CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER 37: EXTRA C AND THE EVILS OF CAPITALISM (1)

The tie was choking me.

I stared at the mirror. The boy staring back didn’t look like Extra C. He looked like a rich asshole. A white dress shirt, top button undone just enough to suggest I didn’t care, black trousers that cost more than my weekly food budget, and a blazer I had thrifted and painstakingly tailored to fit my frame.

I pulled my hair back. A neat ponytail this time. No messy bangs covering my eyes. If I was going into the lion’s den, I needed to look like I owned the zoo.

"Abel?"

I froze. A knock on the door frame.

Anna stood there. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and holding a spatula. The smell of frying garlic wafted in from the kitchen. It was domestic. It was warm. It was everything I was about to walk away from for the night.

"You’re... going out?" she asked. Her eyes scanned the outfit. They lingered on the watch—a fake Rolex I’d bought off a guy in Genge.

"Just a meeting," I said. I turned away from the mirror and grabbed my phone. The weight of it, the digital key inside, felt like a brick. "A friend from the editing circle. Might get some high-paying commissions."

"Dressed like that?"

"Appearance is half the pitch."

Anna pursed her lips. She didn’t buy it. I knew she didn’t buy it. We had an unspoken agreement not to pry, but living with someone chipped away at those walls. She stepped closer, reaching out to fix my collar.

Her fingers brushed my neck. They were warm.

"You smell like expensive cologne," she muttered. "And smoke."

"It’s a vibe."

"Be careful, Abel." She stepped back, her expression tightening. "Whatever you’re doing. Just... come back in one piece. I made extra garlic bread."

"I’ll be back before it gets cold."

A lie.

I hated lying to her.

I walked out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind me. The silence of the hallway swallowed the warmth of the kitchen.

I took a breath. I let the persona settle over me like a second skin.

Shoulders back. Chin up. Look bored.

Aversque Boulevard was a lie painted in gold leaf.

The main street was wide, lined with trees that were manicured to within an inch of their lives. High-end boutiques displayed mannequins that looked more human than the people walking past them. It was the district of old money and new pretensions.

But rot always starts from the foundation.

I walked past the gleaming storefronts. My destination wasn’t the light. It was the shadow cast by the biggest monument to failure on the block.

Syn Hotels.

It rose into the night sky like a jagged tooth. Thirty stories of concrete and shattered glass. It had been shut down five years ago after a scandal involving structurally unsafe materials and a CEO who fled to the Caymans. Now, it was just a giant billboard for bankruptcy.

Construction fences surrounded the perimeter. Keep Out signs rusted on the chain links.

I didn’t go to the front.

I circled the block, my footsteps echoing on the pavement. I lit a cigarette. The smoke curled up into the orange glow of the streetlights.

Around the back, the alleyway was narrow. It smelled of wet cardboard and urine, a sharp contrast to the perfumes of the Boulevard.

There it was.

The steel door Peridot had shown me.

It looked innocuous. Just a service entrance for a building that no longer serviced anyone. But there was a small keypad next to the handle, almost invisible against the grime. And right above it, a tiny sticker.

A pair of white wings. Vangels.

I pulled out my phone. I opened the email.

Access Code: 7719

I punched the numbers in. The keys didn’t beep. They felt spongy, worn down by frequent use.

Click.

A heavy, magnetic thud. The door hissed open.

I tossed the cigarette. I stepped into the dark.

The smell hit me first.

It wasn’t the musty dampness of an abandoned basement. It was crisp. Recycled air. Expensive HVAC systems pumping in oxygen mixed with a faint, synthetic floral scent. It was the smell of a casino.

The door closed behind me. A long corridor stretched out, lit by recessed strip lights on the floor.

I walked. The walls were covered in velvet soundproofing. It swallowed the sound of my footsteps. It felt like walking into a coffin lined with silk.

At the end of the hall, there was a heavy oak door. A bouncer stood in front of it. He wasn’t a thug in a tracksuit like the guys at the arcade. He wore a suit that fit him perfectly, and he had an earpiece coiled behind his ear.

He looked at me. He didn’t say a word. He just held out a scanner.

I held up my phone. The QR code on the screen glowed.

Bleep.

The bouncer nodded. He stepped aside and opened the door.

"Welcome to the Lounge, sir."

I stepped through.

And I realized just how small the world really was.

The basement of Syn Hotels hadn’t been left to rot. It had been hollowed out and turned into a temple.

The ceiling was low, painted matte black. Spotlights focused on clusters of leather armchairs and sleek, glass-topped tables. There were no slot machines. No loud noises. No cheering.

It was silent.

Dozens of people sat at the tables. Most of them were young. My age. Maybe a few years older. They held tablets in their hands or stared at screens embedded in the tables. Waitresses in cocktail dresses moved silently between them, placing drinks on coasters.

It was a digital opium den.

I walked deeper into the room. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained a mask of boredom.

I recognized the game on the nearest screen. Baccarat. The guy playing it was wearing a varsity jacket from a private school two districts over. He was shaking. His leg bounced up and down, a nervous tic that vibrated the floor.

He tapped the screen. Bet Banker. $500.

He lost.

He tapped it again. Bet Banker. $1000.

He didn’t make a sound. He just stared at the pixels, his eyes glazed over.

This wasn’t gambling. This was harvesting.

"First time?"

A voice drifted from my left.

I turned. A woman stood there holding a tray of champagne flutes. She had a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked, keeping my voice smooth.

"You’re looking around," she said. "Regulars only look at the screens. Champagne?"

"Water. Sparkling."

"Right away."

She glided off.

I moved toward the back of the room. I needed to see who was running the floor. Peridot’s intel pointed to Rooney, but Rooney was a ghost. He wouldn’t be on the floor.

I scanned the faces.

Rich kids burning their inheritance. Scholarship kids trying to multiply their stipend. And...

My breath hitched.

Sitting at a high-stakes Blackjack table near the bar.

He was wearing a suit that cost more than my apartment. His hair was perfectly styled. He was laughing, a charming, easy sound that cut through the silence of the room. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand and casually tapped the ’Hit’ button with the other.

I knew him.

Not personally. But I had seen him.

On the bulletin board at school. On the posters plastered in the hallways.

Vote for Excellence. Vote for Tomorrow.

It was the current Student Council President of Fairfax Academy.

Nathaniel Reed.

I stepped back into the shadow of a pillar. This wasn’t just a Student Council Secretary telling Sebastian about a website. The President himself was here. And he wasn’t just playing.

He was holding court.

Two other guys stood behind him. They weren’t watching the game. They were watching the room. They were security, but they were students. Big guys from the rugby team.

Nathaniel won a hand. He cheered, clinking his glass against the screen.

"Easy money, gentlemen," he said. His voice carried. "Vangels loves a bold player."

He turned his head. His eyes swept the room.

For a second, his gaze lingered on my pillar.

I didn’t flinch. I stepped out, taking the glass of water from the waitress who had just returned. I took a sip, looking straight at him.

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t recognize me. Why would he? I was Extra C. I was the guy who sat in the back and stared out the window.

But here, dressed like this, in his sanctuary?

I was an anomaly.

He whispered something to one of the rugby players. The guy nodded and started walking toward me.

Shit.

I couldn’t fight here. Not with cameras everywhere. Not with fifty witnesses.

I needed to blend.

I turned my back on the approaching muscle and sat down at an empty table. I tapped the screen. It lit up, asking for a login.

I scanned my phone. My balance—Lia’s hard work—flashed in the corner. $10,200.

"Is this seat taken?"

The rugby player stopped at my table. He was huge. His neck was thicker than my thigh.

"It is now," I said without looking up.

"Mr. Reed would like a word."

"Mr. Reed can wait until I finish my hand."

The guy blinked. He wasn’t used to resistance. In school, his size was enough. Here, hierarchy was different. Here, money was the only muscle that mattered.

"He insists."

I sighed. I spun the digital roulette wheel on the table just to have something doing.

"Fine."