The shower was an event. It wasn't a rusty tap dribbling lukewarm water into a plastic bucket. It was a cavernous glass enclosure with a dozen different showerheads that sprayed water with the force of a tropical rainstorm. Koro stood under the cascade, laughing as the water pounded against skin that felt invincible. He half-expected to see dirt and the grime of his old life swirling down the drain, but there was nothing. Just the clean, steamy scent of some expensive soap that smelled like a forest after rain.
He got out, not shivering, just… refreshed. He wrapped himself in a towel that was thicker and softer than any blanket he'd ever owned. Back in the bedroom, morning light now streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing a view that made his breath catch. A sprawling city of glittering towers stretched out before him, with a sliver of a green park and a distant river. New York. He was really here.
On a vast, low bed—more like a padded platform—lay a single set of clothes, arranged as if for a photoshoot. A three-piece suit in a deep, charcoal grey. It looked severe and intimidating. He ran a hand over the fabric. It was impossibly smooth, with a subtle sheen that whispered money.
He picked up the jacket, looking for a label. He found it stitched inside the collar in elegant, minimalist script: Bido Couture.
A slow grin spread across his face. Bido. His name. One of the three clothing lines from the game. He walked over to the wall, which, with a gentle push, revealed itself to be a giant, silent-sliding door. Behind it was a walk-in closet the size of his family's entire former home.
And it was full. Rack upon rack of suits, jackets, shirts. Shelves of shoes that gleamed. Everything was pristine, organized by color. And on every single item, he spotted the same discreet label: Bido Couture, Bido Sport, or Bido Essentials.
"Convenient," he muttered to himself, a chuckle bubbling up. His entire virtual wardrobe had materialized. He didn't have to figure out what rich people wore; he was the trend.
Getting dressed felt like a ritual. The shirt was crisp and cool against his skin. The trousers fit like they were painted on, but with a freedom of movement that defied their tailored look. The waistcoat snugged against his torso, emphasizing his new build. Finally, he slipped on the jacket. It settled on his shoulders with a weight that felt… right. Like armor.
He looked in a full-length mirror by the closet. The guy staring back wasn't the boy from the creeks anymore. He was sharp, confident, powerful. The suit didn't wear him; he commanded it. He winked at his reflection. "Let's go cause some trouble."
The journey to the ground floor was its own experience. The elevator wasn't just an elevator; it was a glass capsule that shot down the side of the building, offering a dizzying, cinematic view of the city rising and falling around him. As the numbers ticked down, he felt a familiar rhythm start in his head. His shoulders began to move in a slight, happy groove, a silent beat to a song only he could hear. This is it. This is really it.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open with a hushed sigh.
The groove died in his shoulders.
The lobby wasn't a lobby. It was a cavernous, marble-floored hall that echoed with a tense, silent pressure. And it was packed. Row upon row of men, all in serious, dark suits, all standing at a kind of relaxed attention. They were big guys, with earpieces and watchful eyes. Security. A small army of it. And every single one of them looked old enough to be his father, their faces etched with experiences he couldn't even guess at.
For a heart-stopping second, he just stared. The sheer scale of it, the silent, imposing force of it all, hit him like a physical wave. The words slipped out in a low, stunned whisper in Ijaw, his native tongue.
"Ị tarụ nke a?" You see this?
"Mr. Bido?"
The voice was the honey from the phone, but now it had a face. And what a face.
She was walking towards him, and she moved with a poise that made the marble floor seem like a runway. Tall, with sleek black hair pulled into a perfect knot, and wearing a tailored dress that probably cost more than his old village's annual electricity bill. Her eyes were intelligent and calm, taking in the scene—him, the frozen security detail, his probably-stunned expression—without a flicker of surprise.
This was Anya. And she looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine he used to flip through at the newsstand, the kind filled with people who lived on a different planet.
"Good morning, sir," she said, her voice a cool, professional balm. She stopped a respectful distance away, holding a slim tablet. "The car is ready. We need to move quickly to avoid the worst of the press cordon outside."
Koro just nodded, his brain struggling to reboot. The men in suits parted like a well-trained sea, creating a path for him. Anya fell into step beside him, her heels clicking a soft, efficient rhythm on the marble.
"A brief on your schedule," she said, her eyes on her tablet as they walked. "The media briefing will be held at the Bido Tower auditorium. Your legal team has prepared a holding statement, but they strongly advise against deviating from it. After that, you have a video conference with the heads of your European holding companies regarding the quarterly projections. Lunch has been cleared, but I can have something brought to you if you need."
They reached the main entrance. Two massive, polished bronze doors were held open by more stone-faced security. Outside, he could see a black car so long and sleek it looked like a shark on wheels. There was a distant, chaotic noise—shouting, the frantic clicking of cameras.
Koro stopped for a second, just before crossing the threshold. He looked from the army of bodyguards to the incredibly efficient woman beside him, to the beast of a car waiting to swallow him.
A slow grin crept back onto his face. The initial shock was fading, replaced by the sheer, ridiculous absurdity of it all.
"Anya," he said.
She looked up from her tablet, her expression perfectly neutral. "Sir?"
"Did you get them doughnuts or something?"
A blink. That was the only crack in her professional facade. A single, slow blink. "I… beg your pardon, sir?"
"The guys," Koro said, nodding towards the rows of security. "There's like fifty of them. They look hungry. We should get them doughnuts. Or maybe suya. Do you think New York has good suya?"
Anya stared at him for a second longer, then her training snapped back into place. "I will… look into appropriate catering options for the security team, sir. Now, if you please." She gestured towards the waiting car.
Koro took a deep breath, the grin still firmly in place. He stepped out of his quiet, impossibly expensive fortress and into the roaring, blinding chaos of his new life.