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usedpidemo · 26 days ago

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Power (Le sserafim Kazuha)

23.2k words

—————

The lecture hall’s air hangs thick with whiteboard ink and general disinterest. Twenty minutes into Professor Vance’s droning dissection of post-war Keynesian economics and your brain’s already switched to autopilot. The textbook in front of you lies untouched and unopened. Instead, your phone screen glows under the scarred lecture desk, illuminating the sleek interface of the PayPal app.

You’re not checking for a measly Venmo reimbursement from Dave for last night’s shitty pizza. No. You’re watching a digital miracle unfold.

Numbers. Big numbers. Incomprehensible numbers. They cascade into your balance like a slot machine hitting the cosmic jackpot. $10,000. $25,000. $100,000. The increments blur. Your thumb hovers, frozen like a stone, as another $500,000 materializes. Then a cool million. Then two.

There’s no stopping the money train anytime soon.

A detached part of your mind registers the sheer velocity. This isn’t a trickle; it’s a flash flood drowning your account in liquid green. $15 million. $30 million. The digits climb with uncanny indifference to reality. You feel nothing but a cold, humming buzz behind your eyes. $47 million. $49 million. $50,000,000.00.

The number sits there. Stark. Impossibly large. A digital monument to audacity. A grin, sharp and utterly wicked, threatens to crack your face.

A bit of that shrewd arrogance tears through a solitary comment.

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Not paying attention again, are we? Also, language, young man.”

His voice slices through the humid whir of the lecture hall like shaved ice: cold, precise, utterly devoid of warmth. Professor Vance has stopped mid-sentence, his laser-pointer beam freezing on a graph depicting something terminally boring. Every head in the tiered rows swivels towards you. Air crackles with sudden, uncomfortable attention.

You don’t flinch. Slowly tilting your head up, you meet Vance’s stare across the sea of curious and mildly judgmental faces. His eyes are flinty behind rimless glasses, his thin lips pressed into a bloodless line. He radiates academic disdain, the kind perfected over decades of dealing with entitled, brash undergrads.

"Yes, Professor?" Your voice is smooth. Almost annoyed, even. You don’t bother hiding the phone; it’s already darkening in your lax hand under the desk.

"Perhaps," Vance enunciates each word with glacial precision, "the intricacies of aggregate demand stabilization hold less fascination for you than whatever digital diversion currently consumes your attention. Would you care to enlighten the class? Or perhaps simply enlighten yourself on the material currently being discussed?"

A few stifled snickers ripple through the room. Dave, sitting two rows up, shoots you a look that’s half sympathy, half ‘you dumbass.’

Leaning back slightly in the uncomfortable plastic chair, projecting an aura of effortless nonchalance, "Apologies, Professor. Just confirming a critical—bursar notification." The lie slides out, polished and utterly insincere. You inject just the right note of distracted concern. "Tuition deadlines, you know how it is. Won’t happen again."

You flash a quick, meaningless smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

Vance holds your gaze for a beat longer, his expression unchanging. Behind the facade, a mask of polished disappointment. He doesn’t believe a word. He doesn’t need to; his point is made.

With a microscopic sigh that’s more a tightening of his jaw, he turns back to the projection screen, the laser pointer flickering back to life. "As I was saying, the multiplier effect under conditions of excess capacity—"

The hall’s collective attention drifts away, a low murmur resuming the dull lecture. With that inconvenience sorted out—kind of—you look back down. The phone screen, reactivated with a tap, still screams its impossible truth: $50,003,421.87.

The ‘bursar notification.’ Right.

A vibration buzzes against your thigh. A text notification overlays the obscene balance:

> Dude. Seriously? Vance looked ready to spit nails. U ok? Rent $$ still coming Fri, yeah?

You stare at the message. Dave. Good old Dave. Reliable. Boring. Still sweating his part-time job at the campus bookstore to cover a shoebox apartment he shares with three other guys. Still waiting on the $400 you ‘borrowed’ three weeks ago for a speaker system you definitely didn’t need. The text feels alien. Trivial. Irritatingly small.

Your thumbs move with detached efficiency.

> Vance needs a hobby. Chill. Yeah Fri. Maybe. Busy.

You hit send without a second thought. Busy, all right. Busy watching fifty million dollars solidify in an account linked to a fake name, a PO Box, and layers of digital obfuscation you criminally underpaid a sketchy guy in Estonia to set up. Dave’s rent money? A rounding error. A speck of dust on the gleaming monolith of your sudden, dirty wealth.

Here’s the scheme: Veridian Quantum Holdings. Sounded legit. Impenetrable. Cutting-edge.

You’d spun a web of pure, glittering bullshit. Whitepapers dense with pseudo-scientific jargon about "quantum-encrypted algorithmic arbitrage" and "high-frequency liquidity harvesting across decentralized dark pools." Meaningless phrases and humongous word salads cobbled together from tech blogs and sci-fi novels, designed to sound complex enough to intimidate, promising enough to deceive even the relatively wise. You targeted the desperate and the greedy—aging dentists with midlife crises and crypto bros drowning in FOMO. Promised them 15% monthly returns, compounded. Guaranteed.

"Proprietary AI-driven market penetration," you’d written, your own bullshit artistry surprising even you during those late-night coding-and-Adderall-fueled sessions building the sophisticated, utterly fraudulent investor portal.

The key was the cascade. Early ‘investors’—mostly you funneling stolen seed money from maxed-out credit cards—got paid. Lavishly. Their testimonials ("Veridian Quantum changed my life! Retiring early!") plastered the fake site. For them, the returns were real. Paid for by the desperate flood of money pouring in from the next wave of suckers, lured by the blinding appeal of impossible, effortless wealth. A classic pyramid. A house of cards built on human greed and gullibility. You knew it couldn’t last. You’d planned to pull the plug, vanish with maybe a couple of million when the heat got too close, disappear to some non-extradition beach.

But this—this was different. This wasn’t a couple of million. This was fifty. The final, massive tranche must have hit: some pension fund manager chasing yield, some oligarch’s bored nephew playing with daddy’s money. Perhaps a combination of both. They’d bought the fantasy wholesale, dumping unimaginable sums into your digital black hole. The absolute scale of it, the breathtaking stupidity of people with real money—it was almost poetic.

A cold laugh bubbles in your chest, ruthlessly suppressed. You stare at the number on the screen. $50,003,421.87. It’s not just about money. It’s power. Unchained, absolute freedom.

Vance’s rumbling voice fades completely, replaced by a roaring silence filled with possibilities. Private jets materialize in your mind’s eye. Islands. Cars that cost more than this entire lecture hall. The ability to walk out right now and never look back at this soul-crushing charade of education, these uncaring people, this entire suffocating life.

Your thumb hovers over the PayPal app. One transfer. To an offshore account you set up months ago, waiting like a coiled serpent. A few precise taps. The digital equivalent of stuffing a duffel bag. Months of calculated risk, sociopathic charm, and complete, unadulterated fraud culminating in a heist that feels like a masterclass in embezzlement, a new name etched in history’s dastardly acts, to be studied by future scholars and true crime YouTubers.

You execute the transfer. The confirmation screen flashes. A single, breathless thought explodes in the vacuum where your conscience used to be, drowning out Vance, Dave, the fluorescent lights, the dust, the entire pathetic world outside the glow of your phone:

“I can't believe that fucking worked.”

The weight of fifty million dollars settles onto your shoulders. Not as burdens, but wings. Ready to break you free from this prison.

You slip the phone back into your pocket. The lecture hall feels smaller, cheaper. Professor Vance is just an aging man droning into a lifeless, uncaring void. Here today, gone tomorrow. Then you lean back into your seat. A genuine, predatory smile finally touches your lips. The cartoonishly evil chuckle comes naturally. Your first stop after class? The Lamborghini dealership. And maybe hit up a Bugatti showroom right after.

Fuck Dave’s rent. Fuck macroeconomics. Fuck everything. The game is over. You won. Now comes the spending.

—————

Bolting out of the lecture hall after the initial bell, the fluorescent hallway lights buzz like trapped wasps as you stride toward the exit. The phantom weight of fifty million dollars a tangible pressure between your shoulder blades. Freedom tastes metallic, electric.

"Hey! Hold up!" Dave materializes from a knot of students, his brow furrowed, backpack dangling precariously from one shoulder. He falls into step, a persistent shadow. "Seriously, man. What the hell was that back there? Vance looked ready to spontaneously combust. And you just—grinned?"

You don't slow down. The polished linoleum reflects the harsh light from above. "Vance needs a hobby besides torturing undergrads with aggregate demand curves. Consider it performance art."

Dave grabs your elbow, pulling you to a stop near the fire exit doors. His grip is tight, insistent. "Performance art? Dude, you’ve been weird for weeks. Jumpy. Barely answering texts. Skipping the usual hangs. And now this? Grinning like a maniac in Macro? What’s going on?"

His eyes search yours, genuine concern etched into his features. Concern that feels alien, irritating.

You shake his hand off. "Busy. Got things going on. Not everything revolves around pizza nights and Econ 101, Dave." The dismissal is cool, smooth. Fifty million dollars makes impatience a luxury you can’t afford.

Dave blocks your path to the heavy push-bar door. "Busy doing what? We’ve got Stats in twenty minutes. Where the hell are you bolting off to like the building’s on fire?" He gestures vaguely back towards the lecture halls, the prison of schedules and syllabi.

A slow, deliberate smile spreads across your face. You meet his confused stare head-on. The answer is simple, absolute, a guillotine blade dropping. "Freedom, Dave."

Shoving the bar, the door groans open onto the ordinary campus quad, the grey sky, the world waiting to be bought. "I’m going to freedom."

You step through without looking back, leaving him framed in the doorway, mouth slightly open, the echo of your words hanging in the stale institutional air. His confusion is a speck of dust on the gleaming monolith of your escape.

—————

The Lamborghini showroom smells like new leather, ozone, and unimaginable wealth. Cold, polished concrete reflects the low-slung, predatory shapes under the clinical spotlights. You don't browse; you point. "That one. Aventador. Verde Mantis."

Its colour is a poisonous, vibrant green that screams obscene wealth.

The salesman, slick-haired and wearing a suit worth more than your former monthly rent, falters. "Sir, that model requires significant lead time, a deposit, credit verif—"

An answer you already anticipated. You pull out your phone, a sleek, black slab of indifference. The PayPal interface glows. A few precise taps. Holding the screen towards him, the number displayed: a transfer confirmation larger than his annual commission. It silences him mid-sentence.

His eyes widen, pupils dilating like he’s staring into the sun.

"Delivery?" you ask, the single word heavy with impatience.

"Immediately, sir. Absolutely."

His demeanor shifts instantly, obsequiousness replacing skepticism. The paperwork is a blur of signatures. Within the hour, you’re behind the wheel, the Aventador’s engine snarling like a caged beast finally unleashed. Its vibration thrums through the leather seat, up your spine. Freedom has 741 horsepower, a 217 MPH speed limit, and costs over $600,000.

You peel out of the dealership, leaving rubber on pristine asphalt, the salesman’s utterly stunned face shrinking in the rearview mirror. Traffic is an inconvenience navigated with aggressive acceleration and blithe disregard for lanes. Horns blare; you don’t hear them. You’re insulated by carbon fibre and liquid cash.

Rodeo Drive is a canyon of curated aspiration. You park the Aventador illegally, hazards flashing like a billionaire’s middle finger. First stop: Tom Ford. A sharp-eyed associate glides over. "Looking for anything specific, sir?"

You sweep a hand dismissively. "Everything. Suits. Shirts. Outerwear. Shoes."

Size doesn’t matter. Tailors exist for a reason. You’re pointing at mannequins, racks, glass cases. A vicuña overcoat? Yours. A pair of sunglasses costing more than Dave’s car? Worn immediately. Bags accumulate at your feet, a series of black monogrammed totems of excess. The bill is astronomical. A flick of the phone screen settles it. The associate’s smile is fixed, professional, but there’s a flicker of disbelief beneath the polish.

Next: Giorgio Armani. The aesthetic is colder, sharper. More suits. Silk ties like liquid night. A limited-edition watch with a face like a miniature galaxy. You try nothing on. Selection is instantaneous, based on sheer cost and the immediate visual punch. Sales staff move with hushed efficiency, packing garments in tissue paper as delicate as banknotes. Your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors is a stranger—sharper lines, darker fabrics, an aura of impenetrable coldness radiating from behind the Tom Ford lenses.

Ralph Lauren's flagship offers a different flavor of wealth: old money pretending to be rugged. You bypass the chinos and polo shirts. The Purple Label section beckons. Cashmere sweaters softer than a sigh. A shearling bomber jacket that looks like it belongs on a private jet runway, not a sidewalk. More bags. The Aventador’s nonexistent boot fills past the point where your piles of vanity crumple in the passenger seat.

But it’s more than just clothes. It’s also about fun. Take the Nintendo Switch 2 for example. An impulse buy from an electronics boutique sandwiched between the temples of fashion. Freshly shipped in, alongside every launch title, extra controllers. A trivial expense, a toy purchased without a second thought, tossed onto the growing pile of treasures.

Lunchtime arrives with a hollow pang beneath the adrenaline. You remember a place: Le Ciel Bleu, a name whispered in reverent tones by finance bros dreaming of expense accounts. Michelin stars. Impossible reservations booked months in advance.

You park the Aventador ostentatiously out front, ignoring the valet’s hesitant approach. Inside, the maître d', a man carved from ice and disapproval, blocks your path. "Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

"Afraid not, but I’m dying to have a snack." You move to step past him. He doesn't budge.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir. We are fully committed this afternoon. Without a reservation, I'm afraid—"

You don't let him finish. The phone is already out. Not PayPal this time, but a banking app. You navigate to a transfer screen, enter his name—spotted on a discreet brass plaque—and an amount. Five thousand dollars. You show him the screen, the confirmation blinking. "Will this secure a table? A quiet one, preferably."

His eyes dart from the screen to your impassive face, to the Tom Ford suit, the Armani shirt cuff visible beneath the sleeve, the glint of the obscenely expensive watch. His glacial composure cracks, revealing raw avarice beneath. He clears his throat, a sound like gravel shifting. "Of course, sir. A minor oversight. We have the Chef’s Table unexpectedly available. Right this way."

He snaps his fingers. A flurry of staff materializes. The restaurant, a hushed cathedral of linen, crystal, and anxious whispers, parts before you. Diners glance up, their expressions a mix of curiosity and resentment. You ignore them all. The food is an intricate, beautiful irrelevance. You eat little, savoring instead the power of the transaction, the way money vaporized an immovable obstacle. The bill, presented on a silver tray, is another trivial number annihilated by a tap on glass.

Late afternoon bleeds into starry night. And it’s not just shining from above. The Aventador is a mobile vault now, stuffed with bags from Tom Ford, Armani, Ralph Lauren, the electronics boutique, the watch salon, and your take-out. The unopened Nintendo Switch 2 box lies wedged precariously beside the passenger window. The intoxicating rush of gluttonous acquisition begins to dull, replaced by a strange, hollow fatigue. So you drive on autopilot, the snarling engine a monotonous roar, navigating towards the familiar, grimy part of town.

Then you see it. Your building. A tired, four-story brick structure with peeling paint and sagging fire escapes. Stark reality crashes over you like icy water. You killed nearly two hours choosing between shades of bespoke grey at Tom Ford, and now you're idling a near-million-dollar Lamborghini in Verde fucking Mantis outside a building where rent is perpetually late and the hallway smells faintly of stale cabbage and desperation.

The engine rumbles, a beast incongruous against the backdrop of overflowing dumpsters and chained-up bicycles. Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel. The weight of the bags in the back seat feels suddenly oppressive.

How do you explain this. How do you carry $15,000 worth of Italian wool and cashmere up three flights of creaky stairs past Dave’s room, past your other roommate Tom’s perpetually open door. The Nintendo Switch 2 box alone screams scalper or drug deal. You are a wolf, yes, but suddenly acutely aware of the cheap polyester sheep's clothing you need to desperately reassemble.

The cold arrogance that carried you through boutiques and past maître d's evaporates, leaving a thick residue of panic. Freedom, it turns out, has a parking problem.

You kill the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. The two-door green monster sits there, impossibly bright, impossibly loud, broadcasting your secret to the entire dilapidated block. Staring at your apartment building’s grimy entrance, the adrenaline is replaced by a chilling dread. The game isn’t anywhere close to being over. Here’s the hardest part: pretending nothing has changed.

—————

The Lamborghini’s leather seat cradles you like a pharaoh's sarcophagus. Freedom curdles into logistical panic. Ahead, the apartment building looms, a brick-and-mortar indictment. You can’t haul a Tom Ford trunk show past Dave’s inquisitive eyes, Tom’s perpetual door-gape, and Benny’s oblivious gaming marathons.

An idea hits. A hotel. Immediate sanctuary. Your thumbs fly across the phone screen, bypassing sensible chains, landing on The Vanguard: penthouse suite, three nights, price tag irrelevant. Booked.

Then, ice water down the spine. The laptop. Your lifeline to the encrypted offshore accounts, the fragile scaffolding of your fraud. It sits on your cheap particleboard desk, next to half-empty energy drinks and Econ textbooks. Trapped. There’s no choice.

You shed the most conspicuous bags—the Ralph Lauren shoeboxes, the Nintendo Switch 2 console—stuffing them deeper into the Aventador’s footwells. Only the slim Armani laptop bag makes sense. Then you slip out, leaving the green beast purring illegally at the curb, a beacon of impossible wealth in a sea of rusted sedans.

The familiar stench of stale pizza and damp carpet hits you in the foyer. You move like a ghost, boots silent on the worn stairs. Third floor. Your hand rests on the doorknob to Apartment 3B. Locked. Key fumble. Click.

Inside, the air is thick with microwaved popcorn and the tinny rattle of gunfire from Benny’s room. Tom’s door is, predictably, ajar, revealing a cyclone of laundry and textbooks. You slide into your own room, shutting the door with careful pressure, the latch catching with a soft snick.

Relief is short-lived. The laptop is exactly where you left it, its complementary power cord snaking across the floor. You shove it into the Armani bag. A quick scan: passport in the desk drawer. Wallet’s on the nightstand. A handful of essential toiletries dumped unceremoniously into the bag. You’re zipping it shut, the Armani jacket’s buttery-soft leather whispering against your arm, when the door bursts open.

Dave fills the frame, breathing hard, eyes blazing. His usual laid-back demeanor is shredded. "What the actual hell, man?" He doesn’t shout, but the intensity is a physical force. "You vanish after blowing off Vance like some Bond villain, ignore every text since, and now you’re sneaking around like a cat burglar?"

He steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over the Armani bag, lingering on the jacket. Its flawless cut, the subtle sheen of expensive leather utterly alien in this dump. "And what’s with the—"

Gesturing vaguely at your torso, the unspoken accusation hanging: Since when do you wear clothes that cost more than my tuition?

You sling the bag over your shoulder, adopting an air of distracted urgency. "Dave, relax. It’s handled. Vance? Ancient history. Look, I know I owe you for the speaker and rent. Consider it cleared. Today." Your cadence is smooth, dismissive, the practiced tone of someone used to money making problems vanish in an instant.

"Cleared? You’ve been ghosting me for weeks! Acting like you’re plotting world domination in here!" Dave’s frustration boils over. He gestures at your desk, normally cluttered with textbooks, now suspiciously bare except for the laptop’s absence. "You’re never out here anymore. Just holed up, typing like a maniac. What the hell’s going on?"

The commotion draws Tom. He leans against your doorframe, crunching an apple, curiosity outweighing concern. Benny, having paused his game, appears behind Tom.

“Whoa. Fight club? Did someone finally kill the fridge smell?" asks Benny, his usual indifference now probing.

"Your roommate," Dave spits, not taking his eyes off you, "is doing his best impression of a spy. Or a fugitive."

Tom takes another bite, the apple core in his hand glistening. "Spy? Fugitive? Dude, did you finally snap from Macro? Vance did look ready to spit nails." He takes a prolonged glance at the Armani bag hanging off your shoulder. "Nice bag. Seriously. Where’d you score that?"

Benny chimes in, oblivious to the undercurrent. "Yeah, man. Where you going? Skipping Stats? Bold move."

Seizing the distraction, the path to the exit lies momentarily clear past Tom and Benny. "Mom called," you state, the lie forming instantly, devised out of habit. "Family thing. Urgent. Gotta head to her place for a few days." You move towards the door, brushing past Tom.

Dave blocks your path again, his hand landing on your chest, right over the stiff, expensive leather of the Armani jacket. "Family thing? Bullshit. You haven’t mentioned your mom in months. What’s the laptop for? Why the vanishing act? And why the fucking jacket?"

His voice cracks, a fine blend of anger and bewildered hurt. He’s your friend—well, was—and the gulf between you, widened by fifty million dollars of stolen silence, feels suddenly vast and numbing.

You look down at his hand on the pristine leather. A smudge. You suppress a flinch. "Dave. Move." The command is quiet, flat, devoid of the earlier dismissiveness. It’s pure ice.

Tom raises his eyebrows, stepping back slightly. "Whoa, okay. Chill, guys. Family stuff sucks. Go deal with it, man." He gives Dave a back-off look.

Benny nods sagely. "Yeah, moms. Always calling at the worst times. Later, dude. Hope it’s not, like, super bad."

Dave doesn’t move. His jaw works. "This isn't over. You don't just get to act like a lunatic and bail with some BS story about your mom." But the pressure of Tom and Benny’s indifferent acceptance weakens his stance. He sees the determination in your eyes, the utter lack of give. He slowly lowers his hand from your chest, leaving the faintest imprint on the Armani leather.

You don't hesitate. You stride past him, out of your room and down the short hallway. Tom and Ben offer lazy farewells.

"See ya, man."

"Don’t let your mom guilt-trip you too hard!"

You hit the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, the Armani bag banging against your hip. The grimy foyer. The front door. Fresh air, tainted by exhaust. The Lamborghini sits where you left it, a viridian green spaceship parked beside a dumpster. You hit the key fob. The locks thunk open with satisfying finality.

Inside the apartment, Dave stares at the space where you vanished. His face is a storm cloud. He pulls out his phone, maybe to text you another furious demand, maybe just to vent-scroll. The screen lights up. A notification banner slides down:

Venmo: You received $3,000.00 > Now leave me the fuck alone. 🖕

Dave’s breath catches. He stares at the screen. Three thousand dollars. Speaker money. Rent overdue. Weeks of worry, annoyance, confusion—settled with a sum that feels obscenely large for the collective debt he’d been asking tirelessly to be paid back.

Before he can process it, before he can even think of showing the others, a sound shatters the apartment’s tense quiet.

It starts as a low, guttural rumble, vibrating the cheap window panes. Then it builds instantly into a savage, snarling roar—the unmistakable sound of a high-revving V12 engine pushed past idle.

It’s loud. Intentionally loud. Obscenely loud for this usually peaceful street.

Tom drops his apple core. "What the hell was that?"

Benny abandons his paused game entirely, scrambling towards the living room window. "Sounds like a monster truck! Or—a jet!"

Dave, phone still clutched in his hand displaying the damning Venmo notification, is the first to reach the grimy window overlooking the street. He shoves the cheap curtain aside.

Down below, the source of the roar is pulling away from the curb. Not a monster truck, nor a jet. A Lamborghini Aventador. In a shade of eye-searing, radioactive green. The driver, visible for a split second through the windshield, wears a sharp, unfamiliar jacket and sunglasses. He doesn't look up. The Lambo accelerates with brutal, effortless power, the engine note deepening into a predatory bellow as it devours the potholed street, leaving a faint scent of burnt rubber and disbelief hanging in the air.

Tom’s jaw hangs slack. "No. Fucking. Way."

Benny presses his face against the glass. "Was that—? Did he just—?” He shakes his head, rubs his eyes. “In a fucking Lambo? That color! Dude!"

Dave doesn’t say a word. He stares at the vanishing point where the obscenely green supercar turned the corner. Then he looks down at his phone again.

The $3,000 Venmo notification. The message. The Armani jacket. The locked door. The sleepless nights. The grin in Macro class. The sleek bag. The roar. And finally, the impossible, poisonous green machine.

All the pieces slam together with the force of a wrecking ball. His face drains of color, replaced by utter, profound shock. He slowly raises his eyes from the phone, looking first at Tom, then at Benny, whose expressions mirror pure, dumbfounded awe. The silence in the apartment is absolute, heavy with the echo of the engine and the crushing weight of the impossible truth.

Dave eventually finds his voice—a hoarse, disbelieving whisper that cuts through the stunned quiet:

"He stole 50 million dollars."

—————

The Vanguard’s penthouse suite is more than a room; it’s an altitude. 42 floors above the city’s grimy pulse, to be exact.

Silence replaces the symphony of emergency sirens and shouting neighbors. Nighttime air hums with filtered coolness, smelling faintly of lemon verbena and unimaginable money. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Los Angeles like a sprawling, glittering circuit board.

You step onto plush ivory carpet so thick it swallows your footsteps. A minimalist masterpiece of steel, glass, and bleached oak stretches before you: a living space larger than your entire former apartment.

Freedom isn’t just tasted now; it’s inhaled and absorbed through the pores.

You drop the Armani bag onto a low-slung sofa that probably costs more than Dave’s future. Your Lamborghini Aventador feels like the first brushstroke on this blank, expensive canvas. The grin that spreads is slow, cold, utterly satisfied.

Consider your shackles completely broken.

The intoxication of pure spending power is potent, a drug more addictive than the Adderall-fueled nights building Veridian Quantum Holdings. You feel its pull: the urge to burn through the stolen millions on pure, unadulterated spectacle. A private island. A fleet of superyachts. Commissioning a solid gold replica of your first proper car. An array of wild fantasies flicker, each one growing more seductive and bonkers. But beneath the Armani jacket and the Lamborghini keys, the cold, calculating core that built the pyramid scheme remains. Ego is inflated, yes, but the edges are kept ruthlessly sharp.

Sudden, stupid wealth dies fast. You need to plant deep roots and establish safety nets. Create plausible deniability woven from legitimate threads.

The next 48 hours are a blur of hyper-focused, predatory finance. Vanguard’s penthouse becomes a command center. One sleek, encrypted laptop remains tethered to the crumbling edifice of Veridian Quantum. Money still trickling in from desperate late-stage investors doesn’t go towards more Rolexes; it flows like diverted poison into legitimate channels instead.

Fingers fly across numerous fresh keyboards, navigating complex brokerage interfaces. You target bedrock stability: Apple, Microsoft, Berkshire Hathaway, Johnson & Johnson, Visa. Blue-chip stocks. Boring. Essential. Bulletproof. Millions convert into digital shares, a fortress wall built brick by boring brick against future storms. Dividends will flow. Ownership is documented, clean.

But stocks alone feel like hiding. You crave active armor: income streams with teeth. The Aventador was just the start. Luxury isn't just about ownership; it's shared with others like you.

The idea crystallizes: Lightspeed Customs LA. A shell company, paperwork filed online with dizzying speed and expense. The website is live within hours: minimalist, high-res photos against a black background, contact forms requiring verified credentials. And then there’s the fleet: a Fiorano red Ferrari 296. A beige Bugatti Chiron. And a British Racing Green Aston Martin Valkyrie. All acquired from a single dealerships with no qualms about opening up the tabs.

The rental rates you set are astronomical. $5,000 a day for the Ferrari. $15,000 for the Bugatti. $25,000 for the Valkyrie. Minimum three-day bookings to rent. Security deposits that could buy houses. Insurance policies thicker than the LA phone book. Within hours of the website going live, inquiries ping your secure server. A Saudi prince’s assistant for the Bugatti next weekend. A tech billionaire’s son wanting the Valkyrie for Coachella (denied, too much risk). A Hollywood agent booking the Ferrari for a client’s "image rehab" photoshoot. Money begins flowing in, legitimized, documented. Passive income with a combined W34 roar.

It doesn't end there. High-end collectibles show potential. A flurry of bids on rare, graded Pokémon cards and out-of-print sets, ranging from First Edition to Sword/Shield, secured through specialist auction houses. Not for nostalgia, but for asset diversification. They’ll sit in a secure vault, appreciating silently.

But there’s more: Fractional shares in a Beverly Hills boutique hotel. A stake in a nascent, overpriced cold-pressed juice chain popular with influencers. The web expands, intricate and resilient. Each strand—the stocks, the rentals, the collectibles, the minor investments—is a thread in a safety net designed to catch you if (when) Veridian Quantum implodes. Lawsuits might come, but they’ll find a labyrinth of legitimate holdings, not just a pile of spent cash. Stolen millions are the seed capital for an empire built on paper trails and exorbitant daily rates.

You lean back in the Eames chair procured for the penthouse office nook, watching the digital dashboards flicker. The cold hum behind your eyes isn't of panic; it’s the quiet, confident thrum of an apex predator who’s fortified its den.

—————

Two days of relentless financial architecture leave a residue of fatigue, but the good kind. The penthouse is ordered, serene. Los Angeles’ city lights below are a distant galaxy. You’ve built walls against the coming chaos. Now, the itch returns. The itch fifty million dollars was always meant to scratch: pure, unadulterated indulgence. Boredom is a luxury, and you’re drowning in it.

Scrolling through mindless entertainment on the penthouse’s obscenely large OLED screen, a pop-up ad detonates in the corner. Not the usual gambling spam or dubious enhancement offers. This one is sleek, unsettlingly minimalist: a matte black background. A single, stylized Greek letter: Ω (Omega). Below it, some stark white text: Luminary Experiences: Curated Companionship for the Discerning.

No flashing graphics. No promises of instant gratification. Just an aura of exclusive, expensive mystery.

Your finger hovers over the trackpad, ready to banish it. Obvious scam. Sophisticated phishing. A honeypot for the newly, stupidly rich. Yet—the presentation is too good. Too cold. Too confident. It lacks the desperate sheen of most cons.

Curiosity, that old, devious accomplice, coils in your gut. Losing a few hundred thousand might be the worst outcome, but it can be written off as a rounding error. A generous donation to a very clever grifter. They know the game as much as you do, and they played their hand to near-perfection. But the potential payoff—access to something truly exclusive, a secret world —prickles with illicit allure.

So you click.

Luminary’s website loads instantly, silent and seamless. No garish banners. No pop-ups. Just a monochrome interface of impeccable taste. A discreet login prompt appears. No option to sign up. Only a field for an invitation code. You stare, growing increasingly riled up. It’s a velvet rope in digital form. The challenge is irresistible.

A quick dive into the darker corners of forums frequented by the obscenely wealthy yields whispers, not answers. Then, buried in a thread about impossible-to-get reservations, a user drops a single line: Try 'Elysium.’ Heard it works for the new Omega club. Maybe.

So you enter Elysium into the code field. Within seconds, the screen dissolves, reforming into Luminary’s inner sanctum.

It’s breathtakingly curated. Not the expected grid of provocative photos. Instead, profiles are presented like art gallery exhibits. High-contrast, beautifully lit portraits. Not overtly sexual or gratuitous, but radiating an intense, captivating allure. The aesthetics are flawless—a blend of high fashion and electrifying magnetism. The descriptions are brief, enigmatic:

"Aria: Captivating presence, intellect to match. Conversationalist. Discretion paramount."

"Kai: Kinetic energy. Adventurous spirit. Understands the unspoken."

"Juno: Ethereal grace. Depth beyond measure. For the contemplative soul."

Scrolling down, the shock hits. Not models. Faces you recognize. Not A-list movie stars (yet), but undeniable presences in the cultural zeitgeist:

A stunningly beautiful Korean-American social media titan, known for her avant-garde fashion sense and 20 million followers. Listed simply as Luna.

A charismatic British gaming streamer famous for his insane challenge runs and sardonic wit, his face partially obscured by artful shadow. Orion.

A rising alt-pop singer-songwriter whose moody ballads dominate indie charts and Twitter circles, captured mid-laugh in a rare unguarded moment. Lyra.

A former Olympic athlete, sculpted and intense, gaze fixed directly on the viewer. Atlas.

The fees are eye-watering, even for you. $200,000 for 4 hours. $500,000 for an overnight. Payment accepted in untraceable cryptocurrency only. The disclaimer is chillingly clear: Luminary facilitates exclusive companionship. All interactions are consensual between adults. Discretion is not a service; it is a fundamental requirement. Breach of contract results in permanent revocation and potentially disastrous consequences. It’s audacious. Terrifyingly plausible. Or an incredibly elaborate, expensive joke.

The actress’s face catches your eye next. Not just any actress. Florence Pugh. Or rather, the profile named Evelyn. The photo isn’t a paparazzi shot or movie still. It’s intimate, candid. Her looking over her shoulder, sunlight catching the gold in her hair, a thoughtful, almost wary expression in her famous eyes. Her description: Wit as sharp as diamonds. Curiosity boundless. Seeks genuine connection amidst the noise."

And then there’s the fee: $1,500,000 for an evening.

Ridiculous. Yet it's irresistible. There’s no way someone of her caliber, an Academy Award nominee no less, would be moonlighting on such a duplicitous companionship website. Throwing away three-quarters of a million on a potential deepfake scam is the epitome of reckless abandon. But the money—it means nothing. The verification— that means everything. Proof that Luminary is real. Proof that this rarified air, this world behind the velvet rope, is yours to breathe. Definitive evidence that fifty million dollars is a key, not just a number.

Your fingers move with detached certainty. You select Evelyn. Without hesitation, you choose the Evening Engagement option. The screen then prompts for a location and time. You input The Vanguard’s address, specifying the lobby as the rendezvous point. Tomorrow, 11:00 AM.

A crypto wallet address appears. You initiate the transfer from one of your anonymized offshore accounts. $1,500,000, gone with a single click.

The confirmation screen flashes: "Your Luminary is en route. Expect Sophistication."

Leaning back, the rush of the thrill mixes with a strange hollowness. You’ve just bet a fortune on a phantom. Tomorrow will tell if you bought an evening with an Oscar-nominated actress or a masterclass in humiliation.

Sleep is elusive, chased by visions of Florence Pugh’s wary eyes and the cold, elegant menace of Luminary Ω.

—————

Morning arrives painted in LA’s trademark relentless sunshine. You’ve barely slept. The penthouse feels less like a sanctuary and more like a holding cell awaiting verdict.

Check-out is a blur of efficient staff and murmured pleasantries. Your few belongings—the Armani bag, the crucial, loyal laptop—are packed. Outside, your Lamborghini Aventador awaits, a promise of escape if this goes sideways. You stand in the Vanguard’s opulent, hushed lobby at 10:58 AM, trying to project nonchalance.

Marble floors gleam. A massive floral arrangement perfumes the air. Wealthy guests glide past in and out, completely oblivious to your self-inflicted predicament. Every second stretches. 10:59. The smooth facade cracks. Doubt begins to settle in, corrosive and taunting.

Idiot. They have your crypto. They’re laughing in some digital bunker.

You reach for your phone, ready to call the valet for the Aventador. Cut your losses. Run.

Then, a shift in the lobby’s energy. A subtle hush. Not silence, but a collective intake of breath.

Heads turn towards the entrance. Phones are subtly raised. Not because of noise, but because of a larger-than-life presence.

She walks in alone. Not disguised in sunglasses and a hoodie, but not ostentatious either. Tailored, cream-colored trousers. A simple black silk top. Her hair, that distinctive blonde-streaked brown, is pulled back in a loose, elegant knot. No makeup beyond maybe a touch of mascara.

She carries no bag. She looks—real. Startlingly real. And exactly like Florence Pugh.

Her gaze sweeps the lobby, calm, assessing. It passes over the gawking concierge, the paused businessman, and lands directly on you. There’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes, or perhaps just professional assessment against a mental image. She walks towards you, her steps unhurried, confident. The expensive hush of the lobby amplifies the soft click of her heels on marble. She stops before you, close enough that you catch the faint, clean scent of expensive soap and something uniquely her.

A small, polite smile touches her lips. Not the red-carpet beam, but something warmer, more curious. When she speaks, it’s exactly as you’ve heard it in interviews: clear, English-accented, carrying a hint of intelligent amusement. She extends a hand, not for shaking, but open, palm up, a gesture that’s both questioning and oddly intimate.

"Evelyn," she says, the single word hanging in the perfumed air. Her eyes, a remarkable hazel-flecked green, hold yours. They search; they weigh. "And you must be—?"

The world narrows. The opulent lobby, the watching eyes, the purring Aventador waiting below—it all recedes. There’s only the impossible reality standing before you, hand outstretched, waiting for your name. The $1,250,000 wasn’t stolen. Luminary isn’t a scam. The velvet rope actually parted.

The air tastes different up here. Sharper. Rarer. Addictive.

"Holy shit," you think, the words echoing silently in the vault of your skull as you find your voice. "It’s actually real."

Florence Pugh’s hand is warm. It’s as close to real as you can get to touching the stars itself. The slight pressure of her fingers against yours sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated panic through your nerves. You’d faced down Vance, Dave’s righteous anger, the cold calculus of fraud. But standing here, holding the hand of an actual Oscar-nominated actress who just cost you three-quarters of a million dollars is a whole different ball game.

Almost immediately, the carefully constructed persona of cool, wealthy indifference falls into pieces. The Armani jacket feels suddenly like a janky costume, the penthouse suite a flimsy stage set. Suddenly, you are painfully, excruciatingly aware of every pore on your face, the slightly-too-fast beat of your heart, the utter vacancy where witty banter should reside. Millions suddenly feel like Monopoly money. You are a grifter in a borrowed crown, suddenly thrust onto the real throne. A strangled noise escapes your throat, something between a cough and a whimper.

Florence—Evelyn, rather—tilts her head slightly, that small, polite smile still playing on her lips. Her eyes, sharp and observant, scan your face. You see the micro-expression flicker: not disgust, not amusement, but a kind of recognition. Recognition of the absurdity of the situation, perhaps. Or recognition of the terror beneath the expensive clothes.

"Breathe," she whispers, surprisingly grounding. Her thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles. "It’s just an afternoon. Or," she adds, a glint of that star-making dry wit surfacing, "a very expensive one. Either way, try not to hyperventilate on the marble. The concierge looks twitchy."

The touch, the words, the absurdity of her very presence—this confirms it. This isn’t a paid actor nor an elaborate prank. Luminary Co. delivered. It’s finally settling in: you are holding hands with Florence Pugh. The world tilts, then steadies, anchored by the impossible reality of her grip.

—————

The Bentley Bentayga Luminary provided glides through LA like a silent, obsidian shark. In the back, Florence sits beside you, a respectable distance maintained, yet her presence fills most of the space. The partition is up, sealing you in a bubble of leather-scented quiet. You try to channel the cold arrogance that served you at the dealerships and Le Ciel Bleu. It fails spectacularly.

"So," you start, the word echoing loud in the silence. "Lunch?" It sounds inane, even to you. "Somewhere—fancy? Obviously." You gesture vaguely outside the tinted window.

Florence turns her head, resting it against the seatback to look at you fully. Her gaze is direct, unnervingly intelligent. "Fancy is easy. Interesting is harder. What do you like?"

The question throws you off. Before the money, it was shitty pizza and avoiding Vance. Now, the ability to buy anything instantly has somehow erased specific desire.

"Surprise me?" you offer weakly, instantly regretting it. This is Florence Pugh. You should have prepared a curated list of impossible-to-get reservations.

A faint smile touches her lips. "Surprises are my specialty." She taps a sequence into a sleek, unfamiliar device embedded in the armrest. No words spoken. Moments later, the Bentley smoothly changes course. As you navigate towards—wherever—you notice the first strange thing. A paparazzo on a motorbike, camera raised near Rodeo, suddenly lowers his lens, scratches his head, and veers off down a side street as if forgetting why he was there. No flash. No pursuit. Just—disinterest.

You glance at Florence. She’s looking out the window, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, but the delicate silver bracelet on her wrist catches the sunlight at a precise angle. A tiny green flash winks once. Must be a coincidence, or your paranoia working overtime.

Lunch is at Providence, a two-Michelin-starred temple to seafood. The maître d’ greets Florence not by her name, but as Evelyn—with a deference bordering on reverence. On the other end, he doesn’t give you a single modicum of attention.

The meal is exquisite, intricate sculptures of ocean flavors. You shovel it down, nerves overriding palate, while talking. Talking incessantly. The faux rags-to-riches story you concocted for the Luminary profile tumbles out: the ‘lucky’ crypto investment, the ‘modest’ inheritance suddenly revealed to be larger, the ‘humble’ beginnings. You embellish, trying to sound intelligent, like you’re some future visionary. It feels thin, unconvincing.

Florence listens, spearing a piece of geoduck with surgical precision. Occasionally, she interjects.

"Fascinating," she says when you describe "researching blockchain fundamentals." Her tone is neutral, but her eyes hold a spark of knowing skepticism. "And the Lamborghini? Was that a strategic asset allocation?"

A dry, perfectly aimed dart.

Later, walking down Melrose after abandoning the Bentley ("Walking is good for the soul, and better for avoiding certain lenses," she’d said cryptically), you suggest ice cream. "It’s hot," you justify lamely. She agrees, choosing a small, unassuming gelato place. As you stand in line, a group of teenagers nearby, phones perpetually raised, suddenly all look down at their screens simultaneously, frowning as if experiencing a collective glitch. "Weird, my camera just froze,” one mutters.

Florence selects pistachio. The delicate pendant at her throat, a stylized silver heart, seems to pulse faintly under the shop’s lights when a man across the street raises his phone. He lowers it immediately, looking confused. You take notice. Luminary’s influence isn’t just digital; it’s environmental, bending reality and perception itself. A cold tremor that has nothing to do with the gelato creeps up your spine.

The drive becomes your monologue’s main stage. You navigate the snarling Ferrari 296 GTB (swapped from the hotel garage—showing off feels necessary, pathetic), its red paint screaming for attention Florence seems numb to by now. You talk about the car rentals, the stocks, the cards, trying to project savvy. You mention the Bugatti Chiron ("beige, very subtle"), the Aston Martin Valkyrie ("like driving a fighter jet, honestly"). You’re painting a picture of calculated success. Florence gazes out at the Pacific Coast Highway blurring past, offering occasional, devastatingly concise commentary.

"Passive income is wise," she concedes, during a pause where you desperately try to remember the difference between preferred and common stock. "Though acquiring hypercars like trading cards does lean towards—enthusiastic portfolio diversification." A beat. "Do you actually like driving them, or just owning the idea of them?"

The question lands like a punch. You tightly grip the steering wheel. "Owning the idea," you admit, the honesty surprising you. "Mostly." You glance at her profile. She nods, as if this confirms something she’d suspected.

"Most of my clients," she says, her tone softening slightly, "buy the idea of me. The proximity to fame. The trophy. The story they can almost tell." Turning her head, those hazel-green eyes pin you again. "You? You seem to be buying the idea of being someone else entirely. Someone who belongs in this car, at that restaurant, with—" She gestures vaguely at herself. "—this. It’s exhausting to watch. And a bit transparent."

The Ferrari’s engine note suddenly feels like the roar of your own insecurity. The surveillance, the ignored paparazzi, the glinting tracker-jewelry—it all coalesces into the oppressive weight of Luminary’s unseen control. And you, the fraudulent king, are the most transparent thing of all beneath its gaze.

Dinner is at N/Naka, an intimate kaiseki experience. The hushed, minimalist space, the precise, artful dishes arriving like edible haikus, amplifies your discomfort. The faux narrative has dried up. Money feels like a sinking anchor. Florence, however, seems to relax into the ritual. She savors each tiny course with genuine appreciation, asking the server thoughtful questions about ingredients and technique. The contrast is stark: her focused presence against your fidgeting uncertainty.

Over a dish of perfectly seared wagyu, the silence stretches. Not uncomfortable for her, but agonizing for you. She finally sets her chopsticks down with deliberate care. "You know," she begins, her tone conversational but laced with an unsettling directness, "Luminary has a surprisingly diverse roster. Actors, musicians, athletes, even a disgraced politician who gives fascinatingly bleak ‘inside perspective’ dinners. People crave different things. Access. Glamour. Danger. Validation."

She takes a sip of sake. "Most of the clients fall into two camps. The first are the ice men. Hedge fund sharks, tech giants. They see us as highly specialized service providers. Efficient, beautiful, discreet. Conversations are transactions. Needs are stated clinically. They feel—nothing. Or they’ve walled it off so completely it amounts to the same thing."

Pausing, studying the delicate porcelain cup in her hands. "The second camp are the heirs. The trust fund constellations. Spoiled, perpetually bored. They want spectacle. Shock value. Stories to top their friends’. They treat us like—exotic pets. Temporary distractions. They also feel nothing, but it’s a different kind of void. Loud, demanding emptiness."

She looks up, her gaze meeting yours across the low table. It’s not unkind, but it’s brutally honest. "You—you don’t fit. You’re trying so hard to be cold, to be polished, to be one of them. But you’re not. You’re all—edges. Nervous energy. Trying too hard to fit in. You flinch when the bill comes, even though you could burn it for fun. You talked at me for three hours straight because silence scared you more than sounding like an idiot." A faint, wry smile touches her lips. "You are unpolished. Rough. Completely out of your depth in this world you bought into."

The assessment is devastatingly accurate. The Armani jacket suddenly feels like a straitjacket. You stare at the intricate arrangement of food, now a nauseating sight for sore eyes. "Is that—bad?" The question escapes, small and pathetic.

Florence tilts her head. "Bad? Not necessarily. Just—unusual. Exhausting, honestly. But also," she adds, a flicker of something gentler in her eyes, "strangely—human. Refreshing, in a chaotic sort of way. Most of my time is spent navigating emotional permafrost or screaming voids. Your flailing self-consciousness is alive. Messy. Genuine."

She leans forward slightly, lowering her tone. "That’s why I’ll tell you a little secret, one Luminary wouldn’t approve of sharing. Those rules? The ones about anything goes, as long as it’s consensual and discreet?" Her eyes hold yours, a spark of genuine intensity there. "They apply everywhere. The restaurant. The drive. The beach." A deliberate pause. "The bedroom."

The implication hangs in the air, charged with potential. You freeze, endless possibilities crashing over you—fantasies tangled with the terrifying reality of Luminary’s omnipresent watch. The pendant at her throat seems to gleam with a warning light you imagine.

Before you can formulate a single coherent thought, let alone a response, Florence stands. The movement is fluid, decisive. Your time is up.

"It’s been—an experience," she says, that polite, professional mask effortlessly sliding back into place, though her eyes retain a hint of that unsettling warmth. She doesn’t offer her hand this time. Instead, she steps close. Unexpectedly close, making you hold your breath. The clean, unique scent of her envelops you, drawing you into a hypnotic daze.

Reaching up, her fingers brush your jawline for a fleeting second. Then she leans in and presses a soft, deliberate kiss to your cheek. It’s brief. Chaste, technically. Yet it carries the weight of her assessment, her secret, and the terrifying power of the organization she represents.

"Good luck polishing those edges," she murmurs, her breath warm against your skin. The words are almost lost in the ambient hum of the restaurant.

Before you know it, she’s turning, walking away towards a discreet side exit where a different, unmarked car awaits. She doesn’t look back. One moment she’s there, the next she’s gone like smoke. Just like that.

The secret about the rules echoes in your head. Her pendant’s imagined warning glow pulses behind your eyelids. You’re left alone at the expensive table, surrounded by untouched artful food, the Ferrari waiting uselessly outside, generational wealth feeling suddenly like the price of admission to a game you don’t understand, overseen by an overwhelming presence that stares at its guests back.

————— Florence’s kiss lingers on your cheek long after the Luminary Bentley vanishes. It’s not desire, not quite. It’s the afterburn of exposure. She saw the cracks in the hastily painted facade, the frantic insecurity beneath the cars and the stocks. It hurts. But it also ignates something else: a sharper curiosity, a gambler’s itch.

You cracked open the door to Luminary’s world. Now, you need to see what lies beyond the foyer.

Back in a new penthouse (The Asteria, higher, colder views), you log back into the Ω portal. The minimalist interface offers no fanfare, just a discreet notification icon. Clicking it reveals a digital dossier labeled Client Progress.

Points Awarded: 80. Beneath it, a footnote: Based on Service Duration, Discretion Adherence, and Post-Engagement Survey.

You vaguely recall a sleek, intrusive questionnaire popping up hours after Florence left, probing your satisfaction with ‘Evelyn’s’ conversation skills, discretion, and overall ‘atmosphere creation.’ You’d clicked five stars across the board, half-dazed, half-terrified of a low rating inviting Luminary scrutiny. Now, the points gleam like digital tokens.

Scrolling further, the tier system unveils itself. Five levels, ascending like a pyramid built on obscene wealth and compliance:

Tier 1 (Initiate): Accessible upon verified entry. Mid-tier influencers, rising musicians, niche athletes. The ‘Luna’s’ and ‘Orion's' you saw initially. This is where you are, currently.

Tier 2 (Acknowledged): 5,000 Points. Unlocks established actors, globally recognized musicians, major sports figures.

Tier 3 (Esteemed): 500,000 Points. A-list actors, chart-topping superstars, political figures (discreetly listed).

Tier 4 (Ascendant): 5,000,000 Points. Legends. Icons whose mere presence shifts cultural landscapes. Names whispered, not displayed openly until unlocked.

Tier 5 (Luminary): Invitation Only. Rumored, never confirmed.

Points are earned solely through spending. Every crypto-fuelled booking accrues them. The system is a meticulously designed engine, encouraging continuous, escalating investment. Reach a tier, glimpse the next level of exclusivity, crave it. Spend more to climb. It’s predatory genius.

The privacy clause, buried in the updated terms of service, snaps into focus: Luminary reserves the right to employ passive monitoring technologies during active companionship periods solely to ensure talent safety, service quality, and strict client adherence to discretion protocols. Data is anonymized and purged post-engagement.

"Passive monitoring,” you remark, the realization finally dawning.

The glinting jewelry. The disoriented paparazzi. The environmental blind spots. Florence’s vague warning about being watched wasn’t paranoia; it was policy. Your privacy, during those expensive hours, is the price. A chill deeper than the Asteria’s AC settles over you. Luminary isn’t just a service; it’s a panopticon for the privileged, carefully monitored by unseen, all-powerful omniscient wardens.

—————

The next few weeks become a calculated marathon. The cold, cunning core that built your enterprise of lies is channelled into a new objective: climbing Luminary’s gilded ladder.

Lightspeed Customs thrives. The Ferrari, Bugatti, and Aston Martin are rarely idle. The Saudi prince’s assistant takes the Chiron for a second outing in a month. A startup’s CEO rents the Valkyrie for his daughter’s graduation, paying the exorbitant fee without blinking. Profits soar, meticulously funneled into more blue-chip stocks and high-yield bonds.

But the real grind is on the social sphere. Luminary points demand engagement. So you dive into the shallow end of the influencer pool.

Lunches with Marcus Chen, a travel vlogger with 10 million followers obsessed with private jet interiors. Listening, nodding, as he monologues about optimal lighting for cabin selfies, hanging out with him as ‘Voyager’ for the requisite points. There’s an exclusive rooftop party thrown by Zara Bloom, a fashion influencer known for her savage brand takedowns. You stand awkwardly near the infinity pool, sipping overpriced champagne, while she holds court, booking her later that week (‘Stylus’) for a painfully vapid "consultation" of your ‘personal brand evolution.’ And then there’s an afternoon with Diego Rivera, former eSports champion turned crypto bro streamer ("Nexus"). He tries to pitch you on an NFT project so transparently scammy it makes Veridian Quantum look legit. Nod away, book, collect the points.

The encounters are transactional, draining. You play the role of the newly wealthy, slightly awkward enthusiast, sprinkling your faux backstory amidst their self-absorption. You learn nothing of value except how to feign interest in inane topics. But the points slowly tick up: 515—1,330—2,670. Each booking feels more like paying dues in a currency of boredom and less wish fulfillment.

The Armani jacket becomes armor against the emptiness. Benny, texting about crashing at the old apartment and whether you’ve seen his favorite gaming headset, feels like a message from a simpler, dirtier planet.

—————

The notification arrives at 3:00 AM. You’re reviewing Lightspeed’s monthly revenue spike when the Ω portal icon pulses softly on your secondary screen.

Client Tier Update: Congratulations. You have achieved Tier 2 (Acknowledged).

The new tier unlocks instantly. The profile gallery refreshes. Gone are the Lunas and Orions. The names and faces now carry palpable weight, global recognition radiating from their high-contrast portraits.

A stoic Monégasque F1 driver (‘Eclair’), his intense gaze hidden beneath a blurred helmet visor.

An Italian tenor (‘Aria Forte’), captured mid-note, veins standing out on his neck.

A Grammy-winning R&B superstar (‘Siren’), eyes smoldering, draped in shadow.

A renowned Irish stage actor (‘Tempest’), his face a map of lived-in charisma.

A Spanish football icon (‘Matador’), photographed mid-stride, kicking a ball with effortless power.

And then, nestled among these global stars, you stumble across a familiar constellation. Listed as a unit, but with unlockable individual profiles each.

Your breath catches. Chaewon. Sakura. Yunjin. Kazuha. Eunchae. High-definition portraits capture their distinct energies: Chaewon’s sharp elegance, Sakura’s knowing gaze, Yunjin’s vibrant confidence, Eunchae’s youthful spark. And Kazuha. Her profile picture isn’t the fierce performer, but a candid moment: mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, dark hair windblown, radiating an approachable, almost goofy warmth.

The description: "Effortless grace meets infectious joy. A grounding presence. Seeks authentic moments amidst the whirlwind."

Memories of yesterday suddenly crash over you. Of Benny. His cramped room perpetually fogged with vape smoke and the frantic clatter of mechanical keys. The soundtrack to his gaming marathons wasn't just gunfire and explosions; it was the driving beats and razor-sharp vocals of their music. Crazy blasting loudly at 2:00 AM. Antifragile shaking the cheap plaster walls as he would yell at his screen. He’d shoved his phone in your face countless times, waxing poetic about Kazuha’s ballet background, her "ethereal yet dorky" vibe, her quirky rap verses.

"Bias wrecker, bro! Total bias wrecker!" he’d shout over the noise. It was passive absorption, a sonic wallpaper to your old life. But the hooks sunk in. You’d found yourself humming Smart in the shower. Kazuha, with her unique blend of elegance and unguarded charm, became your default favorite by sheer Benny-induced osmosis.

The idea forms instantly, fueled by a potent mix of nostalgia, newfound power, and a desire to shove your success in the face of the old, cramped world. Take Kazuha. Not just for you. For Benny too. Show up at his disgusting apartment door with a global superstar in tow. See the look on his face. It’s the ultimate flex. The ultimate "fuck you" to the ramen-and-rent-stressed existence of your previous life.

You click Kazuha’s profile. Select Overnight Engagement. The fee flashes: $2,000,000. For one night. The number barely registers anymore. You start the crypto transfer. Then, the system undercuts you. An additional prompt appears:

Talent Origination: Seoul, South Korea

Global Logistics & Discretion Surcharge: + $600,000

Confirm Total: $2,600,000

You stare. Blink a few times to confirm. Over half a million dollars. A bogus surcharge. Like she’s a fucking premium UberEats order.

"Are you fucking shitting me?" you mutter aloud, a surge of genuine, absurd indignation cutting through the usual cold calculation. The $1,250,000 for Florence, local and presumably already stateside for what you can only assume was press for her new movie, felt extravagant but contained. This feels like getting gouged for the convenience fee on $50 pizza. You picture Kazuha packed in premium economy with a fragile sticker, the ridiculous shipment tax covering extra legroom and a stern Luminary handler ensuring she doesn’t get lost in Incheon Airport or when she arrives at LAX. The ridiculous profiteering behind every little transaction is almost impressive.

Luminary: where the delivery fee costs more than most people’s yearly incomes.

A sharp and humorless laugh barks out of you. Benny’s gobsmacked face flashes in your mind.

Worth it. Every ridiculous, overpriced dollar.

You jab the confirm button. The crypto hemorrhages from your account. Arrival time: 48 hours.

The Luminary panopticon tightens its watchful gaze. But all you can think about is the doorbell ringing back at Benny’s shitty apartment, and the animated reactions of disbelief about to hit that place.

—————

Luminary’s familiar Bentley glides to the curb like a shadow detaching from the city’s glare. You stand by the Vanguard’s valet stand, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against your thigh. The tailored wool of your fresh Brioni suit feels suddenly heavy, a costume you haven’t quite grown into.

The door opens. Kazuha Nakamura steps out.

Sunlight catches the honeyed streaks in her dark hair. She wears simple black trousers and a cream silk blouse, the elegance effortless, understated. A single silver bracelet glints at her wrist. No entourage. No disguise. Just—her. In the flesh. Standing five feet away on the hot pavement.

Your mouth goes dry. The carefully rehearsed greeting—something smooth, acknowledging her Tier 2 status, perhaps a casual remark about Korea—evaporates. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this starstruck meeting a star. The last time was with Florence Pugh, which now seems like a lifetime away.

So you aimlessly stare. She meets your gaze, her expression calm, observant. Not cold, not judging, just—present. Her eyes, dark and assessing, seem to catalogue the tension in your shoulders, the slight tremor you’re fighting in your hand. The silence stretches, thick with the city’s hum and the valet’s shuffling feet.

Words jam in your throat. Say something. Anything. A croak emerges, swiftly swallowed. You can only manage a stiff nod.

Your salvation rumbles up behind the Bentley. The Lamborghini Aventador, freshly washedVerde Mantis, a shriek of toxic green against the muted luxury of the hotel facade. The valet scrambles out, holding the door. Its engine’s low growl vibrates through your bones, keeping you grounded in reality.

"Shall we?" Kazuha is soft, melodic, pulling you back to earth.

She subtly gestures towards the obnoxious Lamborghini. A faint, polite curve touches her lips. Not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment of the absurdity.

You practically dive into the driver’s seat, fumbling the key fob, the leather suddenly feeling like butter under your palms. She slides into the passenger side with fluid grace, folding herself in. The doors thunk shut, sealing you in carbon-fiber silence. Knuckles white gripping the steering wheel, fixating on the familiar snarl as you pull away from the curb, leaving the Bentley and the flustered valet behind. Air conditioning does little to dispel the heat rising in your cheeks. You try for nonchalance, adjusting the vents, checking for nonexistent mirror issues. It feels brittle and transparent to her quiet, astute eyes.

—————

The Lamborghini slices through LA traffic, a predator navigating concrete veins. The initial shock of her presence settles into a low thrum of self-consciousness. You feel every awkward shift in your seat, every glance you steal towards her profile. She gazes out the window, seemingly absorbed by the blur of palm trees and stucco, but you know better. Luminary companions observe. Always.

"So," you start, the word too loud in the confined space. You clear your throat, aiming for casual, landing somewhere near strained. "This escort—companionship thing. Luminary. Is it—common? For idols?" You keep your eyes on the road, the chrome badge of a slow-moving Prius blurring past.

Kazuha turns her head slowly. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s no judgment in it. Just calculation. "Common? No. Selective." Her voice is calm and measured. "The service is discreet. Very. Only for those who understand the—requirements. As you do. The cost guarantees that." A pause, filled only by the V12’s purr. "And the isolation."

"Right. The isolation." You drum your fingers on the steering wheel. "But others? Like—Wonyoung? Jennie?" The names feel clumsy in your mouth, like they’re fanboy currency.

A flicker of something—weariness, amusement perhaps—crosses her features. "Tier Three," she confirms simply. "The very top. The demands, the scrutiny—it requires a different kind of commitment. A different kind of shield."

"Higher than Tier Three?" The question bursts out, fueled by morbid curiosity and the lingering sting of Florence’s assessment. "Like IU? Jungkook?"

Kazuha’s gaze sharpens slightly. "Tier Four. Legends. They are—rare. Luminary protects them fiercely. Their participation is— exceptional." She turns back to the window. "Why do you ask?"

The question hangs. You feel exposed. Why are you asking? To find your own place within its tiers? To fill the silence with something other than your own inadequacy?

"Just—curious," you mumble. "About the ecosystem." The word sounds pretentious even to you.

Silence descends again, thicker this time. You grasp for something, anything, to bridge the gap. The old persona, the one you crafted for investors and boutiques, rises like a reflex. "It’s fascinating, really," you begin, injecting false confidence. "The infrastructure Luminary must maintain. The logistics alone, moving people across borders with that level of secrecy—it rivals intelligence networks. And the vetting! The psychological profiling must be—"

"Do they teach you that?" Kazuha interrupts, still soft, but cutting through your ramble like a knife. She’s looking at you again, her head now tilted slightly. "The—performance. The way you hold yourself. Your choice of words. Ecosystem? Infrastructure?"

There’s no malice, only a piercing curiosity. "It sounds practiced. Like you were given lines from a script."

Heat floods your neck. The Lamborghini feels like a death trap. The cool arrogance you projected at the dealership, at Le Ciel Bleu, crumbles under her quiet scrutiny. She sees the scaffolding, the hastily assembled persona behind it. Florence saw it too.

"I—"

You falter. The words die on your tongue.

"Who are you?" she asks. Not demanding, not accusing. Genuinely wondering. "Underneath the—" Her gesture encompasses the Brioni suit, the Lamborghini, the penthouse air you’re still trying to breathe. "Before all this?"

The question corners you. The carefully constructed narrative of the savvy investor, the lucky heir—it feels like tissue paper tearing. Reality is an ugly beast you haven’t fully faced yourself. You grip the wheel tighter, the leather creaking in protest.

The city blurs outside. Honesty feels like stepping off a cliff.

"Nobody," you concede, the word scraping out like nails on chalkboard. "I’m just—a guy. A college kid who stumbled into a fucking miracle. Or a disaster. Still figuring that out." The confession hangs, bare and vulnerable. "I built this—thing. Veridian Quantum. Sounded impressive, right? Whitepapers full of bullshit jargon, actually. Promised impossible returns. It was a house of cards. A pyramid scheme. I planned to grab a couple mil and disappear when it collapsed."

A harsh, humorless laugh escapes you. "Instead—50 million crashed in. From some desperate pension fund or a bored oligarch’s nephew. Luck. Stupid, fucking luck. That’s the ‘elaborate plan’. That’s the foundation of all—" You wave a hand at the car, the suit, her. "This."

You risk a glance. Kazuha isn’t recoiling. She’s studying you, a new intensity found through her dark eyes. Not pity. Something closer to—recalibration.

"So," she says finally, breaking the deafening silence, "The cars, the stocks, the penthouse—the points—it’s armor."

"Trying to be," you mutter, staring straight ahead. "Trying to belong in the world the money unlocked. Trying not to feel like an imposter crashing a party where everyone else knows the secret handshake." You take a shaky breath. The honesty is terrifying, liberating. "Florence—or Evelyn, I should say—she saw right through it too. Called me unpolished. Rough. Out of my depth."

You glance at her again, a flicker of defiance mixed with resignation. "She was right. Doesn’t mean I don’t want the things the money can buy. Doesn’t mean I don’t want—"

You trail off, the implication hanging.

"To do something tonight?" Kazuha finishes, her tone matter-of-fact. No coyness. No offense taken. Just stating the transaction.

A flush burns your ears. "Yeah," you admit, the word blunt. "That’s part of the—engagement. What I paid for."

Kazuha nods slowly, a small, understanding movement. "I’m here to make you happy," she states, her voice clear and professional, yet carrying an unexpected warmth. "To do what you want. Within the boundaries Luminary sets."

She pauses, her gaze remaining steady on you. "But knowing you’re just ‘a guy’—who got impossibly lucky, who wants everything in the world—and is trying not to drown in it—" A faint, almost imperceptible softening touches her expression. "It’s better than the performance. More admirable to hear than whatever bullshit you’re trying to sell."

Respect. That’s what you see flicker in her eyes. Not for the fraud, not for the money, but for the ragged, honest admission beneath the crumbling facade. It’s a strange, unexpected victory.

You drive on, with fragile understanding now settling between you. The armor is still there, but a crack has appeared, letting in a sliver of breathable air.

—————

The familiar, slightly sagging brick facade of your old apartment building looms: a stark, jarring contrast to the Lamborghini’s predatory gleam.

Parking haphazardly beside a dumpster overflowing with black bags, stale garbage and urban decay instantly violate the car’s filtered air. Kazuha doesn’t flinch, but her posture subtly tightens. You kill the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the building’s dismal hum: distant bass, and a shouting match several floors up.

"Ready?" you ask, a few feet away from facing your past.

Kazuha offers a small, neutral nod. "Lead the way."

The foyer smells perpetually of damp carpet and cheap disinfectant. You take the stairs, your expensive Oxfords loud on the worn floor. Kazuha follows silently, her presence an anomaly in the grimy stairwell. You stop outside 3B. The door is slightly ajar, the tinny rattle of a video game session spilling out.

Gently, you push it open.

The scene is a freeze-frame of squalor and shock. Benny, controller in hand, slack-jawed, frozen mid-frenzied button-mash on the worn sofa. Tom, perched on the armrest, crunching an apple, his eyes bugging out like ping-pong balls. Air hangs thick with the greasy residue of last night’s pizza and the sharp tang of cheap vape juice. Empty energy drink cans litter the coffee table, a monument to youthful inertia.

"Hey," you say, sounding unnaturally loud. The persona instinctively snaps back into place: cool, detached, the wealthy visitor slumming it up. "Long time."

Benny drops the controller; it clatters to the floor with a thud. "Holy fucking shit."

He scrambles to his feet, tripping over a discarded pizza box. "Dude! Is that—? No. Fucking. Way." His gaze is locked on Kazuha, wide with disbelief and burgeoning hysteria. "Kazuha? Nakamura Kazuha? In our apartment?!"

Tom just stares, apple core forgotten in his hand. "You—you actually did it. The Lambo. The—" He gestures vaguely at your suit, then back to your guest. "Her."

You step inside, with Kazuha a silent, elegant shadow behind you. The cramped space feels smaller, dingier than ever under her quiet presence.

"Where’s Dave?" you ask, scanning the room. His usual spot on the lumpy armchair is empty. The chaotic energy of his textbooks and energy drink pyramids is gone.

Benny tears his eyes away from Kazuha for a millisecond. "Dave? Oh. Yeah. He bounced. Like, two weeks ago? Said he couldn’t take the—" Benny waves a hand vaguely at the surrounding chaos, "—vibe anymore. After you ghosted. Plus, uh—" He scratches his head. "Think he got dropped. Missed too many classes. Vance finally had enough."

The revelation lands with a dull thud in your gut. Dave. The last one who’d shown genuine, irritating concern. Gone. Dropped out. A casualty of your vanishing act. A flicker of something—guilt, maybe regret—tries to surface, but you smother it instantly.

What does it matter. You’re 50 million dollars removed from tuition deadlines and academic probation.

"Right," you say, falling flat. "Well. His loss."

Benny’s focus snaps back to Kazuha with laser intensity. He takes a step closer, practically vibrating from head-to-toe. "Oh my God. Kazuha, I’m your biggest fan! Benny! I religiously stream all your content! I know all the dances! That line in Eve, Psyche & The Bluebeard’s wife where you—" He’s babbling, edging closer, his hands fluttering nervously. "Can I—can I get a picture? Please? Just one? Me and you? For proof? The guys will never believe this!"

He reaches out, not towards her hand, but towards her arm, his fingers outstretched, eager to touch the impossible reality before him. Tom watches, bemused, still crunching his apple.

"Benny," you start, a warning note creeping into your voice, but Kazuha is faster. Or rather, Luminary is.

As Benny’s fingers brush the fabric of Kazuha’s silk blouse near her wrist, the delicate silver bracelet she wears gives a sharp, almost imperceptible snick. A tiny blue spark, no bigger than a static shock, leaps from the bracelet to Benny’s fingertips.

"Yowch!" Benny yelps, jerking his hand back as if scalded. He stares at his fingers, then at the bracelet, confusion quarreling with pain on his face. "What the hell?"

Kazuha doesn’t move. Her expression remains perfectly calm, serene even, but her eyes hold a glint of cold, impersonal authority. "Please maintain a respectful distance," she says, her cadence still melodic, but edged with steel. It’s not a request. It’s a command from an unseen higher power.

Benny cradles his hand, staring at her, the fanboy glee replaced by dazed shock and a flicker of fear. "S-sorry. Yeah. Sorry. Just—a little too excited." He backs up a step, bumping into the sofa. An understatement if you’ve ever heard one.

"Told you not to be a creep, Benny,” interjects Tom, his tone dry. He looks at you, then at Kazuha, followed with a slow, disbelieving shake of his head. "So, this is your life now, huh? Lambos and pop stars."

"We’re not staying," is your reply, your gaze sweeping over the depressing familiarity of the room: Benny rubbing his fingers, Tom’s apathy, Dave’s absence. It feels like a museum exhibit of a life you’d already incinerated to ashes. "Just passing through."

Benny, undeterred or simply unable to process, fumbles for his phone. "Picture! Please? Just one quick selfie? I won’t touch! Promise!" He holds the phone up, angling it towards himself and Kazuha, his thumb hovering over the button. Kazuha remains still, her expression unreadable.

He clicks. The shutter sound chimes. He grins, triumphant, lowering the phone to look at the proof. His grin vanishes, replaced by utter bewilderment.

"What? No! Where is it?" He frantically swipes, taps, opens his gallery. "It’s gone! The picture! It’s just—gone! Black screen!"

Tom leans over, squinting. "Dude, you probably didn’t take it. Butterfingers."

"I did! I heard it! I saw the flash!" Benny’s voice rises in panic. He jabs at his phone, swearing profusely. "It’s not in the gallery! It’s not in the trash! It’s just—deleted!"

You meet Kazuha’s eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible tightening around her lips. Luminary’s silent, efficient enforcement. Reminder of their omniscient control, extending even to an old friend’s desperate selfie in a shitty apartment. The message is clear: boundaries are absolute. Consequences are instant and irrevocable.

"Told you," Tom mutters, taking another bite of his apple. "Creep tax."

A wave of revulsion washes over you—not just for Benny’s gropey desperation, but for this entire scene, this stagnant puddle of your past.

"We’re leaving," you say, your voice clipped. You turn towards the door. Kazuha follows without a word. “See you guys around. Hopefully.”

Benny stares after you, cradling his phone and his shocked hand, looking utterly lost. "But—the picture—Kazuha—"

You don’t give them a second glance. With controlled haste, you stride down the grimy hallway, Kazuha keeping pace beside you. The stale cabbage smell is stronger here. Outside, the Lamborghini patiently waits, a vibrant, expensive insult to the decaying brick.

You hit the key fob. The locks thunk open.

"Sunset drive?" you ask Kazuha, opening the passenger door for her. The gesture feels stiff, another performance, but necessary.

She slides in, her movements economical. "That sounds pleasant." Her gaze flicks towards the apartment building’s entrance, where Benny might still be gaping. "Your friend—"

"Was never really a friend," you cut in, more harshly than intended.

You slam her door, then back around to the driver’s side. As you sink into the leather seat, the engine roars to life, a guttural declaration of finality. You glance at Kazuha. She’s looking straight ahead, her features calm, serene.

But you saw it. The subtle recoil when Benny reached out. The cold efficiency of the bracelet. The silent deletion of the evidence.

Pulling away from the curb, the Lamborghini’s acceleration presses you back into the seat. The dilapidated building shrinks in the rearview mirror. Benny and Tom, the dumpster you previously called home, the stale air—all receding. Ahead, the sky bleeds orange and purple over the Pacific. Freedom, still elusive. But Kazuha’s quiet presence beside you, the lingering echo of your own honesty in the car, the brutal efficiency of Luminary’s control—it all swirls together.

You’re not the polished fraud, nor are you ‘just a guy’ either.’ You’re something in between, hurtling towards the sunset in a stolen dream, with an idol as your escort and an invisible god watching your every move.

—————

The setting sun paints the penthouse in molten gold as you scroll through your phone. A photo glows on the screen: Kazuha Nakamura, captured for a beauty ad. She’s radiant, ethereal, wearing a dress the precise shade of spun sugar and crushed rose petals. The fabric drapes like liquid silk, hugging her dancer’s lines before flaring gently at the knees, the neckline a tasteful scoop that hints at the elegant slope of her collarbones. Sunlight catches the subtle sheen, making her look like a confection crafted by some divine patissier.

It’s not overtly provocative; it’s artistry incarnate, emphasizing her innate grace.

You hold the phone out to her where she stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, as city lights begin to sparkle below. "This one," you say, the request feeling audacious even as the words leave your mouth. "For tonight. Would you—wear this?"

Kazuha takes the phone, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat as she studies the image of herself. Then, a slow, genuine smile blooms, warming her dark eyes. It transforms her face, erasing the last vestiges of Luminary’s detached professionalism from the afternoon. "Ah. Lador," she murmurs, a hint of nostalgic fondness in her tone. "That shoot was—messy. Fun, though."

She hands the phone back. "It’s a beautiful dress. I’d be more than happy to."

There’s barely any time to process her agreement before a discreet chime sounds from the penthouse intercom. Two Luminary attendants materialize as if summoned by thought: a woman with a serene expression and a man carrying a sleek, temperature-controlled garment bag. Upon opening the door for them, they move with silent efficiency, guiding Kazuha towards a guest suite. Within twenty minutes, the suite door opens.

You forget how to breathe.

The photo did not lie, but it failed to capture the living reality. The pink dress flows over Kazuha’s form like a second skin made of dawn light. The color brings out a warmth in her complexion, makes her dark eyes seem deeper, more luminous. The simple elegance is devastating.

She moves towards you, the fabric whispering with each step, and the subtle fragrance of peonies and clean skin replaces the penthouse’s lemon verbena scent. Her hair is loosely pinned up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. She looks like a dream given form, utterly out of place in your world of stolen millions and constructed personas, yet somehow anchoring you to something real and achingly beautiful. The smitten speechlessness from the valet stand returns, tenfold. You’re adrift, utterly captivated.

"Will this do?" she asks softly, a playful glint in her eyes as she does a small, graceful turn. She knows the effect. She always knows.

"Perfect," you manage, the solitary word hanging thick. "You look—"

Words fail. Stunning, breathtaking, unreal—all inadequate. You settle for a gesture towards the front door. "Let’s?"

Dinner is at Sparrow, an intimate California-Italian fusion spot tucked away in a quieter corner of Beverly Hills. It’s expensive, naturally, but deliberately understated compared to Le Ciel Bleu—warm wood, soft lighting, the murmur of conversation rather than a hushed cathedral silence. You want atmosphere, not intimidation.

Kazuha fits seamlessly into the cozy elegance, the pink dress glowing softly under the ambient lights. You’re hyper-aware of every glance she draws, every subtle shift in her posture. You try to channel the cool investor, discussing recent Lightspeed Customs bookings (a French tennis player confirmed for the Bugatti next week) and the steady climb of your blue-chip stocks. It feels hollow, performative, especially under her observant gaze. She listens politely, asking insightful questions about the Aston Martin Valkyrie’s handling that momentarily fluster you. While you own it, you haven’t driven it hard enough to truly know.

It’s during a lull that your gaze snags on a familiar profile across the room. Short hair and stature immediately recognizable. Kim Chaewon.

She’s seated at a corner booth, her posture impeccably straight, her expression a mask of polite attentiveness. Opposite her is a man who you assume in his early or mid thirties. His suit is expensive but lacks flair, his posture rigid. He’s speaking, gesturing with precise, economical movements, his face devoid of any real animation. Chaewon nods occasionally, her smile professional, flawless, and utterly devoid of warmth. She looks like a beautiful mannequin propped up for display.

"An acquaintance?" Kazuha follows your gaze, hushed and low.

"Chaewon," you confirm. "From your group."

Kazuha’s eyes flicker with recognition and something else: a flicker of shared understanding, perhaps sympathy. "Mr. Lawson," she mumbles, almost to herself. She then takes a delicate sip of her sparkling water. "Senior VP of something terribly important at one of the big tech conglomerates. Tier Three client."

"Very wealthy. Very—efficient. Florence’s type, I suppose. Ice men."

Glancing back at you, a subtle, knowing curve crosses her lips. "Not much fun at all, from what I’ve heard. Poor Chaewon. She drew the short straw this trip.”

She gives her fellow member one more compassionate look. “Yunjin is with a music executive who actually knows his Bach from his Beethoven. Sakura—well, being Sakura—she always lands on her feet, usually with someone interestingly chaotic." She pauses, her gaze shifting back on you, playful and assessing. "Except Eunchae. She stayed in Seoul. A bit young for foreign Luminary engagements, they do restrict their younger talents’ activities quite a lot. Probably watching anime and eating tteokbokki."

You watch Chaewon for another moment. The older man is still talking, stabbing the air with his fork to emphasize a point Chaewon clearly finds boring. Her eyes meet yours across the room for a fleeting second. There’s no recognition, only the polished emptiness of the professional companion. She looks away instantly, refocusing on her client with practiced ease.

"Efficient," you echo Kazuha’s earlier word, turning back to her. "Like discussing quarterly reports over sushi rolls and tuna." The image is bleak.

Kazuha leans forward slightly, the pink silk whispering temptation. The soft light catches the gold flecks in her dark eyes.

"Not exactly the stuff of memorable evenings, is it?" Her tone is light, but the implication hangs between you.

Unlike this.

The observation sends a jolt through you. The carefully constructed armor feels unnecessary here, under this gaze that saw through the lie in the Lamborghini.

“No," you agree, pushing your plate aside slightly. "Memorable requires—something else. Spark. Surprise." You gesture vaguely, encompassing the room, the evening, her. "Not just transactions."

"Transactions have their place," Kazuha counters smoothly, but her eyes hold yours, challenging, inviting. "They guarantee discretion. Comfort. Certainty." She traces the rim of her water glass with a fingertip. The gesture is casual, yet intensely deliberate. "But you didn’t pay for just a transaction tonight, did you? You paid for me. In the pink dress." A faint, coy smile touches her lips. "And I believe in making an experience memorable."

The air between you crackles, heavy with unspoken promises. The restaurant’s warmth intensifies, centering entirely on her presence. Her pink dress, the elegant neckline, the way a stray tendril of dark hair escapes its pin to brush her temple—it’s a meticulously crafted allure, and you’re completely ensnared. The conversation about stocks, about cars, about Luminary tiers, disintegrates. There’s only this building pressure, this magnetic pull towards the inevitable culmination waiting back in the penthouse.

"Memorable," you repeat, sounding lower, rougher than intended. The investor persona is ashes. The ‘just a guy’ is momentarily consumed by pure, focused desire. "That sounds like a challenge."

Kazuha’s smile deepens, transforming into something knowing, seductive. She meets you head on.

"Perhaps it is," she murmurs. She places her napkin neatly beside her plate, the movement fluid and final. "Shall we see if the penthouse lives up to its view? I find sunsets are best appreciated—privately."

Standing from her seat, the pink silk cascades perfectly. She offers her hand, not for assistance, but as an invitation, a promise. "Lead the way."

You take her hand. Her skin is warm, smooth. The touch sends an electric current straight to your core.

The drive back is a blur of city lights streaking past, the engine’s roar a distant thrum beneath the louder pounding of your own pulse. You steal glances at her profile, silhouetted against the neon-lit glow. She’s quiet, but the silence is charged, potent. She catches you looking once and turns her head, meeting your gaze. There’s no shyness, only a quiet confidence, a contained fire in her dark eyes that promises the performance, the experience, is just beginning. She holds your gaze for a long moment before turning back to the window, a small, secretive smile playing on her lips.

The message is clear: she’s in control of this dance, and she’s leading you exactly where you both want to go.

Upon arrival, the valet takes the Lamborghini without a word. The elevator ride to the penthouse is an eternity contained in glass and steel. Standing side-by-side, avoiding contact, yet the space between you hums with anticipation. Her presence is like a physical warmth, a tight-knit sweater. She looks straight ahead, but her reflection in the polished doors shows that small, knowing smile still curving her pretty lips.

The doors slide open onto the dimly lit foyer of the penthouse. The city sprawls beyond the windows. A vast tapestry of light and vanity.

Kazuha steps out first, the pink dress whispering against her legs. She walks a few paces into the expansive living area, then stops, turning slowly to face you. Tilting her head, the city lights catch the gold in her eyes, the elegant line of her throat above the pink silk.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her presence, the deliberate stillness, the unspoken challenge in her gaze—it’s an invitation more potent than any words.

It all converges here, in the silent luxury of the penthouse. The inevitable moment is no longer ahead. It’s happening. Now. Waiting for you to step across the threshold and claim it.

The kiss ignites instantly, a wildfire spreading from Kazuha’s lips to yours. Her mouth is soft, insistent, tasting faintly of expensive champagne and something uniquely her: clean, sharp, like winter air.

Your hands find her waist, the impossibly smooth silk of the pink dress cool beneath your palms, pulling her flush against you. She yields, then pushes back, her tongue sliding against yours, demanding entry, claiming space. It’s not tentative; it’s a collision. A claim.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head, deepening the angle, stealing your breath and replacing it with the heat radiating from her skin. The city lights blur outside the penthouse windows, irrelevant. The press of her body, the frantic beat of your heart hammering against your ribs, and the slick, hungry sound of your mouths moving together. That’s what matters most right now.

You stumble backwards, entangled like two pieces fitting together, a single entity driven by a desperate, shared need. A doorway materializes: one of the Asteria’s obscenely luxurious bedrooms. The kiss breaks only when the back of your knees hit the edge of the enormous bed.

Kazuha’s eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, hold yours. Her lips are swollen and glistening. A small, satisfied smirk plays at the corner of her mouth as she pushes you gently down onto the mattress. You land with a soft thump, the duvet yielding beneath you. She stands over you, the pink dress glowing softly in the ambient light, a vision sculpted from desire and intimidating beauty.

Her hands move to the tiny pearl buttons at her back. They slip free with practiced ease, one after another, revealing the smooth expanse of her spine, the delicate wings of her shoulder blades. The silk sighs as it slides down her arms, pooling around her waist like melted rose quartz.

Your breath catches. Underneath, she’s wearing—absolutely nothing.

The dress halts its descent, clinging precariously to the curve of her hips, framing the perfection it reveals. Her breasts are small, high, perfectly shaped, tipped with dusky pink nipples already pebbled tight with chill air. The lines of her torso are a map of honed muscle—the defined ridges of her abs, the subtle sweep of her obliques, the powerful elegance of her dancer’s shoulders and arms. She is lean strength incarnate, breathtakingly fit, every line and contour speaking of meticulous discipline and delicate grace.

You’re so mesmerized, your hands itching to touch, to trace, to possess. Sitting up, reaching for her body, fumbling with the buttons of your own shirt. It feels suddenly restrictive, suffocating.

Kazuha helps, her fingers surprisingly deft, brushing against your chest as she pushes the fabric off your shoulders. It joins the growing pile of discarded pretense on the floor. Your shoes are kicked off carelessly right after. Shirtless now, as equally exposed. Cold air prickles your skin, but the heat radiating from Kazuha is an inferno.

You pull her down onto your lap, straddling you. The smooth silk bunched at her waist is a maddening barrier against your hardening cock straining through your trousers. Your hands roam her bare back, sliding over satin skin and firm muscle, dipping into the hollows above her ass. You kiss her again, deep and searching, your tongue exploring the sweetness of her mouth. One hand cups her breast, thumb circling the stiff peak, drawing a low moan from her throat that vibrates against your lips. She grinds down against your erection, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that makes you gasp into her mouth.

It’s perfect. She’s perfect. The heat, the scent of her skin—vanilla and clean sweat—the feel of her tight body moving against yours. It’s all-consuming, beyond intoxicating.

Then it hits you. A cold prickle crawling up your spine, unrelated to the air conditioning. Your eyes dart past Kazuha’s shoulder, scanning the elegant, minimalist room. The abstract painting on the wall. The sleek digital clock bedside. The recessed lighting. Any of them could be watching. The delicate silver bracelet glints on her wrist. The pendant at her throat rests against her sternum, catching the light.

Luminary’s eyes are there. Unblinking. Recording. Judging.

You freeze. Your hands still on her back. Abruptly breaking the kiss, pulling back slightly, your breathing suddenly rags for a different reason. The flush of desire on your cheeks mingles with a wave of sickening self-consciousness. You’re exposed, not just physically, but vulnerable. Performing for an unseen audience. The stolen millions, the car, the penthouse—it all feels like cheap theater under this invisible, oppressive gaze.

Kazuha feels the shift. She leans back, just enough to see your face. Her brows furrow slightly, concern softening the heat in her eyes. "Hey," she mumbles—a low, warm caress. Her thumb gently brushes your cheekbone. "What is it?"

You can’t articulate the violation, the paranoia clawing at your throat. Gesturing vaguely, helplessly, towards the room, towards her jewelry. "Them," you rasp, the word thick with fright and alarm. "Watching."

Understanding dawns in her eyes. Not of surprise, but a weary kind of resignation. She glances down at the bracelet, then back at you. Her expression is open, reassuring, devoid of the practiced seductiveness of moments before.

"I know," she says simply. "It’s always there. The price of the dress, the key, the—access. There’s no getting around it.” She takes your hand, lacing her fingers through yours, squeezing gently. "But listen to me. It doesn’t change this. Us, right now."

She leans in, her lips brushing your ear. Her breath is warm, sending shivers down your neck despite the chill inside you. "They see bodies. They hear sounds. They don’t see this." She presses your joined hands against her chest, over her heart. Its steady, strong beat pulses against your palm. "They don’t feel what I feel. And—they don’t really care."

You search her face. It might be part of the act. The reassurance Luminary trains them to give. But her gaze holds yours, steady and clear. There’s a softness there, an unexpected vulnerability that mirrors your own unease.

"They have rules," she continues, dropping even lower, intimate. "Strict ones. For my safety. For theirs. As long as you don’t—" She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "As long as you don’t deliberately try to hurt me, cause intentional injury—abuse me—" The words are clinical, stark against the intimacy of your position. "Anything else—" A ghost of her earlier smirk returns, playful, challenging. "Anything you want—is permitted. What happens between consenting adults—stays between us, even if they see it."

Her hand slides from yours, down your chest, tracing the line of your abs, stopping just above the waistband of your trousers. Her touch is electric, pulling you back from the edge of cold paranoia. "Do you want to stop?"

The question hangs in the air. Stopping feels impossible. The ache in your cock is a physical demand. The sight of her, half-dressed and breathtakingly perfect on your lap, is a siren song. But the eyes—the fucking invisible eyes—

Kazuha doesn’t wait for your answer. She reads the conflict, the lingering desire warring with the fear. She leans in and kisses you again. Not the hungry, demanding kiss from before, but something softer, deeper, more persuasive. It’s a promise, a reassurance. Her tongue soothes, her lips coax. She pours warmth into the kiss, melting the icy knot of your anxiety. Her hands frame your face, holding you gently but firmly, anchoring you to her, to this moment, to the tangible reality of her skin, her taste, her scent.

Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, she pushes you back onto the mattress. You land with a soft whump, looking up at her as she rises gracefully from your lap. Standing beside the bed, bathed in the soft light, she holds your gaze. There’s no hesitation, no coyness now. Just a quiet, fierce confidence. Her hands go to the bunched silk at her waist. With a single, fluid motion, she pushes the dress down over her hips. It slithers down her long legs, a pool of pink at her feet. She steps out of it, kicking it aside.

She stands before you, now with nothing to hide.

The breath leaves your lungs in a rush. Words fail. Luminary’s surveillance is momentarily forgotten, obliterated by the sheer, devastating impact of her. The pink dress was art, but this—this is raw, breathtaking reality. Every muscle defined, sculpted by relentless training—the powerful sweep of her thighs, the tight curve of her ass, the impossibly flat plane of her stomach leading down to the neat triangle of dark hair at the apex of her legs. Her skin seems to glow, smooth and flawless. She is athletic perfection, a living statue of strength and femininity. The subtle power in her frame, the dancer’s grace even in stillness—it’s overwhelming. You’re pinned by the sight, awestruck, humbled by the beauty presented solely for you.

As she watches your reaction, a slow, satisfied smile spreads across Kazuha’s face. She knows the effect she has on people. Revels in it.

Without breaking eye contact, she climbs back onto the bed, crawling over you on hands and knees. Her movements are deliberate, predatory. She settles directly onto your lap again, her bare heat pressing against the fabric covering your aching cock. Her hands find the button of your trousers, then the zipper. Her fingers are deft, efficient. She pulls them down, taking your boxers with them in one smooth motion. Your cock springs free, thick and hard, straining upwards.

Her eyes drop to it. A low hum of appreciation vibrates in her throat.

"Beautiful," she murmurs, the word sending a fresh jolt of heat through you. Her hand wraps around your shaft, her touch firm, knowing. Her skin is warm, slightly calloused from years of practice. “It’s so—nice.”

Kazuhaa strokes you slowly, deliberately, from root to tip, her thumb swirling over the slick head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that gathers there. Her gaze flicks back up to yours, holding it as she works you, her touch expertly coaxing you to full, throbbing hardness.

"See?" she whispers, a hint of that flirty reassurance returning. "Just us."

Perched on your lap, her hand is a warm, confident cradle around your cock, her gaze locked on yours. The Luminary pendant glints coldly against her throat, a stark reminder, but the sheer, overwhelming presence of her nakedness—the sculpted muscles, the smooth skin, the focused intensity in her eyes—pushes the paranoia momentarily to the periphery. It’s still there, a low hum beneath the surface, but Kazuha’s presence dominates.

Her fingers continue their slow, maddening exploration. Squeezing the base, her thumb tracing a prominent vein, then glides upwards with agonizing slowness, tightening slightly just below the swollen tip.

A violent shudder runs through you. Her other hand rests lightly on your chest, fingertips brushing your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

Leaning down, her breath feels warm against your ear. "So tense," she remarks, a hush that vibrates through your bones. "Let me help you."

Before you can utter a single word, she shifts her weight. With effortless grace, she swings one leg over your hips, settling herself astride you, her knees sinking into the plush duvet on either side of your thighs. Her aching core hovers directly above your straining cock. The heat radiating from her is immense, intoxicating.

"Tell me," she breathes, her hand still loosely stroking your length, her thumb catching another bead of pre-cum. "What do you want, hmm? Tell me how you want me."

The question hangs, loaded. Images flood your mind: positions, acts, the myriad ways you could lose yourself in her. But the words that tumble out, fueled by the sight of her controlling the situation, by the desire to surrender to her expertise, are simple.

"You. Just—you. Anything you want. Do whatever you want to me."

A slow, radiant smile spreads across Kazuha’s face. It transforms her, lighting up her features with genuine delight, driving away the last vestiges of professional composure.

"Anything?" she purrs, leaning forward slightly, her breasts brushing softly on your chest. "You trust me that much?"

The question is rhetorical, playful. She sees the answer in your eyes, in the way your hips lift involuntarily towards her heat.

"Good," she whispers, the sound like silk tearing. "I like that."

She doesn’t hesitate. Releasing your cock, Kazuha braces her hands on your shoulders, her fingers digging in slightly, possessively. Her eyes lock onto yours, holding you captive, demanding your attention. Then, with a deliberate, controlled movement, she sinks down.

It’s slow. Painfully, agonizingly slow.

You feel every exquisite inch of her as she sheathes you. Her inner walls are scorching hot, silken smooth, yet gripping you with astonishing tightness. It’s like sinking into molten velvet. A low, guttural groan tears from your throat as her hips finally meet yours, your cock buried to the hilt inside her. She’s so deep, impossibly full. The fit is so perfect, it steals your breath.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hands flying to her hips, fingers digging into the firm muscle there, anchoring yourself.

Kazuha throws her head back; a sharp gasp escapes her lips. Her eyes flutter shut for a second, her body trembling slightly with the intensity of the sensation.

"God—yes," she breathes, shaky but triumphant. She looks down at you, her gaze hooded, darkened with pleasure. "So deep—so—good."

She then begins to move. Not frantic, not yet.

A slow, undulating roll of her hips, grinding against you, letting you feel every ridge, every contour of her inner walls. The friction is exquisite, maddening. Your hands roam her body, desperate to touch, to claim. You trace the defined lines of her abs, the taut muscles shifting beneath smooth skin. Thumbs find the sharp points of her hip bones, then slide upwards, skimming the sensitive skin of her lower ribs.

She arches into your touch, a soft sigh escaping her.

"You feel—incredible," you sputter out, cracked by budding pleasure. "Your body—so fucking perfect."

A small, pleased smile touches her lips. She leans forward, bracing one hand beside your head on the mattress, bringing her face close to yours. Her other hand guides yours to her breast.

"Show me," she pleads, her hot breath mingling with yours.

You cup the small, perfect weight, your thumb finding the hardened peak. Circling it, then gently pinching, rolling the sensitive nub between your pads. Kazuha’s breath hitches, her hips stuttering in their rhythm. "Yes," she whispers, her eyes closing again for a moment. "Just like that."

Emboldened, you lean up, capturing her other nipple with your mouth. The taste of her skin floods your senses. You suckle gently, then harder, swirling your tongue around the stiff peak. She cries out in response, a sharp, musical sound, her back arching, pressing her breast deeper into your mouth. Her hips begin to move faster, losing some of that initial, calculated control. The slow grind becomes a purposeful rise and fall, lifting herself almost completely off you before sinking back down, taking you deep with every descent.

The sensations are overwhelming. The tight, wet heat of her pussy gripping your cock. The feel of her powerful thighs pressing against yours. The soft sounds escaping her: gasps, sighs, curses, low moans that vibrate through her chest and into yours. The shift in her features, etched with building pleasure, her eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

You kiss your way down her sternum, tracing the valley between her chest, your tongue dipping into the hollow at the base of her throat. Your hands slide down her back, gripping her ass, feeling the incredible power in the muscles there as she drives herself down onto you. Squeezing, pulling her harder against you on the downstroke, forcing yourself even deeper. She gasps, a sound that turns into a moan.

"Harder," she breathes, charged with need. "Fuck me harder—use me—”

The demand, the permission—it shatters your lingering restraint.

Your hands tighten on her ass, guiding her movements now, setting a punishing pace. You lift your hips to meet her downward thrusts, driving into her with escalating force.

Skin on skin slaps fill the room, a rapid, sloppy counterpoint to her spiraling cries. The bed frame groans softly in protest.

Kazuha throws her head back, her long dark hair cascading down her back. Her movements become wilder, less controlled, driven purely by sensation and lust. She rides you with reckless abandon, taking everything you give, demanding more. Her inner walls clench rhythmically around your cock, a pulsing, milking pressure that threatens to unravel you completely. You can feel her tightening, the coil winding impossibly tight inside her.

"Look at me," you growl, strained by the building pressure in your loins. “Look at me while you take my fucking cock.”

Her head snaps down, her eyes wide, pupils blown black with lust, meeting yours. The connection is electric. You see the wanton need, the building frenzy, the absolute surrender.

"I’m close," she gasps, the words ragged, breathless. "So close—don’t stop—please don’t stop!"

Her plea ignites something primal. You grip her hips impossibly tighter, slamming her down onto you with bruising force, driving upwards to meet her. The angle shifts, hitting a spot deep inside her that makes her shriek: a sound that’s pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Her body locks up, rigid above you. Her eyes fly wide, then squeeze shut. A tremor runs through her, then another, stronger.

"Cumming!" she cries out, the word tearing from her throat. "Fuck! Cumming!"

Her pussy convulses around your cock. A series of intense, fluttering spasms that grip you like a vice. Throws her head back again, a guttural cry ripping from her lungs as her body bows backwards, her back arching spectacularly. She rides it out on your cock, her hips grinding erratically, milking you, her inner muscles clenching and releasing in a frantic, exquisite rhythm.

The tight, wet suction of her throbbing cunt, the desperate little whimpers escaping her lips, the sheer visual spectacle of her body consumed by overwhelming pleasure—it pulls you over the edge with excruciating force.

You slam her down one last time, burying yourself to the root as your cock jerks violently inside her. Thick, hot pulses of cum erupt from you, flooding her depths, each spurt triggering another shuddering clench from her overwhelmed body. Holding her there as you empty yourself into her, the intensity blinding, a white-hot detonation that consumes every thought, every fear, leaving only the shared, quivering intensity of blissful release.

As the strength leaves your limbs, you stagger back onto the mattress, dragging Kazuha down with you. She lands on your chest—a boneless, trembling weight. Her breathing is ragged, coming in harsh gasps against your neck.

Your own breath saws in and out of your lungs. Sweat slicks both your bodies. The room smells of sex, of exertion, of her scent.

For several drawn out moments, there’s only the sound of your labored breathing and the beat of your hearts slowing gradually. Your arms wrap around her, holding her close, her smooth, sweat-damp skin pressed against yours. Her head rests on your shoulder, her hair tickling your cheek.

Slowly, the world filters back in. The city lights outside. The penthouse’s faint hum. The lingering, satisfied ache in your muscles. The warm, wet feel of her still wrapped around your softening cock.

Kazuha stirs first. Lifting her head slightly, her eyes meet yours. They’re soft, hazy with spent pleasure, but bright. A small, utterly content smile touches her swollen lips. Shifting slightly, wincing as your cock slips out of her, a trickle of your combined release gushing on her legs and the sheets. She ignores it, nestling her head back onto your shoulder with a sigh.

She finds your hand on her back, lacing her fingers through yours, thumb stroking your knuckles. "See?" she mumbles, thick with exhaustion and satisfaction. "Just us."

Pausing, the flirty edge gradually returns. "And you’ve still got the rest of the night with me,” she adds, squeezing your hand. "Plenty of time to do whatever you want."

—————

The bathroom towel feels rough against your oversensitized skin as you peel yourself off the sweat-slicked sheets. You grab a second one from the bathroom before returning towards Kazuha. She’s a vision of debauched perfection sprawled across the rumpled silk: skin flushed, dark hair fanned out, your cum glistening on her inner thighs, legs, and stomach, a stark contrast against her lean muscle.

You hold out the towel. "Clean up?"

Her eyes, dark and still hazy with pleasure, track your movement. A slow, feline smile spreads across her lips. She shakes her head, a barely present gesture.

"No." She trails a finger through the mess on her lower belly, scooping up a pearly strand. She holds it up, glistening on her fingertip. Her gaze locks onto yours, a playful challenge sparking. "Lick it off."

A surprised laugh bursts from you, echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged penthouse. The audacity, the delicious filth of the suggestion after the intensity you just shared.

"Christ, Kazuha." You rake a hand through your hair, the towel dangling forgotten. "You don’t make it easy, do you?"

"Where’s the fun in that?" Stretching languidly, she shifts, deliberately drawing your attention to the taut lines of her abdomen, the curve of her hip where your cum pools. "You paid for memorable. For everything."

She lifts her finger towards her own lips, her tongue darting out to taste the tip. A soft moan escapes her, purely for your benefit. "This is part of it. Tasting it. Tasting me."

Despite the burgeoning exhaustion, the pornographic sight, the explicit suggestion, sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your groin. The Luminary pendant glints coldly against her neck, a reminder of the invisible eyes constantly watching. But Kazuha’s own gaze is warm, inviting, pulling you back into her orbit. She wants to blur the lines further, push you deeper into this mutual depravity. The towel is a flimsy shield against the advance she’s demanding.

"Maybe later," you suggest, every word slow, deliberate. The towel is cast aside on the edge of the bed, now useless and forgotten.

Leaning down, bracing a hand on the mattress near her hip. Her scent—sweat, sex, and something uniquely her—fills your senses. You don’t touch her with your mouth—not yet—but your eyes trace the paths your cum has painted on her skin.

"It’s on the list. Right after—"

You let the implication hang, your gaze drifting pointedly towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city.

Her smile widens, triumphant. "Perfect."

Reaching up your chin, her fingers brush your jawline, a touch surprisingly tender amidst the incoming carnality. "I like your list. Make sure it’s a long one."

She lets her hand fall back, leaving a phantom warmth on your skin. The moment stretches, charged with the unspoken promise of what’s next, with shared understanding that this night, this transaction, is far from over. The exhaustion is still there, a pleasant ache in your muscles, but it’s rapidly being overridden by the insistent pull of her presence and the challenge gleaming in her dark eyes.

The high-rise windows of the Asteria penthouse transform the city into a sprawling circuit board of light. A silent, glittering audience to the intimacy happening inside. You guide Kazuha towards this panoramic view, her hand cool and small in yours. The air hums with the high-rise’s filtered silence, now dense with the glow of sex and anticipation. She stands before the glass, her bare back facing you, the cityscape painting her silhouette in fractured gold and silver. The reflection shows her face: expectant, a little breathless, a trace of that challenging smile playing on her lips.

Exhaustion still tugs at your limbs, a pleasant echo of the pounding you gave her on the bed. But the sight of her like this, offered against the backdrop of the entire fucking city, ignites a fresh, potent hunger, more ravenous than before.

You step close, your chest brushing her back, the warmth emanating from her skin sinking into yours. Your hands settle on her hips, fingers splaying over the sharp points of bone, feeling the subtle tremor beneath her skin. Dropping your head, nuzzling the sensitive junction of her neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply: sweat, sex, vanilla, her. A low groan vibrates in your chest.

"Cold?" you gasp against her skin, feeling the slight prickle of goosebumps beneath your lips.

Kazuha shakes her head, a small, imperceptible movement. "No." It’s a husky whisper, wired with subtle impatience. "Just—waiting."

She leans back infinitesimally, pressing her firm ass against your groin. The contact, even through your slick-filled groin, is electric. You’re not hard yet, not fully, but the embers glow hot, ready to blaze.

"Need a little help with that?" she asks, the playful tease back in her tone. Without waiting for an answer, her hand snakes behind her, fingers slipping around your waist. Her touch is deliberate, knowing. She finds your soft cock, wraps her fingers around the base, and gives a slow, firm stroke upwards. Her thumb swipes over the sensitive head, still damp with remnants of her sheen.

"Mmm, still sticky," she remarks, a note of satisfaction. She strokes again, her grip tightening slightly, her thumb circling the crown, coaxing life back into you with practiced ease. "Let’s get you ready for me again."

Her touch is gasoline to your fire. The friction, the slight roughness of her fingers, the way she squeezes just right at the base—it’s a direct line to your nervous system.

You bury your face against her neck, teeth grazing her flesh as your cock hardens, responding eagerly to her touch, her command. Your hips push forward involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction against her hand.

"Fuck—Kazuha," you groan, the sound muffled against her skin.

"Like that?" she purrs, twisting her wrist slightly on the upstroke, her thumb pressing firmly beneath the head. "Getting nice and hard for me again? Good."

She speeds up her strokes, her other hand reaching back to grip your thigh, anchoring herself as she works you. The wet sounds of her hand on your cock fill the quiet space, obscene and thrilling. You watch yourselves in the mirror, your expressions ever changing in the reflection, of discomfort, of arousal, of bliss. The Luminary bracelet on her wrist winks coldly, a stark contrast to the heat of her touch.

Soon, you’re fully erect, straining against her fist, thick and heavy. A low throb pulses through you, a demand for release that’s only just beginning. Kazuha gives you one final, slow pull, her thumb rubbing firmly over the slit, sending sparks shooting up your spine.

"There," she breathes, releasing you with a final squeeze. "Perfect." She wipes her hand casually on her own thigh, leaving a glistening streak. "Ready to make a mess on the window?"

Stepping back slightly, your hands grip her hips tighter, turning her fully to face the glass. Her breath hitches as her front presses against the cool surface. Positioning yourself behind her, the hard length of your cock nestles against the cleft of her ass. You slide your hands up her sides, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath her smooth skin, then down over her hips, tracing the swell of her ass. Her skin is warm silk under your palms.

You knead the firm mounds, savoring the perfect roundness, the tight resilience. She pushes back against your touch with a soft sigh.

One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other slides down, fingers seeking the slick heat between her legs. She’s still wet, alarmingly wet, your load caught between her own nectar. Your fingers glide easily through her folds, finding her swollen clit. A sharp gasp escapes her as you circle it, applying firm, deliberate pressure. Her head drops forward, her forehead resting against the cool glass.

"Oh, God—" she breathes, her breath fogging a small patch on the window.

Playing with her clit, you watch her reflection: eyes closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. Slide a finger lower, dipping into her entrance. She’s still stretched, still open, but tight. So fucking tight.

You push one finger in, then a second, curling them upwards. Her inner walls clench around you instantly, a hot, velvety grip. "Still hungry for it, baby?" you growl, thrusting your fingers slowly, deeply. "Still so fucking tight and wet?"

"Y-Yes," she whimpers, pushing her hips back against your hand. "Need it—need you inside—"

Withdrawing your fingers, they glisten with her nectar through the lights. Then you line the tip of your cock against her slick entrance. You can feel the heat radiating from her, the slight tremor in her thighs.

You hold yourself there, poised, letting the anticipation build. Her reflection shows her biting her lower lip, her eyes wide open now, fixed on yours in the glass. Waiting.

You draw your hand back and deliver a sharp palm to her right cheek.

The ripple echoes sharply in the penthouse. Kazuha cries out, a sound that’s half shock, half pleasure. Her body jerks forward, her ass blooming a vivid red. She pushes back harder against you instantly, a wordless plea.

"Like that?" you demand, spurred with arousal. You brush the spot you just spanked, feeling the heat of her skin in your palm.

"Yes," she gasps, trembling, shaking. "More—please—"

Her other cheek gets it, just as hard. Another cry, this one longer, needier. Her pussy clenches visibly around nothing, dripping.

"Good girl," you grind out. "Taking it so well."

Gripping your cock, pressing the head firmly against her entrance once more. Applying steady pressure, watching in the reflection as her eyes flutter closed, her mouth forming a silent ‘O’ as you begin to breach her. It’s a tight fit, even wet and stretched. Her inner muscles resist for a second, then fold, dragging you in, inch by agonizing inch. You sink into her slowly, deliberately, savoring the exquisite drag, the hot, clenching pressure enveloping you.

A low, continuous moan spills from her lips as you fill her, deeper and deeper, until your hips are flush against her ass, your cock buried to the hilt. You both pause, breathing raggedly, joined completely against the vast panorama of the city.

"So deep," she whimpers, thick with pleasure. "Feels—so full—"

"You take it so fucking perfect," you groan, your hands moving to grip her hips tightly. You pull back slowly, almost all the way out, watching your slick cock glisten in the city lights, then thrust back in with a firm snap of your hips. Skin on skin, little sloppy sounds rejoining the rhythm of your fucking.

She cries out, her fingers scrabbling against the smooth glass. "Yes! Like that! So fucking good!"

That’s what she wants: long, deliberate strokes that pull almost all the way out before sinking back into her molten heat. The sounds are filthy and intoxicating: the wet slip of your cock sliding in and out of her drenched pussy, the rhythmic slap of your hips against her ass, her breathy moans and gasps punctuating each thrust.

You watch her face in the reflection, the play of ecstasy and surrender, the way her lips part with each inward plunge.

"Look at you," you command, tight with exerted control. "Look at yourself getting fucked against the window. Whole city can see what a slut you are for this cock."

Her eyes fly open, meeting yours in the glass. There’s defiance there, but also desire.

"Let them watch," she breathes, pushing back hard against your next thrust. "Fuck me harder. Show them how you use me."

The challenge ignites you. Your grip on her hips tightens, fingers digging into her flesh. Increasing pace, your thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more insistent. Her moans escalate, turning into high-pitched cries that bounce off the walls. Her tits flatten against the glass with each forward drive, her nipples hard peaks against the cool surface.

"Whose pussy is this?" you demand, hammering into her. Each thrust jolts her body forward, shrieking the glass.

"Yours!" she gasps, fully pressed against the window before you draw her back.

"Say it louder!"

"Yours! Only yours!" Her voice is ragged, desperate. It’s music to your ears.

"That’s right. This pussy—" you hiss, giving her ass a well-deserved spank. “Fucking mine.”

Her whole body seizes, a sharp scream tearing from her throat. Her inner walls clamp down on your cock like a vise, a fluttering, rhythmic spasm that steals your breath. The pull, the sight, the wanton need in her tone—it’s beyond irresistible.

"Cum," you snarl, pinching her smooth, resilient skin. "Cum all over this fucking cock. Show everyone how good I make you feel."

The command ripples through her body like a freight train. Her back arches impossibly, her head thrown back, a guttural cry drawn from her lungs that echoes in the vast room. Her pussy convulses violently around your shaft, coating you with fresh sheen, pulling you deeper. Her legs tremble, threatening to buckle. You hold her up, fucking her relentlessly through her release, your own control fraying dangerously close at the edges.

You feel your own climax coiling, a tight, hot pressure building at your base. Her ecstasy is the most potent aphrodisiac.

"Gonna fill you up," you grunt, your thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. "Gonna pump this tight little pussy full of cum again. Make a fucking mess."

"Yes! Please—" she begs, still shuddering, broken and beyond saving. "Fill me—cum all over me—”

With a final, brutal thrust, you bury yourself to the hilt and let go. Your cock jerks violently, spurt after hot spurt of cum bursting deep inside her clenching womb. You grind against her ass, pumping every last drop into her, feeling her pussy flutter and pulse around your shaft, milking you dry. Your vision whites out at the edges, tunneling you to her skin, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as pure, blinding pleasure consumes you.

Collapsing forward, pinning her between your body and the cold glass. Your forehead rests against the back of her neck, your breath coming in ragged gasps that fog the window beside her head. Her body is limp, quivering against yours, her own breathing shallow and rapid. Your cock, remains buried inside her, throbbing gently with aftershocks. Warmth spreads where you’re tangled, your cum melded with hers, plastered against the inside of her thighs.

The city glitters on, indifferent and apathetic. You stay there, slumped against the window, slick with sweat and sex, completely and utterly spent. The cool glass feels grounding against your overheated skin.

Slowly, reluctantly, you soften and slip out of her with a wet sound. A thick rivulet of white immediately escapes her well-used pussy, trailing down her thighs before dripping onto the floor. Kazuha sags against the window, her breath still fogging the glass in shallow puffs. You step back, your own legs shaky.

You watch her for a moment, the perfect lines of her back, the red mark on her ass vivid on her pale skin, the glistening mess between her legs. Then, she moves. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks to her knees on the polished floor, facing the window.

She doesn’t look at you. Her gaze is fixed on the smear you made on the glass: a thick, opaque pool against the sparkling cityscape.

Holding your gaze in the reflection for a heartbeat, a spark of pure mischief in her eyes, she leans forward. Her tongue darts out, pink and wet, and she licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the glass, collecting a thick glob of your cum. She closes her lips around it, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she swallows.

A soft, satisfied sigh escapes her. She licks again, cleaning the glass with unhurried, casual swipes, her eyes closing in apparent delight.

The image is profoundly erotic. The submission, the depravity, the casual ownership she takes of your spend. It erases the dying vestiges of your fatigue, replacing it with a fresh wave of hunger. Seeing her on her hands and knees like that, her perfect ass raised, her pussy glistening and swollen, still dripping your cum onto the floor—it’s an irresistible invitation.

You drop to your knees directly behind her. Your hands spread her ass cheeks wide, exposing her completely: the dark furl of her asshole, the glistening, puffy lips of her well-fucked pussy right above it, and the slick trail leading down her thighs.

So you lean in, burying your face between her legs.

Your tongue finds her first, not on her pussy, but lower. A broad, flat lick from the base of her spine, down over the tight little pucker of her asshole, and then up through her dripping slit.

Kazuha jerks, a sharp gasp escaping her. "Oh—fuck!"

You ignore her pussy for now, focusing your attention lower. You circle her tight, smaller hole with the very tip of your tongue, teasing the sensitive rim. She shudders, pushing back against your face.

“Ah—oh shit—” she breathes, tight with surprise and sensory overload.

"Shhh," you hush against her skin, your breath hot, giving her ass a calming squeeze. "Just relax."

You press your tongue more firmly against her asshole, licking in relaxed, insistent circles. She’s impossibly tight, but clean, tasting only of skin, moisture, and salt. Probing carefully, the tip of your tongue seeking entry, applying gentle pressure. Her whole body tenses, then slowly, reluctantly, yields. The resistance gives way, and you push into her, just a little.

Kazuha lets out a choked moan, her hands clenching into fists against the glass. "Oh God— that’s—different—"

Humming against her, the vibration makes her jump. You work your tongue gently, tasting her tight hole with shallow thrusts, savoring the unique intimacy, the total surrender. Your hands keep her spread wide, holding her open for exploration. Eventually, her trembling subsides, replaced by soft, continuous whimpers. She pushes back more insistently, grinding her ass against your face. "Yes—oh fuck, yes—"

Encouraged, you withdraw and shift your focus upwards. Your mouth finds her dripping pussy, burying your face in her splayed folds. With broad, hungry strokes, lapping up the taste of her arousal mixed with your own cum. It’s wet, musky, addicting. Zeroing in on her swollen clit, sucking it into your mouth, flicking it rapidly with your tongue.

She cries out, her back arching. "Oh! Right there! That’s—"

Feasting on her, driving your tongue deep into her fucked-out pussy, tasting yourself inside her. One hand slides around her hip, fingers finding her skin to hold her steady, pressed close to the window. While the other remains on her ass, a pair of fingers now joining your tongue, spreading her flesh wide as you voraciously devour her cunt.

The stimulation is overwhelming. Her moans escalate into desperate, broken cries. Her hips buck wildly against your face, fucking your mouth.

"I’m gonna cum again! Oh fuck, I’m cumming!"

Her body locks up, then shudders violently as yet another orgasm tears through her, less intense than the previous ones but no less impactful. Her cunt pulses around your tongue, a fresh gush of wetness coating your chin.

You ride it out with her, licking her through the tremors until she sags forward, completely drained, her forehead resting on the cool glass again, her breath fogging it once more in rapid bursts. When you finally pull back, your face is drenched, tasting her on your lips.

Looking up at her reflection, her eyes are closed, drawn with a look of sated exhaustion on her beautiful face. A thin trail of saliva and her own slick glistens on her inner thigh.

You stay knelt behind her for a moment, catching your breath, the afterglow of her sex lingering in the air. The Luminary bracelet glints mockingly on her wrist. Reaching out, tracing a finger down the curve of her spine, you feel slight aftershocks still running through her. Seeing her look so vulnerable, so delicate like this—it stirs your heart.

So you give her a gentle, loving kiss, spreading from her cheek to her lips.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just breathes.

Utterly conquered. Utterly yours. At least for now.

—————

Steam curls through the spacious, marble-lined shower, fragrant with the expensive verbena-scented gel Kazuha chose. The roar of the multiple rainfall showerheads drowns out the city, creating a chamber of warmth and privacy. Standing beneath the torrent, the hot water sluices away the sweat, the drying cum, the evidence of the filthy, glorious hours spent exploring every inch of each other.

Kazuha stands facing you, her eyes closed, head tilted back, letting the water cascade over her face, slicking her dark hair back. Steam paints her skin a flushed pink, highlighting the faint red marks your teeth left on her shoulder, the darker bruises blooming on her hips courtesy of your sharp handfuls. The playful challenge is gone, now replaced by a soft vulnerability. She looks exhausted, completely bone-tired, yet peaceful.

The water streams gracefully down her body, tracing elegant lines of her figure sculpted by relentless training: sharp collarbones, small, perfect breasts with nipples still slightly peaked, the taut plane of her stomach, and the powerful curve of her thighs. Luminary’s pendant rests against her sternum, catching stray droplets.

You reach out, not with desire, but with a profound sense of awe. Your fingertips brush the pendant aside, then trace the path of the water down her neck, over her collarbone.

Her eyes flutter open, meeting yours. There’s no demand, no tease, only quiet exhaustion and something else: a tenderness. A genuine connection formed from shared, relentless pleasure. You slide your hands down her arms, feeling the lean muscle beneath her slick skin, then back up to cradle her face.

Without a word, you pull her close. Her body molds against yours instantly, skin sliding on wet skin, her head tucking perfectly under your chin. She fits. Snugly, comfortably, like a missing piece finally slotted into place.

Beneath the pounding water, you hold her, simply hold her. Her arms wrap around your waist, her fingers splaying against the small of your back. Her breath is mellow against your chest, her heartbeat a slow, steady thud parallel with yours. You revel in her comfort, the smoothness of her skin under your palms as you slowly brush her back, the way her body relaxes completely into your embrace.

This isn't about possession or performance; it's about the simple, profound intimacy of shared warmth.

Time quietly passes by. The steam thickens inside the shower. You feel the tension slowly ebb from her muscles. Then, driven by a surge of tenderness that surprises you with its intensity, you gently turn her in your arms. She faces you, water beading on her eyelashes, her dark eyes searching yours.

Questions hover unspoken: about Luminary, about the morning, about what any of this means beyond the transaction.

You silence them all. You cup her face again, thumbs brushing droplets from her cheeks. Then you lean down and kiss her. Not like the hungry, devouring kisses from before. This is slow, deep, achingly tender.

Your lips move against hers with a reverence that feels entirely new. A soft sigh escapes her as she reciprocates the kiss, her hands rising to tangle in your wet hair. It deepens, tongues sliding together in a quiet affirmation.

Breaking the kiss, you trail your lips down her jaw and her neck. You peck the hollow of her throat, the spot where the Luminary pendant rests. You leave praises along her collarbone, feeling the delicate bone beneath your lips. Then Your mouth finds the swell of her breast, not to suckle, but to press soft, lingering kisses against the warm, wet skin.

You worship her: the curve, the softness, everything.

Moving to the other breast, repeating the tender adoration. Your hands follow your mouth, smoothing over her ribs, her waist, the flare of her hips, memorizing the feel of her skin, not with greed, but with a quiet, possessive admiration. You kneel before her in the streaming water, kissing the sharp point of her hip bone, the strong line of her thigh. It’s a pilgrimage across the landscape of her body, an acknowledgment of its power and surrender. She stands perfectly still, her head bowed, watching you, her breath catching occasionally, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on your shoulders.

There are no words needed. Only the drumming water, the hiss of steam, and the profound language of touch.

Finally, you rise, pulling her close again. You hold her face, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, before finding her lips once more. Another slow, deep kiss that seems to stretch time itself.

When you finally pull back, her eyes are luminous, reflecting the soft bathroom light. A silent understanding passes between you. The shower is cleansing more than just bodies.

You find a pristine guest bedroom, completely untouched by the night's debauchery. Without a second thought, you pull them back and guide Kazuha down. She moves with a boneless grace, the deep exhaustion finally claiming her fully. Curling onto her side, facing you. You slide in beside her, the mattress dipping under your weight.

The silence here is different: expectant and heavy with the unspoken knowledge of the inevitable pressing down on both of you.

She’ll be gone soon. Luminary’s clock is ticking, invisible but inexorable. An hour left, maybe less. The thought is a heartache, a callous lump growing in your chest despite the warmth radiating from her beside you.

Turning towards her, gathering her close. She comes willingly, shifting until her back is pressed flush against your chest, your front spooning her back. Your arm wraps around her waist, pulling her snugly into the curve of your body.

She fits. Fits perfectly. Her ass nestled against your groin, the back of her head tucked under your chin, her smaller frame enveloped by yours. You can feel the steady beat of her heart against your forearm, the slow rise and fall of her breathing. Her skin is still warm from the shower, smooth as silk against yours.

You hold her tightly, almost desperately, unwilling to let go. Your fingers splay across her flat stomach, feeling the subtle definition even in repose. Pushing her closer, as if you could physically prevent the departure through sheer will. A low sound escapes you, not quite a groan, more a rumble of pure, unwilling protest deep in your chest.

She feels it. Her hand slides up, covering yours where it rests on her stomach. Her fingers intertwine with yours, squeezing gently. She doesn’t speak, but the pressure of her hand, the way she presses back even more firmly against you, speaks volumes.

I know. I feel it too.

Silence stretches, taut with the shared weight of the end. The Luminary bracelet feels cold against your wrist where it touches hers.

There’s no point in words. Promises are impossible; denial is useless. All that exists is this moment, this closeness.

Time becomes elastic, stretching and contracting. It feels like hours, yet also mere seconds, before you sense a subtle shift in her breathing, a slight tension entering her body. She knows. The car is already outside. The handler is on their way up. The transaction is concluding.

You hold her tighter, burying your face deeper into her hair, breathing her in. A silent plea. Stay. Just a little longer. She squeezes your hand again, a silent acknowledgment, a shared pang of regret. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she begins to disentangle herself.

You don’t open your eyes. You can’t. It’s been a dream so good, so magical, you refuse to wake up.

Keep yourself shut tight, clinging to the fading warmth of her body beside you, the lingering scent on the pillow, you feel the mattress shift as she slips out of bed. You hear the soft rustle of fabric, what you can only assume is the quick gathering of her clothes. The quiet click of the front door followed by the echo of it slamming shut punctuates the end, leaving you alone for good.

Only then do you open your eyes. The void beside you is vast, the sheets still bearing the imprint of her body, already cooling. You’re left to your own devices again. The only evidence she was ever here is the lingering scent of sex, sweat, and verbena clinging to the sheets, and the undeniable smear on the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, catching the first grey light of dawn.

The Luminary pendant is gone. The connection has been completely severed.

—————

Sleep, when it finally comes, is deep and dreamless: a black hole swallowing up the exhaustion. You wake not to an alarm, but to the insistent midday sun blazing through the windows, painting sharp rectangles of light on the floor. Late morning, pushing towards lunch. The scent is still there, faint but undeniably hers, on the pillow and on the sheets.

For a moment, you stay lain there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the night in vivid, fragmented flashes: the pink dress pooling at her feet, her screams echoing off the windows, the taste of her on your tongue, the impossible tightness of her body, the quiet worship in the shower, the crushing weight of holding her, knowing she’d vanish.

Pushing yourself up, you pad naked into the living area. The penthouse is unnaturally still, meticulously tidy except for the battlefield of the main bedroom. Your gaze goes immediately to the panoramic window. The smear is still there, dried now, an opaque testament against the sparkling city.

Evidence.

A grim smile touches your lips. Abruptly shadowed by a hollow ache in both your stomach and your head.

Coffee. You need coffee.

Brew a pot, the mundane ritual serves as a dull foil to last night’s extremes. Hot mug in hand, you gravitate towards the sleek laptop set up on the minimalist desk in the corner—your personal office, your link to the crumbling facade of Veridian Quantum and, now, to Luminary.

You tap the trackpad, waking the screen. The Ω portal is already open, with a discreet notification icon pulsing in the corner. You click.

Client Engagement Report: Kazuha (Le sserafim)

Rating: ⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑ (Client) | ⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑ (Talent)

Discretion Adherence: Exemplary

Points Awarded: 19,214

A significant boost. Enough to leapfrog well into Tier 2, but still nowhere close to sniffing Tier 3. The cold efficiency of the notification is jarring. Reducing the raw, messy, profoundly human experience to metrics, algorithms, and stars. But the points are power. Access to greater influence, fantasies beyond your comprehension.

Beneath the notification, a new message banner flashes:

Luminary Management:

Congratulations on a highly successful engagement! Your appreciation for our Talent is noted. Why not discover another facet of Le sserafim? Chaewon, Sakura, Yunjin, Eunchae—each member offers a unique Luminary Experience.

Regards, Luminary Co.

The suggestion is clear, calculated. Move on. Sample the menu. Variety is the spice of life, they always say.

A flicker of something—possessiveness, defiance—sparks in your chest. Kazuha wasn't just a facet. She was—more. Something special.

But the lure of the points, the promise of Tier 3, is potent. With the memory of Kazuha’s warmth, her responsiveness, the sheer fucking high of the night fresh in your mind, you navigate to the booking portal. You find Kazuha’s profile. Still radiant in her candid laugh photo. You select ‘Overnight Engagement.’ The button is greyed out.

System Notification:

Talent Availability Restriction: This Luminary Talent (Kazuha - Le sserafim) may only be booked once per calendar month. This policy ensures equitable access for all valued clients and allows our Talent necessary recuperation time between exclusive engagements. Please consider another Luminary Talent or check availability next month.

A cold splash of reality. Whether it’s truly for her recuperation or, more likely, a deliberate strategy by Luminary to prevent obsession, to keep clients hungry, to force them to sample others and spend more—it doesn’t matter. The wall is there, impenetrable and unscalable. Kazuha, for now, is out of reach. Once a month just isn’t enough. And you certainly aren’t gonna wait that long.

You slam the laptop lid shut, the sound echoing harshly in the quiet penthouse.

Turning away from the desk, you run a hand through your hair, staring sightlessly at the city view outside. The glittering skyline feels hollow and vain, providing no answers.

Then, your gaze catches something on the polished glass coffee table near the sofa. Something that shouldn’t be there.

A small, crisp rectangle of thick, cream-colored paper. Hotel stationery. Folded once.

Frowning, you walk over and pick it up. Unfolding it reveals a single line of neat, elegant handwriting, unmistakably feminine. No name. Just ten digits.

Your breath catches. Luminary’s strict rules scream in your head: No direct contact. Breach of contract. Disastrous consequences.

This is dangerous. Reckless. For you, potentially. For her, absolutely.

But she still left it, knowing the risks. After everything.

A slow, disbelieving smile spreads across your face, cutting through the frustration, the emptiness, the cold corporate notification.

It’s an ember in the sterile gloom. A reminder of the connection they can’t control, nor can they fully sever.

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! This took quite a while cause the worldbuilding once again took center stage in the writing process. The prompt made me revisit one of the earlier fics I did with a similar concept, so this feels like an evolution of that! So really happy to explore the concept now but with better knowledge and more experience. Won't say much but we will revisit this world sooner than later. Can't wait to see Le sserafim in just a few weeks. Thank you for reading!)

#kpop smut #le sserafim smut #kazuha smut #le sserafim #kazuha

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