Saturday arrived like an approaching storm that was inevitably terrifying.
Drake spent the entire day in a state of controlled panic. He showered twice, practiced his introduction one more time in the crappy mirror. While he was at it, he couldn't help but change his mind approximately every fifteen minutes.
But however, By 6 PM, he was standing in his tiny apartment in the rented tuxedo, staring at his reflection. He was shocked by his own transformation. The sharp black jacket, crisp white shirt, and the perfectly tied bow tie. They all made him look like a completely different person entirely. He now looked like someone who might actually belong in a room with billionaires and power leaders.
All his bruises from the accident were completely gone now. His face looked healthier now because of how he had been eating well without too much stress throughout the past few days. He'd even bought a hair conditioner product to style his hair just for this event. And damn.. He looks... Legitimate.
However, his hands were still shaking anyway.
The system interface appeared:
[ Final preparation Checklist— ]
[ Posture — check ]
[ Conversation — check ]
[Studied targets profiles — check]
[ Confidence level — Pending ]
Drake let out a weak laugh. "Yeah," he muttered. "I'm working on it."
His phone buzzed—a notification from the Uber he'd ordered, letting him know it was already waiting outside. He drew in a steadying breath, grabbed his things, and headed out to the gala.
***
The Harrington Grand Hotel looked even more intimidating at night. Warm light poured from every window, turning the building into a glowing monument of wealth. Ferrari, G-wagon, and even a Rolls-Royce rolled up to the entrance making Drake feel extremely embarrassed in his Uber.
He stepped out onto the red carpet—an actual red carpet—and instantly he felt every eye turn toward him. The doorman in his pristine uniform gave Drake a polite nod that carried the weight of quiet judgment in it.
"Good evening. Sir. Do you have your invitation?"
Drake pulled up the QR code on his phone that the website provided him as the ticket. The doorman scanned it, and a soft beep on his tablet confirmed his approval.
"The presidential Ballroom is on the third floor. Elevators are to your left. Enjoy your evening."
Inside, the lobby was marble and gold, with the massive chandelier he'd seen from outside now casting colored lights across everything. People moved through the open space like they owned it — beautiful women in gowns that probably cost more than his old car, men wearing tuxedos that made his rental look shabby by comparison.
Drake kept his shoulder back and his expression neutral as he walked towards the elevators following the system's advice—never look impressed, never look uncertain. Act like you've been here a thousand times.
The elevator doors opened with a couple already standing inside—the woman was dripping in diamonds, why the man was scrolling on his phone with the casual indifference of someone who'd stopped caring about money years ago. Neither of them spared Drake a glance as he stepped in.
He hit the button for the third floor. The elevator shot upward, and within seconds the doors opened to the level of the breathtaking Presidential Ballroom.
It was enormous, with high ceilings and tall windows that overlooked the city outside. Bright crystal lights hung from the ceiling every few meters, casting warm lights over the crowd of at least two hundred people. In one corner, four musicians played soft classical music. Servers in crisp uniforms move through the crowd with trays containing mostly champagne and small snacks.
And then there were the people.
Everyone there radiated so much wealth and power in a way that you could almost feel it in the air itself. Their suits were perfectly tailored. Their jewelry was simple but clearly very expensive and their simple conversation hummed with the confidence of people who made decisions that affected thousands of lives.
Drake stood at the entrance, frozen for a moment.
[ Activating social analysis mode ]
The system interface expanded across his vision, and suddenly the ballroom transformed. Floating labels appeared above people's heads as his gaze swept across them:
[ Patricia wells/ net worth—$87M/ Influence — moderate CEO, wells publishing group ]
[ David Chen/ net worth—$150M/Influence—High founder, Chen ventures ]
[ Alexandria montague/net worth—$212M/Influence/very high heiress, montague industries ]
The numbers were unbelievable. Drake realized he was standing in a room where the combined wealth was probably more than the economy of some small countries.
A server stopped beside him with a tray of champagne. "Champagne, sir?"
"Thank you." Drake took a glass, holding it exactly how he had practiced—hold the glass stem between thumb and forefinger, not gripping the bowl. The champagne bubbles tickled as he brought it closed to his nose. He took a small sip and managed not to grimace at the dry taste.
[ Remember your objectives
Richard Hale—tech mogul
Senator James lapis—political power
Stacey lapis—venture capitalist ]
[ Hale is currently at your 10 o'clock near the art wall ]
Drake turned casually, as if scanning the room, and there he was —Richard Hale. The man looked exactly as he was in photos. mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, and wearing a disigner tuxedo that could probably cost a fortune. He was standing there alone with three other men, talking relaxed but focused.
Drake started moving through the crowd, keeping his pace unhurried. He paused occasionally, pretending to admire the art on the walls or check his phone, while slowly moving closer to Hale's Position. The system had warned him —never walk straight to your target. It makes you look desperate.
He positioned himself about ten feet away, close enough to hear the conversation but not so close as to seem like he was eavesdropping.
".... The problem is Integration," Hale was saying, sounding frustrated. We've got three different AI systems trying to talk to each other, and none of them were designed for that. The data setup is a disaster."
One of the three men asked, "can't you rebuild everything from scratch?"
"Not without shutting down operations for six months. The board would never allow that." Held took a sip of his drink before continuing. "Right now, we're using a mix of temporary fixes that cost a fortune and only work half the time.
[ opportunity detected ]
[ Recommended response to gain attention. mention the new middle-ware study from Stanford AI lab. Hale probably hasn't read it yet. ]
Drake's heart hammered. This was it. His Moment to either prove the system right or make a complete fool of himself in front of a billionaire.
He waited for a tiny pause in their conversation. Then he stepped forward.
"Excuse me," Drake said, keeping his voice steady despite the adrenaline. "I couldn't help but overhear. Have you considered looking into adaptive middleware solutions? Stanford's AI lab recently published a paper about connecting different neural networks without needing one system design."
The conversation stopped. All four of them turned to look at Drake.
Hales narrowed his eyes slightly, studying him. "Stanford published that three weeks ago. You're familiar with it?"
"yeah. I read the paper when it came out," Drake replied. Which was technically true since the system had made him read it yesterday for no reason, but now he saw why. Drake continued. "The main idea is to treat each AI as it's own module and use translation layers between them. The starting would be more expensive, but after one year the operational cost will drop by forty to sixty percent."
Hale stared at him for a long moment. Drake could feel sweat forming under his collar but he stayed calm, and kept eye contact.
"That's..." Hale glanced at the other men, then back at Drake. "That's actually brilliant. Who are you?"
"Drake Wayne." He said while extending his hand, offering a hand shake.
Hale shook it with a strong, testing grip. "Richard Hale. Though I suspect you already knew that."
Drake allowed himself to smile slightly. "Yes, "I'm familiar with your work."
"And what do you do, Drake Wayne? You're clearly not in college if you're here."
"Independent investor," Drake said. "I focus on new emerging tech and places where the market is slow to react. Technical problems usually show where big opportunities hide."
Hale was studying him with genuine interest now. "How old are you?"
"Twenty- three."
"23 years old, and you're reading Stanford AI lab papers with your spare time."
"Yes, the good ones. Drake replied with a small smirk.
Hale laughed—an honest laugh, not the fake polite ones the rich usually put on. It was a real laugh coming from Richard Hale who found him somehow amusing. "I like you. You remind me of myself when I was young." He took out his phone. "Give me your contact information. I want to talk more about that middleware idea. Maybe you can look at our setup and give me another opinion."
Drake managed to keep his hands steady as he pulled out his own phone and they exchanged information. Richard Hale's personal number and email were suddenly in his contacts. A man worth $4.2 billion wanted Drake's perspective on something.
"Don't make me regret this," Hale said with a smile. "My assistant will contact you next week."
"I'm looking forward to it."
Hale rejoined his conversation, and Drake drifted away, moving toward the windows with his champagne. When he was finally alone, he let himself exhale the tight breath he had been holding in when talking to Hale.
[ First objective complete— Richard Hale contact made ]
[ Analysis—excellent performance.]
[ confident— check]
[ charisma + 1 ]