Something shifted in Becky's expression. Not quite a smile, but close. Like she was considering whether to believe him or not. "You're Mark Lidorf, right? The guy who fought Daniel Sterling yesterday?"
"That's me. Though 'fought' is a generous description. More like 'got his ass beaten.'"
She almost laughed. Almost. "Why'd you do it? Everyone's saying you were trying to impress Sherry Braithwaite."
"Wow, I didn't know that." Mark met her eyes directly. "Does it matter?"
"Nah. You love asking that question, don't you?" Becky's voice softened slightly. "Actually, my parents don't matter either. I got emancipated last year. I live by myself now."
Emancipated at sixteen? Seventeen? Whatever her age, that was heavy. That was pain wrapped in legal documents and court orders. That was a family so broken that a judge had agreed a child was better off alone.
"That must be complicated," Mark said carefully.
"You have no idea." Becky kept walking, but slower now. Like she wasn't trying to escape anymore.
[COUNTDOWN: 00:05:47]
Across town, in a mansion that looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine, Richard Moonwell sat in his home office staring at multiple security feeds from Conbert High School. Cameras he'd paid to have installed a year ago, hidden in plain sight, monitoring his daughter from a distance she'd legally forced between them.
The screens showed hallways, parking lots, common areas. And on screen three, his daughter. Walking. Talking. Actually engaging in conversation with a boy for what looked like the first time in years.
"Zack," he called to the man standing by the door like a sentinel. Former military, current head of security, always within shouting distance.
"Sir?" Zack stepped forward, eyes already scanning the screens for threats.
"Look at this." Richard pointed at the feed. "She's talking to someone. Actually talking, not just brushing them off."
Zack leaned in, studying the boy. Skinny kid, beat-up face, cheap clothes. Nothing special. But Becky was smiling. Slightly, barely, but it was there. "Interesting."
"This boy might be useful to us," Richard said, leaning forward, hands clasped together like he was praying. "Find out everything about him. Everything. Family, finances, grades, arrest records if he has any."
"Yes, sir. Should I make contact?"
"Absolutely." Richard's voice was firm now, decisive. This was business, and business he understood. "Offer him money. Three thousand dollars to start. See if he'll help us reconnect with her. Get him on our side."
"Just a kid, sir. A thousand should be more than enough." Zack was already pulling out his encrypted phone, ready to gather intelligence. "Kids that age think a thousand dollars is a fortune."
"You don't understand." Richard shook his head, still staring at the screen where Becky was laughing at something the boy said. Actually laughing. "That girl has pushed away everyone I've sent. If this kid can make her smile, he's worth whatever it costs."
"Understood. I'll get his background, family situation, everything by today."
"Do whatever it takes." Richard's voice cracked slightly on the last word. Not angry. Not commanding. Desperate. "I need my daughter back in this house, Zack. I need to fix this before it's too late."
Zack nodded and slipped out of the room, already making calls. Richard turned back to the screens, watching his daughter disappear toward the parking lot.
Back at Conbert, Mark's palms were sweating. Time was almost up. He needed to close this now.
[COUNTDOWN: 00:02:02]
"It's been really nice talking to you, Becky." He pulled out his iPhone, trying not to think about how cheap and old it looked compared to whatever latest model she probably carried. "I wouldn't want this to be the last time we connect. Could I get your number?"
He held his breath. This was it. The entire day, the beating from the Spencer brothers, the missed opportunities, all of it came down to this moment. Either she said yes or the whole day was wasted.
Becky looked at the phone, then at him. Something passed across her face. Calculation maybe, or surprise, or maybe just the novelty of someone treating her like a normal person instead of an untouchable princess.
"Sure." She took the phone, typed in her number with quick, practiced movements, handed it back.
[COUNTDOWN: 00:00:47]
Mark's hands shook as he saved the contact. Becky Moonwell. Ten digits that represented a hundred thousand dollars and the first real step up from rock bottom.
[TASK TWO: COMPLETE]
[OBJECTIVE: Becky Moonwell's phone number acquired]
[REWARD: $100,000 deposited to System Card | CURRENT BALANCE: $100,000.00]
Relief flooded through him so intensely he almost laughed out loud. He'd done it. Completed the task with less than a minute to spare.
"Thanks. I'll text you," Mark said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
"Okay." Becky smiled, just a small one, but genuine. Real. "Don't be weird about it though."
"No weird. Promise."
She headed toward the parking lot where a black Mercedes with tinted windows was waiting.
Mark watched her go, trying to process what just happened. He'd done it. Actually done it. The system card in his pocket was worth a hundred thousand dollars now. Real money. Life-changing money.
Henry appeared at his elbow. "Bro, what the hell just happened? Did you seriously just get Becky Moonwell's number?"
"Yeah. I guess I did."
"How? Why? When did you become smooth?"
Mark couldn't answer. He was staring at the new notification that had just appeared in his vision, words that made his stomach drop like an elevator with cut cables.
[TASK THREE UNLOCKED]
[OBJECTIVE: Sleep with Alexa Sentara]
[REWARD: $500,000 | TIME LIMIT: None]
[NOTE: Player may accept or decline this task]
For a long moment, Mark couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The system wanted him to sleep with Alex's sister. A girl he'd watched grow up from a child.
A woman he'd seen spiral into addiction and treatment centers. A woman with diagnosed psychological problems that money couldn't fix. A woman who was dangerous in ways most people couldn't understand.
Five hundred thousand dollars. No deadline meant no immediate pressure, but also no excuses.