"I'll text you the address on iMessage. I'll let Alexa know you're coming. She's actually excited to meet you." Alex's voice dropped lower. "Gotta go, they're starting again." The line went dead.
They're starting again. A meeting. Jimmy Pabebuncano and Alex Sentara in the same room, probably with a dozen other children of powerful families. Planning something. Dividing up Hugo's empire, maybe. Or just playing at being important.
Mark's phone buzzed. The address appeared on his screen. An apartment in the nicer part of town, but not mansion territory. Alexa was keeping a low profile.
He looked at the system card on the table. One hundred thousand dollars.
"I need more money," he said to himself. "So much more money."
With this, he could buy new clothes. Something that didn't scream poverty. Something that might make him look like he belonged in the same room as someone like Alexa Sentara.
But first, transportation. He couldn't show up on foot at school. Couldn't arrive on the school bus. Needed something that said confidence without screaming desperation.
He changed into his best clothes, which still looked like discount rack clearance, and headed out. Time to be a teenager again.
The motorcycle dealership was three blocks away. He'd passed it a hundred times as Mark Lidorf, never dreaming he'd have reason to go inside. The showroom gleamed with chrome and possibility.
A salesman spotted him immediately. Young guy, maybe twenty-five, probably worked on commission, sizing Mark up in half a second and already writing him off. Poor kid, beat-up face, discount clothes. Probably just looking.
"Can I help you?" The tone said he didn't actually want to help.
"Yeah." Mark walked past him straight to the bike he'd already spotted through the window earlier. The one that had made him stop and stare. "The Buell Super Cruiser. What's the price on this one?"
The salesman blinked, then followed with obvious reluctance. "That's twenty-five thousand dollars, kid. But it's a beautiful machine if you want to just look at it."
"I'll take it."
"You'll... take it." The salesman actually laughed, like Mark had told a joke. "Listen, kid, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but that bike costs real money. Like, down payment on a house money."
"I know what it costs. I'll take it." Mark pulled out his system card, the black plastic catching the showroom lights. "Can you process this?"
"Do you even have a motorcycle license?" The salesman's voice carried that patronizing tone people use when they think you are wasting their time.
"I will tomorrow. It's my eighteenth birthday." Mark held out the card. "I need the bike ready by tomorrow morning. Can you do that or should I go somewhere else?"
The salesman looked at the card, then at Mark, then back at the card. Something about the unmarked black plastic, the weight of it, the way it didn't look like any card he'd seen before. "Let me just... run this."
He took it to the counter, scanned it, waited for the machine to process. Mark watched his face transform as the approval came through. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Confirmed.
The salesman actually called over another salesman to confirm he was seeing it right.
"I'll need insurance, registration, everything ready by tomorrow morning when I turn eighteen," Mark said calmly. "Can you do that?"
"Yes sir. Absolutely, sir." The sir came out automatically now, respect bought and paid for in twenty-five thousand dollar increments. "We'll have everything ready. Just need your information for the paperwork."
Mark filled out the forms with hands that didn't shake, even though his mind was screaming about what he was doing. Twenty-five thousand dollars. A quarter of his entire reward from the Becky task. Gone in fifteen minutes for a motorcycle he didn't technically need.
But he did need it. Needed the image, the mobility, the statement it made. Needed to look like someone worth paying attention to. Couldn't negotiate from a position of strength when you showed up on foot.
The salesman photocopied his ID, had him sign what felt like a dozen forms, shook his hand with the firm grip reserved for paying customers who weren't jokes anymore.
"We'll see you tomorrow morning at seven, Mr. Lidorf. Congratulations on your birthday and your new bike. You're going to love her."
Mark walked out seventy-five thousand dollars lighter and feeling strangely powerful. Money talked. Money changed how people looked at you, spoke to you, respected you. The same salesman who'd laughed at him ten minutes ago had just called him sir three times.
He checked his phone. The address Alex sent was about a twenty-minute walk through increasingly nice neighborhoods. Enough time to think about what he was about to do. Who he was about to manipulate. What he was about to become.
Alexa Sentara. Twenty-three years old. Diagnosed sex addict who'd been through every treatment program money could buy.
Five hundred thousand dollars to sleep with her. To use her addiction, her loneliness.
Mark started walking, the evening air cooling his face, the weight of choices pressing down on his shoulders like a physical thing. He was starting to enjoy it, the way people's eyes widen when they realize a kid like him had money.
By the time he reached the apartment building, the sun was setting, painting everything in shades of gold and blood. The building was modern, all glass and clean lines. Security cameras visible on every corner. A doorman visible through the lobby windows.
He stood outside for a moment, staring up at the windows like they were accusing eyes, wondering which one held Alexa. Wondering if she was as broken as he remembered. Wondering if he could actually go through with this.
Then he thought about being at the bottom of a ladder that stretched up into clouds he couldn't see, while people like Ben Sentara and Jimmy Pabebuncano stood at the top and laughed.
[ESTIMATED COMPLETION PROBABILITY: 94%]
Mark pushed open the door and stepped inside the air-conditioned lobby. The doorman looked up from his desk, assessing.
"I'm here to see Alexa Sentara," Mark said, sounding confident. "She's expecting me."
The doorman picked up a phone, spoke quietly, nodded. "Fifth floor, apartment 503. Elevator's on your right."