The night air at the top of the Obsidian Tower was different—thinner, colder, and smelling of ozone and ambition. Liam stood on his private terrace, the charcoal-grey overcoat draped over his shoulders like a general's cape. He looked down at the city, a sprawling grid of millions of souls, and realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn't just a passenger in the world. He was the driver.
But a driver needed a vehicle.
"System," Liam said, his voice barely a whisper against the wind. "The rebate. Does it apply to anything? Even if I'm just... showing off?"
[The Idle Life System rewards expenditure that enhances the Host's status, influence, or quality of life. There are no restrictions on 'showing off.' In fact, the more the Host asserts dominance, the higher the potential multiplier.]
Liam smiled. It was a dangerous, sharp expression. "Dominance. I can do that."
He pulled out his new phone and opened a ride-sharing app. A year ago, he would have summoned a private chauffeur. Ten minutes ago, he would have taken the subway. Now? He ordered the highest tier of luxury transport available, just to bridge the gap.
A black Rolls-Royce Ghost pulled up to the curb of the Obsidian Tower exactly four minutes later. The driver, a man who had spent twenty years chauffeuring the elite of New York, didn't even look at Liam's face at first. He only saw the suit—the Brioni cut that screamed five figures.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked, holding the door open with a gloved hand.
"Manhattan," Liam said, sliding into the buttery leather interior. "The Prestige Motor Gallery on 11th Ave."
The driver's eyebrows shot up. The Prestige Motor Gallery wasn't a car dealership; it was a cathedral for internal combustion. They didn't sell Toyotas or Fords. They sold dreams made of carbon fiber and ego. "A fine choice, sir. Planning on adding to a collection?"
"No," Liam said, looking out at the blurring lights of the Brooklyn Bridge. "I'm starting a new one."
The Prestige Motor Gallery was a temple of glass and white marble. Under the high-intensity LED lights, the cars looked like jewels. A Ferrari SF90 Stradale in Rosso Corsa; a Lamborghini Aventador Ultimae in matte black; a Bugatti Chiron sitting on a raised dais like an idol.
As Liam stepped through the heavy glass doors, the scent of expensive leather and tire shine hit him. It was a smell he had grown up with, a smell that felt like home.
A salesman approached him. He was a man in his fifties named Victor, wearing a suit that was expensive but lacked the effortless grace of Liam's. Liam narrowed his eyes, activating the Eye of Insight.
[Target: Victor Vance.] [Role: Senior Sales Consultant.] [Net Worth: $1.2 Million.] [Current Thought: 'This kid looks like old money, but I don't recognize him. Treat with caution and maximum greed.']
"Welcome to Prestige, sir," Victor said, his smile as polished as the cars. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure. I'm Victor."
Liam ignored the hand. He walked straight toward the center of the floor, his eyes scanning the inventory. Data tags floated in his vision over every car.
[2023 McLaren 765LT. Value: $480,000. Potential Rebate: High.] [2022 Porsche 911 GT3 RS. Value: $310,000. Potential Rebate: Moderate.]
Then, he saw it. Tucked away in a corner, bathed in a soft golden spotlight, was a Koenigsegg Jesko. It was a masterpiece of Swedish engineering—white with gold leaf accents, a rear wing that looked like it could slice through the air of a different dimension.
[Target: Koenigsegg Jesko 'Odin Edition'.] [Value: $4,200,000.] [Hidden Attribute: One of only 125 in existence. Immediate Status Boost: Massive.]
"That one," Liam said, pointing a finger.
Victor chuckled, a dry, nervous sound. "Ah, a man of taste. That is the Jesko. It's actually a consignment piece. The owner is... well, he's quite firm on the price. Four point two million. And of course, we require proof of funds before—"
Liam didn't let him finish. He pulled out the black titanium card and held it between two fingers. "Run it. Full amount. Now."
Victor froze. "Sir, the car isn't even fully PDI'd (Pre-Delivery Inspected). We need to handle the registration, the insurance—"
"I'm not asking for a lecture, Victor. I'm asking for the car. Run the card. If it clears, I'm driving it out of here in twenty minutes. If you can't make that happen, I'll walk across the street to the Pagani showroom and tell them you didn't want the commission."
The greed in Victor's 'Insight' tag flared bright red. "I... I will see what I can do, Mr...?"
"Whitmore," Liam said.
Victor's eyes widened. "Whitmore? As in... Arthur Whitmore?"
"His son," Liam said, his voice cold. "And before you ask, no, the government didn't get this card."
The tension in the showroom was palpable as Victor inserted the card into the high-limit terminal in his glass-walled office. A small crowd of other salesmen gathered near the water cooler, whispering. They knew the Whitmore story. They had seen the headlines about the "Pauper Prince."
Victor's hands trembled. He punched in the numbers. $4,200,000.00.
The machine hummed. The "Processing" icon spun for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity.
APPROVED.
Victor nearly fell out of his chair. He scrambled to his feet, rushing back out to the floor, his face flushed. "Mr. Whitmore! My apologies for the hesitation! Truly! We are clearing the floor now. We'll have the plates transferred and the car detailed immediately. Would you like a glass of 1942 while you wait?"
Liam looked at his watch. "You have fifteen minutes."
[Ding! Major Expenditure Detected: $4,200,000.00.] [Triggering High-Level Rebate...] [Multiplier: 25x.] [You have received: $105,000,000.00!]
Liam's heart skipped a beat. A hundred million. The rebate wasn't just returning his money; it was compounding it. He was no longer just a millionaire. He was moving into the realm of the ultra-wealthy, the kind of people who didn't just buy cars, but bought the companies that made them.
[Current Balance: $112,824,267.50.]
He sat in a leather armchair, sipping the expensive tequila Victor had brought him, watching as a team of four detailers swarmed the Koenigsegg. They worked with frantic energy, buffing the gold leaf until it shone like a second sun.
As he waited, he opened a laptop provided by the lounge. It was time to handle the university.
He logged into the Brooklyn Heights University student portal.
NAME: LIAM WHITMORE. STATUS: PROBATIONARY / PENDING EXPULSION. REASON: UNPAID TUITION ($28,400.00).
Liam clicked the 'Pay Now' button. He didn't just pay the twenty-eight thousand. He noticed a 'Donation' tab at the bottom of the page.
"How much to get a building named after you?" Liam mused.
He typed in a figure: $5,000,000.00.
[Ding! Expenditure Detected: $5,028,400.00.] [Multiplier: 10x.] [Rebate: $50,284,000.00.]
The System was essentially paying him to be a philanthropist. He closed the laptop just as Victor approached, bowing slightly.
"The Odin is ready, Mr. Whitmore. The keys—or rather, the remote—is yours."
The roar of the Jesko's engine was not a sound; it was a physical force. It was a twin-turbocharged V8 that sounded like a thunderstorm trapped in a box of titanium. As Liam pulled out of the showroom and onto the streets of Manhattan, every head turned. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks. Other drivers veered slightly, intimidated by the low, predatory profile of the car.
He didn't head back to the penthouse. He headed for Brooklyn.
It was 9:00 PM. The university library would still be full. The student union would be buzzing. And most importantly, the upscale lounge across from the campus—The Gilded Lily—would be packed with the "elites" of the school.
Liam pushed the throttle. The Jesko screamed, the G-force pinning him into the carbon-fiber seat. He felt alive. For months, he had been a ghost, walking the halls in silence. Tonight, he was the noise.
He arrived at the university district ten minutes later. He didn't look for a parking spot. He drove straight onto the cobblestone plaza in front of The Gilded Lily, the engine's idle a low, menacing growl that vibrated the windows of the nearby shops.
He cut the engine. Silence fell over the street, followed quickly by the sound of dozens of people rushing to the windows.
Liam stepped out. The dihedral doors of the Koenigsegg swung upward like the wings of a Valkyrie.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the students filming with their phones. He smoothed his overcoat and walked toward the entrance of the lounge.
"Hey! You can't park that there!" the bouncer shouted, stepping forward. Then he saw Liam's face. The bouncer had been the one to physically throw Liam out two weeks ago when Julian Thorne had complained about "the smell of poverty."
The bouncer's jaw dropped. "Whitmore?"
"Move," Liam said. It wasn't a threat. It was a command.
The bouncer moved.
Inside, the lounge was dim, lit by amber Edison bulbs and filled with the scent of overpriced gin. In the VIP booth at the center of the room, Julian Thorne was holding court. Sara Wells was tucked under his arm, laughing at something he had said.
Liam walked through the center of the room. The conversation died out in ripples, starting from the door and moving toward the center.
Julian didn't notice at first. "And then I told the dean, if they don't get rid of the riff-raff, my father might reconsider the new wing—"
"I already took care of the wing, Julian."
The voice was calm, but it cut through the room like a razor.
Julian froze. He turned slowly, his smug expression twisting into a mask of confusion. He looked at Liam—really looked at him. He saw the suit. He saw the watch. He saw the eyes that no longer held a hint of the "pauper" he had bullied in the cafeteria.
"Liam?" Sara's voice was a tiny, fragile thing. She stood up, her hand dropping from Julian's arm. "You... what are you wearing?"
"A suit, Sara," Liam said, stopping three feet from their table. "I know it's been a while since you've seen me in one. Usually, I'm the one buying them for you, remember?"
Julian stood up, his face reddening. "What is this? A rental? Did you find a suitcase of your old man's dirty money before the feds got it? You think you can just walk in here—"
"I don't think I can, Julian. I know I can," Liam said. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. "In fact, I just got an email from the University Board. It seems they received a rather large donation tonight. Five million dollars."
The room gasped.
"Bullshit," Julian hissed. "You don't have five dollars, let alone five million."
"Check the news feed, Julian. Or just wait for your phone to buzz. I'm sure your father will be getting a call about why the 'Thorne Library' is being renamed the 'Whitmore Center'."
Julian's phone actually did buzz. He looked down at it, his face turning from red to a sickly, pale white.
Liam turned to Sara. He used the Eye of Insight on her.
[Target: Sara Wells.] [Net Worth: $150,000 (Mostly gifts from you).] [Current Thought: 'Did I make a mistake? Julian is rich, but Liam... Liam looks like a god. I need to talk to him. I need to explain.']
Liam felt a wave of disgust. He had loved this woman. He had thought she was his partner. Now, he saw her for what she was: a parasite looking for the healthiest host.
"Liam, honey," Sara said, taking a step toward him, her voice honey-sweet. "I was so worried about you. Julian was being so mean, and I was just trying to keep the peace—"
"Save it, Sara," Liam said, cutting her off. "The cashmere coat you're wearing? I want it back. And the earrings."
"What?" she gasped.
"You said it yourself in the cafeteria. The smell in there was giving you a headache. Well, the smell of desperation in here is doing the same to me."
He turned back to Julian, who was still staring at his phone in shock. "Oh, and Julian? About that penny you gave me for my 'retirement'?"
Liam reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold-plated coin—a souvenir he'd grabbed from the dealership's lounge. He flicked it. It hit Julian in the forehead and clattered into his drink.
"Keep the change," Liam said.
He turned and walked out. He didn't look back to see the chaos he had left behind. He didn't look back to see Sara chasing after him, calling his name.
He stepped back into the Jesko, the doors closing with a satisfying thud. He fired up the engine, the roar echoing off the brick walls of the university, and vanished into the night.
[Ding! Status Ascended.] [Social Standing: B-Grade (Rising).] [Host has successfully completed the hidden quest: 'The Prince's Vengeance.'] [Reward: 1. Advanced Physical Enhancement (Body of the Tycoon). 2. Skill: 'Negotiator's Tongue.']
Liam felt a surge of heat through his muscles, his vision clearing even further, his body feeling lighter and more powerful. He gripped the steering wheel, a predatory grin on his face.
"This was just the first day," Liam whispered. "Wait until they see what I buy tomorrow."