This was just the beginning. The sooner he completed tasks, the faster he could climb out of this hole. Build something real. Mark didn't hesitate.
"Accept."
"Bro, you good?" Henry adjusted his glasses, studying Mark's face with concern. "You've been spacing out a lot today."
"Yeah, I'm good." Mark blinked back to reality, forcing his attention away from the floating notification.
"Let's go before we miss the bus."
"Yesterday was the last time I'm sitting on that bus." The words came out harder than Mark intended.
Henry froze mid-step. He looked at his friend like he was seeing a stranger. When had Mark ever cared about social hierarchy? The old Mark preferred being invisible, accepted his place at the bottom without complaint.
And when did he stop wearing glasses? When did he get the confidence to approach Becky Moonwell, or any girl for that matter? This wasn't the same person.
"I mean, we're seniors now," Mark added quickly, catching Henry's confusion and trying to smooth it over. "Right? We should have some dignity. Today's the last time. The very last time."
They headed toward the bus stop where the yellow vehicle sat waiting like a patient punishment. Alex was still there too, sitting in his Honda Accord with the engine running, scrolling through his phone.
This is my chance, Mark thought. Time to meet Alexa. Time to start working toward that five hundred thousand.
"Let me talk to the new kid real quick." Mark walked over to Alex's window.
Alex rolled it down immediately, that genuine smile spreading across his face. "Didn't think you'd make me wait this long."
"Didn't think you'd actually wait."
"I gave you my word." Alex's voice carried that earnest quality that had always set him apart from the rest of his family.
Those were Hugo's words, literally. This kid had learned integrity by watching him all those years.
"We still have people who keep their word," Mark said, pulling out his phone. "I'll come by your place this evening. Put your number in here."
"That'd be great, man." Alex took the phone, typed quickly with the ease of someone who'd grown up with technology as a third hand, handed it back. "My sister's really excited to meet my new friend. She doesn't get out much."
And I need to meet her, Mark thought, but for very different reasons.
"Don't answer, I'm calling. Now you have mine." Mark dialed, heard Alex's phone buzz with the incoming call.
"Got it." Alex chuckled, saving the contact. "You sure you don't want a ride?"
"Thanks, but not today."
The school bus sat there like a monument to failure. A bus that had to wait for seniors. Freshmen and sophomores already filled most of the seats. Mark's jaw clenched as he and Henry climbed aboard.
"Thanks, Mr. Smith," Henry said to the driver, who gave them that proud-dad face like waiting for them was some kind of achievement worth celebrating.
As Mark passed down the aisle, his eyes found the blonde girl again, May. She was reading a paperback, the cover showing an African village rendered in stark colors. Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. Their eyes met and something passed between them.
Not now, Mark told his hormones. I've got enough complications.
"You nerds getting off or what?" The voice came from the back, dripping with teenage cruelty.
The freshmen erupted in laughter like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. This was their entertainment, apparently. Worth waiting an extra fifteen minutes just to mock the seniors who were forced to ride the bus.
Mark couldn't take it anymore. The laughter, the disrespect, the daily humiliation. On impulse, he stopped next to May's seat.
"Hey. I'm Mark. Mark Lidorf." The words came out calmer than he felt, steadier than they had any right to be.
She looked up from her book, those intelligent eyes studying him with unexpected depth. Not judging, just observing.
"You nerd getting off or what?" The voice came again, followed by more laughter that grated against Mark's last nerve.
"May Slevann." Her voice was soft but clear, cutting through the noise like a blade through silk.
Mark opened his mouth to say more, but the bus lurched forward and he had to grab a seat to keep from falling. By the time he steadied himself, the moment was gone. May had already returned to her book.
Damn it. Should've said nice meeting you. Should've asked what she was reading. Should've said something better, something memorable. His teenage body was betraying him, making him awkward in ways seventy years of experience couldn't overcome.
"Thanks, Mr. Smith," Henry called as they got off at their stop, stepping onto the cracked sidewalk.
Before they could take three steps toward home, a black Lexus LS pulled up smoothly, blocking their path with professional precision. Expensive car, tinted windows, the kind of vehicle that screamed money and power and consequences. The driver's window rolled down to reveal a man in his forties, built like he'd spent time in the military and never quite left it behind.
"Mr. Mark Lidorf." The man's voice was calm, neutral, the kind that gave orders for a living. "Get in."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't even really a suggestion. It was a statement of what was about to happen.
Henry's face went pale, all the color draining out like someone had pulled a plug. He knew what cars like this meant, knew what people like this did, even if he'd never experienced it directly.
"Bro, I'll see you tomorrow," he said quickly, backing away like distance would keep him safe from whatever was about to happen.
Mark's heart hammered against his ribs but he kept his face neutral. This was about Becky. Had to be. Her father's security, probably.
He opened the rear door and slid into leather seats. The door closed with that expensive thunk that only German engineering could produce, sealing him in.
The man in the driver's seat didn't turn around. Professional. Controlled. "My name is Zack. I work for Richard Moonwell."
Called it.
"Mr. Moonwell noticed you had a conversation with his daughter today. First real conversation she's had with anyone at that school in over two years." Zack's voice carried no judgment, just facts. "That's significant."
Mark stayed quiet. Let them explain first. Never volunteer information in a negotiation. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, decades ago.
"He'd like to offer you an opportunity." Zack pulled out an envelope from the center console, handed it back without looking. "One thousand dollars. All you have to do is continue being friendly with Becky. Talk to her. Maybe convince her to call her father once in a while. Nothing complicated."
Mark opened the envelope. Ten crisp hundred-dollar bills, still smelling like ink. More money than most kids his age had ever held at once.
"That's just the start," Zack continued, eyes forward, watching the street. "Play your cards right, there's more where that came from. Mr. Moonwell wants his daughter back in his life. You seem to be someone she might actually listen to. That makes you valuable."
A thousand dollars to be Becky's friend. To manipulate a lonely girl. To be a spy, essentially. A paid informant trading trust for cash.
Hell, Hugo had done worse for less. Money had always been about leverage, about options, about power.
But using a lonely teenager as a pawn? That was different. That was the kind of move that left stains.
"I'll think about it," Mark said, handing the envelope back to Zack.
The silence in the car stretched like taffy, becoming uncomfortable. Zack didn't take the money. Didn't even look at it.
A thousand dollars was a fortune for any high school student. The kind of money that should have made Mark's hands shake with eagerness. Refusing it was either incredibly stupid or deeply suspicious, and Zack was paid to notice both.
Then Zack reached into the center console again and pulled out a second envelope.
"That's five thousand dollars." He set it on the seat next to Mark like it was a newspaper. "Don't take too long thinking about it. Mr. Moonwell is a patient man, but not that patient."
[TASK TWO: BONUS OPPORTUNITY DETECTED | Accept or Decline]
The notification appeared in Mark's vision like a test he hadn't studied for. The system always looked for shortcuts, always built events on top of events, each one leading to the next like dominoes falling in a pattern only it could see. But this felt different. This felt like a trap.
Mark picked up the envelope. He didn't need to open it to know the money was genuine. Richard Moonwell didn't play games with fake bills. Men like him didn't need to.
"I'll think about it, but not with your money in my pocket." Mark handed the envelope back, felt Zack's surprise even though the man's face didn't change.
[BONUS DECLINED]
"Interesting choice," Zack said, finally turning slightly to look at Mark in the rearview mirror. "Most kids your age would've—"
"I'm not most kids."
"No," Zack agreed slowly. "You're definitely not." He put the car in gear, smooth and professional. "I'll drive you home."
Not a question. Not an offer. A statement of fact that told Mark everything he needed to know about how thoroughly he'd been researched.
They had his address. Probably had his father's work schedule, his class roster, Henry's contact information, Mark's entire life laid out in a file somewhere. The rich don't make offers without doing homework first. That's how they stayed rich.