The kiss still burned faintly on Ethan's cheek as he sat motionless in the driver's seat. The hotel's golden lights glimmered in the rearview mirror, but he hardly saw them. The Mercedes purred beneath him, leather hugging his frame, yet all he felt was the weight of everything pressing into his chest at once—the mission, the rewards, Mary's words, her presence, the impossible car in his possession.
For a long moment he just breathed, forcing air into his lungs, steadying the storm in his mind.
Finally, with fingers that trembled despite his calm façade, he whispered, "Dashboard."
The air shimmered, and the system unfolded before him like a living script.
— [Money Deck System v1.0] —
Name: Ethan Ivers
Balance: $610,000
System Points: 13
Cards Available: 2
Attributes: [Unlocked]
Ethan stared, his throat tightening. Six hundred and ten thousand. The number glowed cold and absolute. A week ago, he had been rationing food, hiding the holes in his shoes, calculating whether he could afford one more textbook for his exams. Now—more than half a million dollars sat silently in his account.
His eyes dropped lower. Thirteen system points. Two card draws waiting.
And then, a new panel he hadn't seen before:
— Attributes —
Strength: 3
Agility: 2
Endurance: 2
Intelligence: 2
Perception: 2
(Upgrade cost: 2 System Points per stat)
System Upgrade Requirement: 100 Points → Level 2
His heart pounded as his mind raced over the numbers. Strength. Agility. Endurance. Intelligence. Perception. These weren't just words. They were him—quantified, measured, laid bare before his eyes.
He ran a hand through his hair. He could spend points now. Make himself stronger, faster, sharper. But…
His jaw clenched. The cost of a single upgrade was two points. To raise himself to something extraordinary, he'd need dozens. Hundreds. And the system's path was already clear: one hundred points to evolve into Level Two.
Thirteen wasn't enough. Not yet.
He dismissed the thought, shoving the temptation down where it couldn't distract him. The cards glowed faintly at the edge of the interface, tempting him further. Two draws available. New missions, new rewards. More power.
But also—more risk.
His exam tomorrow loomed large in his mind. He needed to focus. He couldn't gamble with his life on the eve of something that would decide his scholarship, his future, his family's hopes.
"Not tonight," he muttered.
The dashboard shimmered and folded away, vanishing like mist.
Silence filled the car once more. Ethan placed both hands on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly as though anchoring himself to reality. The Mercedes was his now. The system said so. Mary had said so. That truth alone was more than enough for one night.
He guided the car out of the Twilight Hotel's driveway, the streets quieter now as midnight deepened. Neon lights blurred past his window, their glow painting his face in shifting colors. He turned into the poorer district of the city, where the roads cracked and the lamps flickered weakly.
The parking garage near his apartment loomed, concrete walls stained and scarred. The luxury car looked like an alien here, its polished body gleaming even in the dim light. Ethan parked it in a corner, out of sight as much as possible. He locked it twice, then lingered a moment, running his hand across the smooth leather of the steering wheel one last time.
When he stepped out, the night air was colder, biting through his suit. He walked quickly, his shoes echoing faintly against the pavement, until he reached his building—a crumbling structure with peeling paint, the faint scent of rust clinging to the stairwell.
Inside, the apartment was quiet. His sister slept curled on the couch with a textbook still in her lap. From the bedroom, his mother's faint snoring carried through the thin walls. Ethan exhaled softly, guilt pricking at his chest. They knew nothing of what had happened tonight. Nothing of the money, the car, the kiss.
He stripped off the suit carefully, folding it as though it were priceless, and laid it across the back of a chair. Then, finally, he collapsed onto his bed. Sleep dragged him under within minutes, exhaustion pressing his body down into the mattress like a weight.
The week that followed passed in a blur.
Exams came one after another, relentless and merciless. Ethan buried himself in study, rising early, sleeping late, his eyes burning as he poured over notes and textbooks. He pushed the system from his mind as best he could, locking the cards away, ignoring their silent glow.
Not once did he draw. Not once did he tempt fate.
But the car didn't sit idle.
Mary called.
The first time, it was late in the afternoon. She asked him to drive her to a boutique in another district. She spoke little during the ride, her eyes fixed on the window, lost in thought. Ethan didn't press. He simply drove, steady and calm, the Mercedes gliding through the streets.
The second time, she asked for a ride to a café. She surprised him by ordering nothing extravagant—just a simple coffee, sitting alone at a corner table for nearly an hour before asking him to take her home again.
Each time, Ethan obeyed without hesitation. And each time, the system pulsed faintly at the edge of his sight, a quiet reminder that this, too, was part of the mission.
Between those calls, Ethan's life shifted in subtle ways.
He bought a new phone, sleek and fast, no longer an outdated relic that marked him instantly as poor. He bought shoes—polished, sturdy leather—and new uniforms that fit properly, their lines crisp instead of sagging from years of overuse.
For the first time, he walked into St. Helens Academy without shame clinging to his clothes. He looked the part.
But it didn't matter.
The other students still mocked him. Their eyes still glanced over him with disdain, their whispers sharp, their laughter cutting. To them, he was still the scholarship boy, the outsider, the one who didn't belong. His uniform might have been new, his shoes polished, his phone gleaming, but their contempt wasn't about appearances. It was about blood.
Ethan endured it silently. His head was a little higher than before, his gaze steadier. They didn't know. They couldn't know. The Mercedes waiting quietly in the garage, the points ticking upward in his system, the missions threading through his life—they were invisible to their scorn.
At night, when the house was quiet, Ethan lay awake staring at the ceiling. Sometimes the system flickered faintly at the edge of his vision, the numbers glowing, tempting.
Six hundred ten thousand in his account. Thirteen points waiting. Two cards ready. Attributes whispering of strength, agility, perception.
And the memory of Mary's lips brushing his cheek.
That thought lingered longer than all the others, carrying him into uneasy sleep