I finish the last of my pudding as Samael clicks his fingers, a sharp, dismissive sound. "The Corrupter wouldn't be pleased. While your premise is... conceptually captivating, we're not going to risk destabilizing the entire operation without serious security measures in place."
"Security? Seriously?" I scoff, the sound low and derisive. "You're talking about guarding a secret in an organization built on betrayal."
"You successfully maneuvered Darcy Grey," he concedes, leaning forward. "That's interesting. But is there any guarantee your dungeon concept would work on other targets, under different circumstances? One data point isn't a pattern."
"I'm flexible with my methods," I say, my voice flat. "The objective is what matters."
"Then prove it, Maddox." His eyes gleam with a challenge. "Your initial seduction quota stands. Amplify it. Finish the remaining targets. Prove that your dungeon system is foolproof, that it can scale, and then we might have a deal. I am not walking into the Corrupter's throne room with the half-baked dreams of an initiate."
I get his point. I'm not threatened by it; if anything, a cold focus settles over me. I've always loved a good challenge. It's the only thing that ever made me feel alive.
"System," I command internally. "Pause the dungeon's initiation protocol."
[Affirmative, Host. Protocol paused at 70%.]
A smug smile curls on Samael's lips. The feeling that he might have reestablished his authority is evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. Let him have his moment. All I need is to finish the new quota, boost my stats, and wipe that grin off his face. This isn't a surrender. It's a tactical recalibration.
Just then, a burst of loud chatter and laughter shatters the restaurant's subdued atmosphere. A group of students; loud, entitled brats make their way in, shoving chairs and calling out to each other as they locate a large table. My eyes are drawn to their ringleader. His face is familiar, and I sift through Aaron's memories until it clicks: Kyle Greene. The star forward of Stanbury's football team.
I've interacted with him occasionally as the Sports Psychology Professor. He's loud, brash, and carries himself with the unshakable confidence of someone who believes he's God's gift, though he's really just a watered-down, off-brand version of a Ken doll. I know from faculty gossip that he's nothing without his aunt's wealth; his parents are gone, and his uncle and aunt, both high-powered sports agents, fund his entire vapid lifestyle. I've even met them at a donor conference. They were just as insufferable.
Samael's voice pulls me back. I notice he's finally started eating his now-cold food, sawing through the beef Wellington and downing a full glass of wine in one go. "I'll assign you a trainer," he says, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Former general of the devil's legion. Best of his kind. He'll get your combat stats where they need to be."
"I'll think about it, Samael," I reply, my attention divided. "I have other ways to boost my skills."
"Suit yourself," he shrugs, a clear dismissal in the gesture.
I raise my hand to signal for a waitress, ready to cover the bill and leave him to his meal. The manager nods and taps a girl who has just rushed in through the staff entrance, frantically tying her apron. I lower my hand as she turns.
I recognize her immediately. The girl from the elevator. Her hair is a bit windswept, her cheeks flushed from running. She clumsily gathers her blonde hair into a messy bun, her movements harried as she rushes toward the dining floor like a startled animal. I know that feeling all too well—the sheer panic of being late on your first day, hoping against hope you can make a good enough impression to keep the job you desperately need.
I watch as her eyes scan the room and land on me. Her face twists in a flicker of shocked recognition, but she waves it off with a practiced, professional swiftness and keeps walking. I hold her gaze, but she doesn't maintain eye contact for long, her eyes darting nervously to the tables she needs to attend. I'm not the only one who notices her, though.
"Yo! Check it out, it's Mary Jane!" a boy from Kyle's table hollers, his voice carrying across the room.
Mary Jane. The name clicks into place. I've seen it written. She's the student whose paper I glanced at in the car, the one with the D-quality work and the milk-stained cover. MaryJane Bonnie Gatsby. What are the odds?
Kyle swivels in his chair, a predator spotting easier prey. She freezes on the spot, a deer in the blinding headlights of his attention. I see her throat work as she swallows hard, trying to muster the courage to move past their table. She attempts to veer toward another section to help set salt and condiments.
"You've gone this far down just to see me, MJ?" Kyle laughs, the sound ugly and loud. "That's pretty pathetic, even for a charity case like you."
One of the girls draped on his arm giggles, a high, cruel sound. "You can't say that to a mother, Kyle," she simpers, not meaning a word of it.
"Yeah, a mother who doesn't even know who the daddy is!" Kyle cackles, and his sycophants join in.
My face scrunches in confusion and distaste. It's such a weak, pathetic attempt at an insult, but its cruelty is precise, designed to humiliate. I'm guessing they're mocking her because of her modest clothes, her job, her entire existence. I shouldn't interfere. It's not my business. Causing a scene here would be counterproductive.
Just as I turn my gaze back to Samael, deciding to ignore the juvenile drama, I hear a heavy thud, followed by a wave of raucous laughter. The sound isn't just noise this time; it pierces straight through me, a cold spike of recognition.
I turn back.
The girl is on the floor,a sprawl of limbs and spilled menus. Kyle is pulling his foot back, a triumphant smirk on his face—he'd clearly stuck it out to trip her. His friends are howling, phones raised, taking photos of her humiliation.
I'm up from my chair before my mind can even finish forming a reason why. The movement is pure instinct, a reaction to a sight I've lived a thousand times from the other side. The cool calculation of my deal with Hell evaporates, replaced by a hot, immediate rage. My chair scrapes loudly against the floor, cutting through the laughter.
Every eye in the section swings toward me.