Besides, you can't farm high value targets looking like you shop at Goodwill."
Che was already draping fabric over Darren's shoulders, pinning and marking with the speed of someone performing surgery. The fabric felt strange against his skin—warm, almost alive, with a texture that seemed to shift depending on how he moved.
"This suit isn't clothing," Liz said, watching Che work. "It's camouflage, It makes you invisible to the people who matter and hyper visible to the ones who don't. Wear it right and you can walk into any space like you own it."
"And if I wear it wrong?"
"Then you look like someone wearing a costume and everyone will know you're pretending." She smiled. "Lucky for you, pretending is just confidence without the track record. Fake it long enough, it becomes real."
Che worked in silence for another twenty minutes, pinning and adjusting. Finally, he stepped back. "Come back Thursday, I'll have everything ready."
"Thursday?" Darren blinked. "That's three days, don't custom suits take weeks?"
"Custom normal suits take weeks," Che said. "I'm not sewing cotton, boy. Gilt woven fabric wants to conform. It's already learning your energy signature." He gestured to Darren's clothes. "Get dressed and burn those pants when you get home."
Outside, the rain had started. Liz's Tesla waited at the curb, door already open.
"That was..." Darren searched for words.
"Overwhelming?" Liz offered. "Wait until you see what the shoes do. Che weaves Certainty into the soles, you'll walk into rooms like you've been there a thousand times."
"This is actually insane."
"This is actually efficient." Liz climbed into the car, and Darren followed. "You were harvesting emotions and converting them to dollars. Amateur hour, I'm teaching you to convert them to leverage. Money is just the bottom rung of the ladder."
The car pulled away from the curb, driving itself back toward Capitol Hill.
"Question," Darren said. "Che's eyes, the gold threads. What was that?"
"Long term Gilt exposure," Liz said. "Everyone develops tells eventually, Che's been working with social capital for forty years. It changes you. Physically, eventually." She pulled down the sun visor and checked her reflection. "I'm starting to show streaks. See?"
She tilted her head and Darren could just barely make out thin lines of gold in her dark hair, almost imperceptible unless you knew to look.
"How long have you been doing this?" he asked.
"Six years as a Broker, two years as a Holder before that." She flipped the visor back up. "I figured out pretty quickly that I was better at trading than harvesting, found my niche."
"And the cost? The physical changes?"
"Small price for getting exactly what you want out of life." Liz turned to look at him, and in the streetlight glow, her eyes had the faintest golden till. "Everyone pays a cost for success, Darren. Most people just pay it in time and dignity and slow, grinding surrender. We pay it in Gilt, i know which I prefer."
The car pulled up outside a building Darren didn't recognize. Glass and steel, doorman out front, the kind of place that probably required a credit check just to enter the lobby.
"This is your stop," Liz said.
"This isn't my apartment."
"It's your new apartment. Part of the lifestyle acceleration package, one bedroom, furnished, Capitol Hill. Rent's covered for the month through Gilt exchange."
"You're joking."
"I never joke about real estate." She handed him a key card. "Unit 412. Your things are already there, I had them moved while we were at Che's, get some sleep. Tomorrow we start your real education."
Darren took the key card, his hands numb. "Liz, I—"
"Don't thank me yet, you haven't seen the grocery bill for Gilt infused coffee." She smiled. "Go, you look like a kid who just got his first apartment."
"This is my second apartment."
"First apartment where you don't share a bathroom with mice, then." The Tesla door closed. "Thursday, noon. Che's shop, don't be late."
The car pulled away, leaving Darren standing in the rain outside a building that probably had his entire net worth in the lobby decoration budget.
He looked down at the key card, at his duct taped shoes, at the reflection in the building's glass doors showing a broke twenty eight year old who'd just signed away 20% of his emotional harvest to a woman who traded in human misery like it was cryptocurrency.
"I feel like a kid who stole his dad's blazer," Darren muttered. "If his dad was a Bond villain who monetized sadness."
[OBSERVATION: ACCURATE]
[WELCOME HOME]
He went inside.
The elevator was all mirrors and ambient lighting. Unit 412 was on the fourth floor, down a hallway that smelled like expensive candles instead of mildew and desperation.
The key card worked.
The door opened.
And Darren Nova stood in the doorway of an apartment that was easily four times the size of his shoebox, staring at furniture that looked like it belonged in magazines, at his cardboard box of possessions sitting on a shiny coffee table.
The chipped "World's Okayest Developer" mug sat on the kitchen counter.
He picked it up, looked at his reflection in the floor to ceiling windows that showed the Seattle skyline glittering in the rain.
Ten days ago, he'd been fired for having too much personality.
Now he was harvesting human emotions in exchange for luxury apartments and $5,000 suits.
The Goldscript Protocol hummed at the edge of his vision, pleased with his progress.
Darren set down the mug and laughed, the sound echoing in the empty apartment.
He had no idea who he was becoming.
But whoever it was could definitely afford rent.