His temples throbbed with a persistent, nagging pulse that sent faint stabs of pain radiating into his skull, a quiet reprimand from this body for all the liquor it had been forced to absorb in such a short span.
Elias Kane gave his head a small, deliberate shake in an effort to pull clarity back to the surface and chase away the lingering haze.
As the blur finally receded, warm amber lighting bathed the room in a soft, almost intimate glow, yet it couldn’t mask the relentless noise pressing through even the thickest soundproofing—the driving electronic bass, the synchronized stomp of heels and bodies, the chaotic overlap of ecstatic screams and drunken cheers all bleeding into one continuous roar.
He was seated inside a high-end entertainnt club, and he had clearly just finished downing far more alcohol than any sensible person should.
It took him less than a second to orient himself fully to the situation, and barely another heartbeat before his gaze dropped to the black card resting right beneath his nose on the low table.
Elias blinked once, the fog evaporating instantly. Okay—wide awake now.
From years of cycling through similar scenarios, he knew cards like this one almost never carried less than enough money to purchase a thousand versions of soone like him.
In plain terms, this was the opening bid on full ownership.
Liora Voss lifted her gaze just enough to catch his reaction, and the faint curve of her mouth suggested she hadn’t expected anything different—after all, very few people, especially not young host boys working the VIP circuit, could look at that kind of sum without their composure fracturing, and the genuine probability of refusal hovered sowhere around absolute zero.
"In case the figure didn’t quite land the first ti," she continued in that low, velvet drawl, letting her eyes drift lazily over his downturned features as though appraising an item up for auction, "there are five million dollars loaded onto that card—yours the mont you claim it, to spend however you please. All I ask in exchange is one year of your complete availability—on call whenever I want, obedient without argunt, no exceptions."
Elias raised his head slowly and t her stare.
The woman lounged opposite him in the deep leather armchair with an effortless sprawl, forearms resting along the padded arms while her long fingers interlaced in casual symtry, and those distinctive peach-blossom eyes caught the low light in a way that made them seem perpetually amused even when her expression stayed perfectly neutral—beautiful in a manner that felt almost weaponized, the kind of allure that promised both pleasure and ruin depending on her mood.
Elias released a silent whistle inside his own head. Classic man-eating socialite—his personal favorite flavor of trouble.
Then a flat, chanical voice sliced cleanly through his thoughts without preamble or warmth.
Greetings. System Theta online. Freezing ti for host.
Elias blinked again, caught off guard. "Echo?"
That cheeky, warm tone had been his constant companion through mission after mission—why would the Trash Trope Intervention Division swap handlers out of the blue?
Please stand by,the voice replied after the briefest pause. This is a pre-recorded ssage from Echo.
A richer, unmistakably fond cadence flowed in next, unmistakably pre-recorded yet still carrying the ghost of Echo’s personality.
"Elias, babe, if you’re hearing this recording right now, I should already be gone..."
"Because the last world we ran together was my official retirent gig—we crushed it, obviously—so I finally punched the clock and walked into the sunset like the legend I am!"
Elias: genuinely confused.
"You’re stepping into your final mission—the big send-off, the nightmare-difficulty capstone. Give it everything you’ve got, okay? Retire in absolute glory. You’ve more than earned the pension."
As you have now heard, System Theta resud in its unchanging monotone, Echo has successfully retired. I am your assigned handler going forward.
Elias pressed an open palm to his chest, letting his face twist into exaggerated heartbreak. "That absolute traitor—it retired before ."
The ntal image of Echo cashing out while he was still grinding through fresh hells stung more sharply than any physical blow he’d taken in recent mory.
Although the new system’s delivery carried zero emotional color, it still managed to inject sothing that felt almost like consideration.
Are you dissatisfied with my assignnt as handler? A replacent can be requested if preferred.
"No need." Elias dropped the theatrics with a quick shake of his head. "You’ll do just fine."
Affirmative. Given that this is the first mission under my supervision, allow to provide a full briefing—
"Wait." Elias cut the explanation short with a raised hand. "Who exactly are you calling a first-tir here?"
I am fully aware that you are the Division’s top operative with an extensive mission history, the system answered without missing a beat. However, this is my debut assignnt, and successful completion grants a performance reward. Therefore—
Elias let the silence hang for a second before muttering under his breath, "Respect."
Skimming bureau incentives was practically sacred tradition—he fully supported it.
He settled back and let the system repeat the mission orientation from the top. The first ti he’d heard this particular pitch years ago, it had nearly made him choke on his cynicism; now, after countless loops through escalating absurdity, the only appropriate reaction was quiet amusent.
Entertaining, really.
A glittering near-future matriarchy where won owned the corporations, wrote the legislation, and collected breathtakingly beautiful young n the way others collected vintage watches—sponsored on black cards, displayed at galas, traded in private deals, discarded the mont the novelty faded. The perfect environnt for dismantling the most toxic strains of female-led power fantasy. In settings like this the targets arrived pre-loaded with absolute control and zero remorse about wielding it—he rarely had to chase. Usually he opened his eyes already in their bed, or—like right now—staring down the barrel of their opening offer.
Thank you for your patience. Reward has been processed, System Theta stated flatly. Loading plot summary. Load complete.
Elias closed his eyes and allowed the cascade of images, mories, and scripted tragedy to flood in.
True to Trash Trope Intervention Division standards, the story was saturated with every lodramatic cliché imaginable.
The original owner—now Elias—was, predictably enough, an orphan who had been adopted by a couple neither especially cruel nor especially warm; they at least kept him fed and in school long enough to test into Westbridge University, the single most elite institution this matriarchy had to offer.
Elias muttered to himself without opening his eyes, "There’s definitely another slag waiting sowhere on that campus."
The good days never lasted long.
The adoptive mother was already a heavy drinker and heavier smoker whose habits drained the household finances steadily, but once Elias started university her circle of equally disreputable friends pushed her into gambling, and the debts compounded so quickly that the family finances went from strained to catastrophic; then the adoptive father collapsed from chronic overwork one day, was rushed to the hospital, and received a diagnosis of a rare condition whose treatnt costs no standard insurance would begin to cover.
Elias clicked his tongue once, genuinely entertained by the sheer density of misfortune.
Maximum debuff stack—most people would be finished, with only divine intervention offering even theoretical escape. But protagonists in trash novels didn’t fold so easily; he walked straight into the nightlife industry, beca a host boy, turned his face into a weapon, and clawed enough cash out of wealthy patrons to fill the gaping hole.
Just when it seed the trajectory might finally stabilize, Serena Blackwood entered the picture.
Textbook domineering CEO—ruthless, controlling, wrapped in a veneer of cultured sophistication that never quite hid the steel underneath—and money, naturally, in obscene quantities. Five million dollars was casual pocket change to her; by her standards it counted as generous.
Why him specifically when she could purchase practically anyone?
Because his features bore an uncanny resemblance to her forever-unattainable white-moonlight ideal—Lucien Hart—the one man even Serena Blackwood could neither buy nor break nor keep. Rather than risk genuine rejection pursuing the original, she had spotted Elias one night and decided a flawless replica would suffice.
Elias released a dry, humorless huff. Classic logic—if your reasoning functioned like a normal person’s, you would chase Lucien directly instead of hoarding lookalikes.
Of course the scripted version had accepted without hesitation.
Elias: "Who in their right mind turns down five million dollars?"
A brief silence followed.
He sighed and flicked his wrist in a careless gesture. "Right—no one left to roast for it now that Echo’s gone. Keep going."
Unlike the cartoonish presidents who wore their cruelty openly, Serena played a subtler, more dangerous ga—publicly tender with soft words and gentle touches, small thoughtful gifts, the perfect cultured companion—then flipped the switch the instant the bedroom door closed and the mask could drop.
And Elias—poor scripted Elias—fell completely. First his body learned to crave her, then his heart followed, sinking into helpless, obsessive devotion to the very woman who privately ranked him sowhere between disposable and contemptible.
He opened his mouth as though to comnt, closed it again, and simply said, "Never mind. Continue."
The resulting love was tragically, almost comically pure—not even a single kiss had passed between them until one rare night when Serena allowed genuine gentleness to linger—candlelight, murmured praise, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin—and Elias finally lost the battle with himself, leaning in to offer his lips.
She slapped him off the bed with enough force to send him crashing to the floor and straight into unconsciousness.
Serena’s fury wasn’t only about the unwanted advance; it stemd from the split-second hesitation she felt right before her palm connected—the hesitation that tasted like disloyalty to Lucien—and that betrayal, however fleeting, was utterly unacceptable.
Elias: "Yeah. Sure. That tracks perfectly."
Once she recognized even the smallest flicker of real attachnt creeping in, she corrected course with brutal efficiency—threw him out still concussed and running a high fever, every inch of his body screaming in pain—directly into the street like discarded trash.
He barely managed to stagger halfway back toward the dorms before collapsing in the cold; Giselle Frost discovered him there, carried him to the infirmary, and essentially dragged him back from the edge of real danger.
Elias clapped his hands together once, quietly delighted. "Called it—campus slag confird."
The mory sequence jumped forward again. When he finally opened his eyes in the present, a girl with silver-dyed hair falling like liquid rcury was bent over him, checking his temperature with careful, clinical focus.
Elias raised a finger to pause the flow. "Hold on—where exactly is the silver hair coming from?"
He personally enjoyed the aesthetic—always had—but this wasn’t a fantasy realm with elf tribes or magical bloodlines.
System Theta sounded faintly puzzled in response. Is there a problem with the detail? The setting simply establishes it that way.
Elias opened his mouth, considered arguing, then closed it again.
Fine. Setting supremacy wins.
Giselle’s care was almost overwhelming in its thoroughness—the campus ice queen, infamous for her glacial aura and "approach at your own risk" reputation, had voluntarily lowered every barrier to tend to him personally.
And the reason, naturally, mirrored Serena’s exactly.
She too was hopelessly in love with Lucien Hart—had loved and lost—and with all that emotion left nowhere to go, she had settled for the closest available substitute: a living photograph.
Elias actually laughed aloud this ti—sharp and incredulous—because the plot had reached such an absurd concentration of rot that it looped straight back into accidental genius.
He pointed lazily toward the woman still watching him with cool interest. "Don’t tell she’s also hung up on Lucien."
Correct.
Elias’s smile turned slow and distinctly predatory. "Perfect. Let go introduce myself properly."
He was already itching to start dismantling.
System Theta made one final attempt. Please be advised—the full plot summary has not yet concluded—
"Shh." Elias pressed a single pale finger to his own lips, voice dropping to sothing soft, coaxing, and edged with quiet authority. "If Echo were still handling , it wouldn’t dare interrupt right now. The rest of the plot can wait until later. I’m finally in the mood—don’t ruin the montum. Understood?"
A longer silence followed this ti.
...Understood.
"Good choice." Elias nodded once. "Echo’s retired. You’re sitting in the chair now. You want to keep this partnership smooth? Pay close attention. I’ll teach you how this works."
Affirmative.
Ti snapped back into motion with an almost audible click.
Liora studied him for another lingering mont before reaching into the drawer and withdrawing a thick, cream-colored contract packet. "Since you’ve already accepted the principle in your mind, you might as well make it official and sign—"
"I don’t want it."
Her fingers froze mid-extension; then she simply opened them.
The contract landed on the table with a heavy, deliberate slap, skidded forward across the polished wood, and ca to a precarious stop less than an inch from sliding off the edge and into his lap.
"Heh." Liora’s lips curved into a mocking smile that sohow still managed to look seductive thanks to those perpetually amused peach-blossom eyes. "Not enough for you?"
She had clearly misjudged the depth of his greed, though she hadn’t been wrong about everything else—still naive, still foolishly convinced he was clever, still laughably out of his depth.
Elias lifted one hand and brushed the soft golden strands back from his forehead in a slow, deliberate motion, revealing the complete canvas of his face for the first ti.
Skin pale and flawless like fresh snow, eyes wide and clear as a newborn fawn’s, straight nose, red lips parted just enough to show white teeth—the kind of beauty that belonged on illustrated pages and felt almost unfair when viewed up close, devastating in its simplicity.
Liora’s breath caught for the barest fraction of a second. Even if n weren’t her usual preference, this particular face had undeniably earned the right to haggle.
She leaned forward slightly, voice smooth again. "Then let’s raise the offer to—"
"Ms. Voss." Elias’s tone remained calm and pleasant as he interrupted her smoothly. "It isn’t about the money at all."
Not about the money, aning of course that the money still wasn’t high enough yet.
Her smile sharpened further, the contempt crystallizing into sothing almost palpable.
She despised this particular breed of stupidity—the kind that believed itself cunning.
"Even if you doubled it to ten million dollars," he continued without pause, "my answer would remain exactly the sa."
"I don’t want it."
He reached across the table, straightened the contract packet with careful, almost reverent fingers, then leaned forward just enough to slide the entire stack back toward her across the gleaming surface.
"It isn’t that I’m playing hard to get or putting on so virtuous act." His lashes dipped for a heartbeat before lifting again, revealing eyes that sparkled with boyish mischief layered over sothing considerably darker. "I simply happen to need a certain feeling first—without that feeling, no amount of money will ever convince to sell my body—but if I see soone I actually want..."
He let the smile widen slowly until two sharp little canines flashed in the low light, the expression radiant and almost innocently beautiful even as the words themselves turned shalessly direct.
"...I won’t mind in the slightest if she takes my first ti even if she doesn’t have a single cent to her na."
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