"Manager… could I possibly get an advance on my first month's pay?"
Chase Ford stood straight in front of the desk. A few loose strands of hair fell across his forehead, making his pale, handsome face look both lonely and fragile.
He had striking features, sharp and clean, almost too perfect. The white shirt he wore had been washed until it looked worn, but it could not hide the air of refinement he was born with.
"Say that again."
The manager, a stocky man with a thick waist, slapped an ID card onto the desk. His eyes were full of mockery as he looked at Chase.
"Are you out of your mind? You just started today. You have not worked a single hour and you already want an advance? Do you think this place is a charity? If you want to work, then work. If not, get out."
Chase picked up his ID with one hand. His other hand was clenched behind his back, veins faintly visible from the force of his grip.
"I'm sorry. That was inappropriate," he said quietly. "I'll take the job."
Five hundred euros for one night. That was more than he could make delivering food all day. He could not afford to lose this job.
When he stepped out of the private club, a light rain had already begun to fall.
Marseille's weather was like a child's mood, unpredictable and sudden. The afternoon had been bright and clear, and now the sky had turned without warning. Even the forecast never kept up.
The clouds hung low and heavy, dull and suffocating, just like Chase's mood. Sad. Hollow.
Who would have thought that just two months ago, he had still been a sheltered heir, living comfortably without a care? And now, he had become someone begging just to survive.
Fate had dragged him from the heights straight into the dirt.
He felt pain, helplessness, and a kind of despair he could not escape.
Awkwardly, Chase pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, copying what he had seen others do. He took a deep drag.
"Cough, cough, cough…"
The cheap tobacco burned his throat, making him cough several times. The rain quickly put out the glowing tip. He stared at the dead cigarette and let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh.
Nineteen years of smooth sailing, and he had never been this miserable.
Thunder rolled across the sky.
The sudden crash made his fingers tremble. His thoughts snapped back into place.
His mother was still waiting for money to save her life. He did not have time to stand here drowning in self-pity.
He tossed the cigarette into a trash bin, climbed onto his battered electric scooter, and rode off into the rainy night.
Thunder roared again.
Dark clouds pressed down over the city, and the rain grew heavier. To avoid getting soaked, Chase turned into a narrow alley.
It was a shortcut back to his rented room. A month of delivering food had taught him every street and back road in the area.
In about five minutes, he would be out.
Then suddenly, sharp sounds echoed ahead, like drums striking metal.
Bang. Bang bang. Bang.
"She's injured. She can't have gone far. After her!"
Chase slammed the brakes, his heart jumping.
Gunshots.
The rain poured down harder, swallowing the alley in darkness. He could not see a thing.
Footsteps splashed closer through the rain. Chase tightened his grip on the handlebars.
Gunfire meant murder or kidnapping. Either way, it meant trouble.
He was already at rock bottom. He could not afford to get dragged into someone else's mess.
Better less trouble than more.
He turned the scooter around, ready to leave.
"Don't move if you want to live."
A low, hoarse voice sounded behind him, chilling to the bone.
Chase froze.
Something hard pressed into his lower back.
A gun.
Rain soaked through his clothes, the cold seeping into his voice.
"I didn't see anything."
"Get me out of here. If they catch up, you're dead too."
The woman's voice was rough and breathless, like a blade at his throat.
Chase understood. In a deserted alley like this, he could be shot dead and no one would ever know.
"Okay. I'll take you. Just don't do anything reckless."
He did not hesitate. Once she climbed onto the back seat, he twisted the throttle and shot forward.
Wren Mercer's injuries were serious. She had been shot in the arm and the waist. Thankfully, the rain diluted the blood, making it harder for anyone to track her.
The scooter sped through the winding alleyways. Chase glanced at the flashing battery indicator, his lips trembling.
"Where do you want to go? The battery's almost dead."
Pain and blood loss made Wren's vision blur. She clenched her teeth and forced the words out.
"There's a service entrance at the club ahead."
Chase finally breathed out. It was not far. The scooter could make it. At least he would not be killed halfway there.
Still, being threatened at gunpoint was a nightmare.
Wren held the gun in her left hand, her right pressed tightly against her bleeding side.
Lightning flashed.
In that instant, she saw his back clearly. Straight. Steady.
The white shirt clung to him, revealing the faint outline of his shoulder blades beneath the fabric.
The alley had not been repaired in years. Potholes littered the ground, and the rain made it worse. The scooter jolted violently, nearly throwing both of them off.
Wren's blood-soaked hand grabbed the waistband of his trousers, barely steadying herself.
The gun dug harder into his back.
"Did you do that on purpose?" she said coldly. "Try anything, and you won't see tomorrow."
Cold sweat broke out along Chase's spine.
"I swear, I couldn't see the road."
Wren had never ridden an electric scooter before. Every jolt pulled at her wounds, draining the color from her face.
"How much longer?"
"Almost there," Chase said, not daring to stop. Rain and wind lashed his face like needles.
The alley ended quickly. The scooter turned onto a smooth road. At the club's back entrance, two luxury cars were already waiting.
"Stop. Close your eyes."
Chase obeyed.
Wren's eyes hardened. She raised the gun and struck the back of his neck.
Someone ran over holding a large black umbrella.
"Should we finish him?"
"Not yet. Don't alert anyone. Find out who he is."
If it had been a coincidence, and he had not seen her face, she could spare his life. He had saved her, after all.
But if it was planned, she would show no mercy.
Wren glanced down, then tossed the umbrella over him, covering his upper body.
"Let's go."
"Yes."
Inside the car, Wren opened her palm.
An ID card.
The photo showed a young man, handsome and full of life.
She read the name softly.
"Chase Ford?"
Chase Ford woke up freezing.
The ground was damp and icy after the rain, cold air rising and sinking straight into his bones. His body felt stiff and numb, like he had turned into a lifeless corpse. The hard pavement pressed painfully against every inch of him.
In all his years, he had never slept on the ground. At worst, there had always been the narrow bed in his rented room, uncomfortable but still a bed.
As his consciousness slowly returned, Chase let out a shaky breath.
He was alive.
That woman had not killed him to cover her tracks.
He pushed himself up, but the moment he stood, a wave of dizziness hit. His legs buckled, and he nearly collapsed again.
His body shivered uncontrollably. He did not need to think twice. He had caught a cold.
Not far away, an elderly sanitation worker in a yellow reflective jacket walked past and picked up the black umbrella that had been blown aside by the wind.
Chase checked his phone.
Five in the morning.
He still had a shift at the breakfast café. He could not be late. He could not afford to lose a single chance to earn money.
There was no time left. He rushed back to his rented room, took a hot shower, changed his clothes, plugged in his electric scooter, then ran straight to work.
By eight o'clock, when he finally returned, the dizziness had grown so bad he could barely stay upright.
There was no medicine in the apartment. He poured himself a large glass of hot water and forced it down. Just as he lay back on the bed to rest for a moment, his phone rang.
"Mr. Ford, a matching kidney donor has been found for your mother. The preliminary cost will be approximately three hundred thousand euros. Please come to the hospital as soon as possible to schedule the surgery."
"Found one?" Chase sat straight up.
Two months. He had waited two long months for this.
But when he heard the cost, his heart sank.
Three hundred thousand euros.
For the Ford family in the past, it would have been insignificant. Now, it was an astronomical number he could not even imagine reaching.
Tears slowly welled in his eyes. He covered them with his hand and stayed silent for a moment.
"Is it possible to perform the surgery first?" he asked quietly. "I promise I'll pay everything back. Every cent."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ford. That goes against hospital regulations."
He swallowed the bitterness in his chest. "How much time can you give me?"
"Three days," the doctor said. It sounded like a final verdict. "It's not that we lack sympathy. Your mother's condition cannot wait."
"I understand," Chase said softly. "I'll find a way."
After hanging up, he pulled the blanket over his head. The slight trembling beneath it betrayed his helplessness and pain.
He did not know what to do.
The Ford family had gone bankrupt overnight, drowning in tens of millions of euros in debt. All assets frozen. His father, unable to bear the pressure, had jumped to his death. His mother, exhausted and broken, was diagnosed with acute kidney failure soon after.
For two months, every cent Chase earned from his jobs had gone straight to the hospital. It was barely a drop in the ocean.
He had tried reaching out to relatives, only to be treated like a burden. In just two months, he had seen the full cruelty of human indifference.
His alarm rang again.
Saturday.
He was scheduled to work as a hospital caregiver.
He could not stop. If he stopped, his mother would not survive.
She was the only family he had left.
"Chase Ford. Nineteen years old. Only son of Victor Ford, former chairman of the Ford Group. Two months ago, the company suffered a major financial collapse and declared bankruptcy.
Victor Ford committed suicide. His wife is currently hospitalized with acute kidney failure.
Chase Ford is enrolled at a top business university, majoring in finance. Last night was purely coincidental. He has no known connection to the people involved."
Inside a top-tier VIP hospital room, a woman lay calmly against the headboard.
Her features were flawless, pale skin and red lips. Thick black curls spilled loosely down her back, a few strands falling forward over her chest. She was beautiful, but her deep-set eyes carried a cold authority that made her untouchable.
Wren Mercer listened quietly. A faint smile curved her lips.
Thanks to timely treatment, some color had returned to her face.
"So," she said softly, "a fallen star."
Interesting.
"Continue."
"He's holding several part-time jobs. From five-thirty to seven-thirty in the morning, he works at a breakfast café. Classes during the day. Food delivery at night. After midnight, ride-share driving. On weekends, he works as a hospital caregiver.
Last night was his first day at the club. Waitstaff. Four hours. Five hundred euros."
That much work?
Wren adjusted the drip on her IV, her expression unreadable.
After a moment, she spoke. "Leave. Send Anya in."
"Yes."
After picking up some medicine and forcing himself through the day, Chase arrived at the high-end private club at exactly eight that evening.
Because of his looks, the manager assigned him directly to a top-tier private suite on the eighth floor.
"Remember," the manager warned, "anyone who comes here is rich or powerful. We cannot afford to offend a single one of them. No matter what they say or do, even if they slap you across the face, you are not allowed to show dissatisfaction."
Chase nodded. "Understood."
He was already crushed into the dirt. Even this manager controlled his livelihood. Who could he afford to offend?
The guests had not arrived yet. Chase arranged the expensive red wine on the table, then carefully polished the glasses with a clean cloth.
He had rushed out earlier and forgotten to take his medicine. The dizziness returned, cold sweat breaking out across his body.
He rarely used to get sick. But lately, it was nonstop. Classes, work, barely three hours of sleep a day.
His body had finally reached its limit.
"These men won't do," a woman's voice complained from outside. "Too short. Too ugly. No abs. They feel like nothing. Your club's standards keep getting worse."
Chase immediately stood up, picked up his tray, and lowered his head to the side.
The door opened.
A heavily made-up woman with a slightly full figure stormed in, throwing her Hermès bag onto the sofa with a sharp sound.
The manager followed behind, bowing and smiling.
"Madame Laurent, those were all new faces. They haven't served many guests yet. Wouldn't it be a shame to dismiss them so quickly?
Why don't you have a drink first? These bottles were just flown in from Bordeaux. Try them. If they're not to your liking, I'll bring the others back. If that still doesn't work, I'll find more."
As he spoke, the manager shot frantic looks at Chase.
Chase understood immediately. He stepped forward, opened the wine with practiced ease, poured a glass, and offered it respectfully.
Madame Laurent's gaze swept casually over his face.
Then she paused.
Her eyes lit up.
"No need to look anymore," she said lazily. "Isn't there one right here?"
She pointed straight at him.
"I'll take him."