Chapter 18: Aurora Heights (2)
The room was silent.
Eight guards stood in a wall of dark suits and broad shoulders. Their eyes were fixed on Nolan. Their hands were ready.
Chad stood behind them, his confidence returning. His smirk was back, wider than before.
"Call your manager," Chad mimicked, his voice high and mocking. He laughed. "Who do you think you are, Nolan? You think the manager is going to come because some broke orphan told him to?"
A few people in the room laughed nervously.
Nolan's eyes weren't on Chad. They were on the head guard.
The same man who had grabbed his collar outside. The same man who had shouted at him. The same man who had walked away without an apology. Without even a glance.
Now he stood there, looking at Nolan with the same dismissive expression. Like Nolan was nothing. Like he had been nothing then and was nothing now.
'You didn't apologize,' Nolan thought. 'You grabbed me. And you walked away.'
The head guard stepped forward. His voice was flat. No respect. "You heard Mr. Harlan. Cooperate, or we'll need to teach you a lesson."
Nolan didn't react. His face was calm. His eyes were steady on the guard.
Chad's voice came from behind. "What are you waiting for? Beat him. Make him pay for the screen. I'll deal with anything later. Just do it!"
The head guard cracked his knuckles. "Guess we need to use force."
Nolan's mind was clear.
He looked at his stat points.
[Stat Points Remaining: 20]
He looked at his stamina.
[Stamina: 2]
'Too low. If I get tired, I'm done.'
He focused. Ten points. Allocate.
[Stamina: 2 → 12]
[Stat Points Remaining: 10]
Energy flooded through him. His breathing steadied. His muscles stopped burning. He felt like he could run for hours. Like he could take hits and keep standing.
He looked at his agility.
[Agility: 6]
'Need to be faster. Need to move before they can touch me.'
He focused. Five points. Allocate.
[Agility: 6 → 11]
[Stat Points Remaining: 5]
The world sharpened. The guards moved in slow motion. Their steps. Their arms. Their eyes. He could see everything.
The first guard swung.
Nolan stepped left. The fist passed his ear. He brought his palm up—fast, hard—and caught the guard under the chin. The man's head snapped back. His knees buckled. He hit the ground.
Gasps from the tables.
A second guard grabbed Nolan's shoulder. Nolan grabbed his wrist, twisted, and pulled. The guard stumbled forward. Nolan's elbow met his face. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed. The guard fell backward, his hands covering his nose.
Two down.
Three rushed at once.
Nolan ducked under the first swing. His fist drove into the man's stomach. The guard folded, air rushing out of his lungs. Nolan grabbed his collar and threw him into the second guard. They crashed together, falling in a tangle of limbs.
The third swung a fist at Nolan's head. Nolan caught it. His hand wrapped around the guard's knuckles. He squeezed.
The guard's face twisted. "Ahh—"
Nolan pulled him forward and brought his knee up. The guard's face met his knee. His head snapped back. He went down.
The room was chaos. Chairs scraped. People screamed. Glasses shattered on the floor.
The head guard stood at the back, watching his men fall. His confidence was cracking. His eyes were darting.
Nolan walked toward him. Calm. Steady.
The head guard grabbed a bottle from the table—wine, dark glass—and swung it at Nolan's head.
Nolan ducked. The bottle shattered against the wall behind him. Glass rained down.
He straightened.
The head guard's eyes were wide now. He had seen his men fall. He had seen Nolan move. And he remembered. The collar. The doorway. The way he had dismissed Nolan like he was nothing.
Nolan grabbed the guard's collar with both hands. The same collar the guard had used to grab him. The same gesture. But now the roles were reversed.
He pulled the guard close.
"You didn't apologize," Nolan said. His voice was low. Cold.
The guard's eyes went wide. His mouth opened. "I—"
Nolan slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room. Loud. Sharp. The guard's head twisted to the side. His cheek bloomed red. Blood appeared at the corner of his lip.
Nolan slapped him again. The same cheek. The sound echoed off the walls.
The guard's knees buckled. His face was swelling. His eyes were glassy.
A third slap. Full strength. The guard's head snapped back. Blood flew from his mouth. He crumpled to the ground, landing in a heap of broken limbs and shattered pride.
He lay there, groaning, his face already purple and swollen. His lips moved, but no clear words came out. Just wet, broken sounds.
Nolan looked down at him.
'Now you know. Now you understand who you grabbed.'
He turned away.
Silence.
Nolan stood in the middle of the room. His chest rose and fell evenly. His knuckles were red, but he wasn't bleeding. His clothes were still clean. His face was calm.
He looked around.
Seven guards lay on the floor. Some were unconscious. Some were clutching broken noses. Some were trying to crawl away. The head guard lay in a heap, his face unrecognizable, his breath whistling through split lips.
The room was destroyed. Tables overturned. Glass everywhere. Flowers trampled. Silverware scattered like fallen soldiers.
The classmates stared at Nolan.
Their mouths were open. Their eyes were wide. No one moved. No one spoke.
Chad stood frozen behind an overturned table. His face was pale. His smirk was gone. His hands were shaking.
Nolan walked back to the table. He righted his chair. He sat down.
He picked up his fork.
He cut a piece of Wagyu steak. Cold now, but still tender. He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly.
Everyone watched him. No one said a word.
Chad stared at the head guard, still groaning on the floor. He walked over and kicked him hard in the side.
"Get up! Call the manager! You useless—"
The guard groaned. He tried to speak, but his swollen lips couldn't form the words. Just wet, gurgling sounds. His hand reached for his walkie-talkie, but his fingers wouldn't close around it.
Chad cursed. He bent down and grabbed the walkie-talkie himself. His hands were shaking. His voice was high, frantic.
"Manager! This is Chad Harlan! Get to the 666 Private Room. Now!"
He threw the walkie-talkie down. It clattered across the floor.
Two minutes passed. Then three.
The elevator doors opened.
A man stepped out. Mid-forties. Gray suit. Gold cufflinks. His hair was slicked back. His shoes were polished. He walked like a man who was used to being in charge.
He stepped into the room and stopped.
His eyes moved across the chaos. Overturned tables. Shattered glass. Food everywhere. Eight guards lying on the floor, some unconscious, others clutching injuries. Blood on the carpet.
His jaw tightened. Then his eyes found Chad.
His expression changed. The tension in his face softened. His posture shifted. He walked toward Chad with purpose, his hand extended.
"Mr. Harlan. I'm Victor Cross, General Manager. We spoke on the phone when you booked the room. I was told you were a guest tonight."
Chad grabbed his hand. His voice was still shaky, but he was forcing confidence. "Yes. Yes, I'm Chad Harlan. Look at this place. Look what he did."
He pointed at Nolan.
The manager's eyes followed Chad's finger. They landed on Nolan.
Nolan was sitting at the table. His plate was in front of him. His fork was in his hand. A piece of steak was halfway to his mouth.
He put the fork down.
He looked at the manager.
"Are you the manager?"
Victor Cross straightened. His voice was professional, but his focus kept drifting back to Chad. "I am. As I said, Victor Cross."
Nolan looked at the destroyed room. At the guards. At Chad. At the frozen classmates.
Then he looked back at the manager.
His voice was calm. Steady.
"Deal with this."
Silence.
Victor Cross stared at him. His brow furrowed. His eyes narrowed.
"Deal with this?" He looked at Chad, then back at Nolan. "Mr. Harlan, who is this person?"
Chad laughed. A nervous, high laugh. "Who is he? He's nobody. He's just some broke orphan from my class. He's nothing. He's—"
"Deal with it," Nolan said again. His voice didn't rise. It didn't shake. It was flat. Final.
Victor Cross turned to face him fully. His expression had changed. The politeness was gone. Replaced by something sharper.
"Mr.—I don't even know your name. You come into this hotel, you destroy a private function room, you assault eight of my security staff, and you sit there telling me to 'deal with it'?"
He stepped closer. His voice was low, controlled.
"Who the hell are you?"
Nolan froze.
The words hit him like cold water.
'Who the hell are you?'
He looked at the manager's face. There was no recognition. No respect. No fear. Just irritation. Authority. The confidence of a man who knew he was in charge.
'He doesn't know me. He doesn't know I own this hotel.'
His mind raced.
'At Vellmar Tower, the manager knew me immediately. But here the manager—'
He thought about the ownership certificate. Aurora Heights Five-Star Hotel. Owner: Nolan Drake. Full and Complete.
'Does this hotel actually belong to me?'
He looked around the room. The destroyed furniture. The broken glass. The guards groaning on the floor. The faces of his classmates, still frozen in shock.
'Or is there another Aurora Heights? Another building with the same name?'
His heart pounded.
'Or is this a system fault? Did it give me the wrong building? Did it—'
Victor Cross's voice cut through his thoughts. "I asked you a question. Who are you?"
Nolan looked at him. Then at Chad, whose smirk was slowly returning. Then at the destroyed room.
He didn't know what to say.