After hanging up with his parents, Luke Thorne spent the afternoon in the hotel gym. One thing he loved about the system was that it was fair—lifting weights and running on the treadmill counted toward his training hours.
Despite a grueling session that left him drenched in sweat, Luke felt strangely energetic. Was this the power of the [Steel-Hardened Man] skill? He estimated that with this level of physical resilience, he could endure a marathon and still have gas in the tank.
He returned to the room, showered, and by 3:00 PM, he climbed into bed.
Steph, watching Luke's confusing behavior, couldn't help but ask, "Luke, it's mid-afternoon. If you sleep now, what are you going to do tonight?"
"Tonight? I'm not sleeping. I've got plans."
"What kind of plans?" Steph frowned. As a dedicated family man who valued his reputation, Steph wasn't the type to go out and cause trouble.
"Don't worry about it. But if you want to come along, you'd better get some shut-eye too." Luke didn't wait for a reply. He closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep, ignoring Steph's persistent questions.
Steph stood there, annoyed. He didn't want to wake Luke up, so he couldn't even turn on the TV. He tried to find a book, only to realize the hotel library was filled with empty decorative covers. Eventually, the boredom won. He tossed a blanket over Luke, slumped onto the sofa in the living room, and fell asleep himself.
When Luke finally woke up, it was 8:00 PM. He rubbed his eyes and walked into the living room to find Steph still out cold. He gave the sofa a couple of firm kicks. "Steph, get up. Rise and shine."
"Huh? What? Where?" Steph blinked blearily. "What time is it?"
"Eight. Perfect timing. Let's go."
"Go where?"
"To eat!"
The two headed out into the cooling D.C. air. Steph grumbled the whole way. "We could have just ordered room service! Why are we walking? How much further?"
"I'm taking you to get real Chinese food," Luke laughed. "I saw a sign when we were in the taxi yesterday. It's just around the corner."
Sure enough, they found a small, authentic spot. Luke ordered in fluent Mandarin, much to the owner's delight. Being professional athletes, they inhaled the food in under ten minutes and headed back out to the street.
A taxi was waiting at the intersection. Luke's lips curled into a mysterious smile. "Steph, I'm taking you to a special place." Before Steph could protest, Luke pulled him into the back seat.
"Take us to the nearest nightclub," Luke told the driver.
"Whoa, Luke! No! I can't go there!" Steph looked horrified. Luke had always been the disciplined one—why was he suddenly going off the rails?
The driver glanced at Steph in the rearview mirror and chuckled. "Hey man, isn't this kid a little young? Does he even have his learner's permit? He looks sixteen, tops."
Steph's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "I am twenty-one, sir!" He enunciated every syllable with pure indignation.
"Twenty-one? Hahaha! You don't look it. But if you're a man, why are you scared of a little music and dancing?"
Luke gave the driver a silent thumbs-up. He had been wondering how to convince the "Baby-Faced Assassin" to step inside, but the driver's ego-check had done the work for him.
The taxi pulled up to the neon-lit entrance of a club. As they stepped out, the driver shouted, "Have a wild night! Especially you, sixteen-year-old!" He sped off, laughing, leaving a fuming Steph and a smirking Luke on the sidewalk.
"Come on, Steph," Luke urged. "We're already here. You're not going to let a taxi driver call you a kid, are you?"
"Fine! Let's go!"
At the door, the bouncer immediately held up a hand. He looked at Steph. "You're not twenty-one, are you?" He reached for a "Minor" wristband—given to those allowed in the venue but prohibited from drinking.
Steph reached into his pocket, pulled out his driver's license, and slammed it onto the bouncer's palm. "I. AM. TWENTY. ONE."
The bouncer checked the ID, shrugged, and waved him in. But then Luke stepped forward and took the wristband. "I'm actually the one under twenty-one," Luke said, sliding the band onto his own wrist.
The bouncer watched them enter, scratching his head. "The one who looks twenty-one is a kid, and the one who looks twelve is a man. Strange world."
Inside, the bass was thumping and the dance floor was a sea of moving bodies. Luke didn't spare them a glance. He walked straight to a corner booth, ordered two Cokes, and pulled a deck of playing cards out of his pocket.
For the next ten minutes, they sat there playing two-man poker.
A woman with long legs and tight jeans approached their table. She glanced at Steph, clearly thinking he was too young, and turned her attention to Luke. "Hey handsome, can I buy you a drink?"
Luke held up his wristband. "Sorry, ma'am. I'm not allowed to drink."
The word "ma'am" killed the mood instantly. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but Luke's polite dismissal made her feel ancient. Still, she stayed. "Can I join your game?"
Luke kicked Steph under the table. Steph didn't even look up; he was pretending to be deeply focused on his hand.
Luke was worried. The system's "No Deep Interaction" rule was vague. If he talked to her too much, would the mission fail? He gave her a polite smile, shook his head, and looked back down at his cards without saying a word.
The woman gave them a look of utter confusion—perhaps wondering if they were a couple—muttered something about "bad luck," and moved on.
An hour passed. Steph finally cracked. "Luke, we're in a nightclub. We aren't drinking, we aren't talking to girls... what is the point of this?"
Luke looked at him with an expression of profound wisdom. "Asceticism, Steph. We are training."
"Training?" Steph's forehead wrinkled.
"Exactly. We are training the mind. In this loud, chaotic environment, we are remaining focused on our cards. This is mental discipline! When we get to the NBA, the crowds will be louder and the distractions will be bigger. If we can master our focus here, an away-game crowd will be nothing to us."
Luke almost believed his own lie. James Harden probably used the same excuse once upon a time.
Steph actually nodded, finding the logic surprisingly sound. "Alright. Let's keep playing then."
So, the two of them sat there, playing "Nightclub Poker" for five straight hours. News of the "weird guys in the corner" apparently spread, because no one else bothered them.
When the clock on Luke's phone ticked from 2:59 to 3:00 AM, he stood up immediately. "Time's up. Let's go."
He had survived. He was now a "Nightclub Prince" in name only, but he had the 20x multiplier in his pocket.
"Luke, two hours of 'mental training' would have been enough! We stayed for five!" Steph complained as they walked into the cool morning air.
"Stop whining, Steph. Let's get back to the hotel. We've got training with Ravin in a few hours, and I want to get at least some sleep before he tries to kill us."