Here I was, lying in my lame-ass bed—the one I'd spent years on, the kind of mattress you get when your mom says "we'll upgrade later" and then forgets you exist. Presidents Day sale, probably. Springs that had absorbed every nightmare, every lonely night, and every tragic jerk-off session to girls who wouldn't have pissed on me if I was on fire.
And now? Now I was hugging a trust-fund princess on it. Me. The same bed that had been the stage for my incel phase was suddenly hosting Madison fucking King, who could buy out three seasons of Euphoria just to complain about the outfits.
And technically? I wasn't broke anymore either. I had a million-plus sitting in system points, which basically made me the Elon Musk of make-believe currencies.
'How much exactly, ARIA?'
"While you were busy with Isabella and assaults," ARIA's voice rang out from my curved trading monitor—because she has the subtlety of a car alarm—"I went reckless on XAUUSD and AUDCHF trades. Current profit: $220,000."
