I pocketed the phone, glancing at Anotta. She was on hers, scrolling, her face unreadable, the glow of the screen highlighting her sharp cheekbones. That dress, emerald green, sleeveless, with a plunging neckline that showed just enough cleavage to make my throat dry, the fabric clinging to her waist before flaring into a subtle train. It was sexy, powerful, like she was daring the world to challenge her.

I averted my eyes, my pulse quickening.

The limo slowed, pulling up to Hemborg's, a small clothing store with frosted glass windows and a black sign, the staff inside locking up for the night. The storefront was understated but screamed money, mannequins in tailored suits, a single spotlight on a velvet display.

Anotta reached into her purse, pulling out a black card, handing it to me.

"Tell Hemborg I said hi," she said, her voice calm, commanding. "He'll get you something nice to wear."

"O-okay," I stammered, taking the card, my fingers brushing hers. I fumbled for the door handle, my face heating. "How do I… is it—there?"

"Down," she said, her lips twitching slightly.

"This handle?"

"That's the ashtray. A little to the right."

"Oh." I found the right one, the door clicking open. "Y-yeah. Thank you, Ms. Anotov. I'll be right back."

"Be right back?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "I'm driving to the gala. You're walking."

"Oh…" I said, my face burning now.

I stepped out, closing the door, and watched the limo pull away, its taillights fading into the city. I looked at the card, then up at Hemborg's, the staff pausing as they saw me approach. "Okay…" I muttered, gripping the card. "A tuxedo, huh? Man."

‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬

I exhaled, wiping sweat from my brow, the city's cold air biting my skin as I stood across from the hotel. The gala was in full swing, the lobby's chandeliers casting light through the massive windows. I'd thought about using Anotta's card for a taxi, would've been faster, but the idea of her finding out and getting pissed stopped me cold. Walking here in this tuxedo was a nightmare, the oxfords pinching my feet, but I was back.

I pulled out my phone, flipping to the camera to check myself. The tuxedo, black, slim-cut, satin lapels, looked sharp but felt fucking stupid, like I was playing dress-up. My messy bun was still intact, loose strands framing my face, giving me a rogue edge. If this was what it took to get inside, I'd deal.

I pocketed the phone and crossed the street, the hotel's entrance looming, two security guards in suits flanking the revolving door.

"Name?" one asked, his eyes scanning me, tablet glowing in his hand.

"Evan Marlowe," I said, standing straighter, the tuxedo's weight grounding me.

He tapped the tablet, then nodded. "Ms. Anotov's friend. Welcome, Mr. Marlowe. This way, please."

"Thank you," I said, stepping past, the revolving door hissing behind me.

The lobby was even grander up close, marble floors gleaming, chandeliers dripping light, the string quartet's notes floating over the crowd's murmur. Paintings lined the walls, abstract splashes of color by some rich kid, price tags beneath them listing five and six figures. Fucking ridiculous.

Tuxedoed men and gowned women sipped champagne, their laughter sharp, fake. I scanned the room, my pulse quickening, and there she was, Vanessa Harding. Her red dress was low-cut, clinging to her curves, revealing too much, her long brown hair cascading over one shoulder. There she was. Bitch.

I moved closer, weaving through the crowd, stopping near a painting—a chaotic swirl of blues with a $12,000 tag. I pretended to study it, my ears tuned to Vanessa's voice as she stood with two friends, all holding flutes, their laughter grating.

"…then we sold them," Vanessa said, her voice smug, dripping with malice. "I didn't know we had so many perverts at BrightWave."

Her friend, a blonde in a silver gown, smirked. "You should use a sleeping pill. She goes out cold, those bastards fuck the shit out of her, and you get a crap ton of money."

"Huh, you're right," Vanessa said, her eyes glinting. "We could take videos too. Blackmail her into quitting the company?"

"Or force her to screw those perverts again," her other friend, a brunette with a champagne flute, added. "If she refuses, we spread the videos online."

"Damn, you're evil, girl," Vanessa laughed. "Let's do it."

"Tomorrow?" the blonde said. "She always drinks coffee in the morning, right? How do we slip the pill in?"

"I'll distract her," the brunette said. "You slip it. Easy as that. What do you say, huh?"

"We'll talk details later," Vanessa said, raising her glass. "Let's enjoy the gala for now."

My fists clenched, rage boiling so hot I could barely see straight. Fucking whore. Fucking… ugh. No swear word was enough for this cunt. She was planning to drug Delilah, sell her out, ruin her life. I had to stop her, punish her, take her out of the picture for good.

Anotta stepped in front of me, her emerald gown shimmering under the chandelier light, blocking my view of Vanessa and her cronies. Her silver hair gleamed, and she held a champagne flute, her gaze sharp as she studied me. "Your eyes look mean," she said, her voice calm but piercing. "What happened, Marlowe?"

"I'll... I'll fucking…" I caught myself, rage bubbling over, my outburst making Anotta's eyebrow twitch slightly, her expression otherwise unreadable. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to."

"What happened?" she asked, her tone steady, demanding an answer.

I exhaled, my fists still clenched, the gala's chatter and quartet music fading into a dull hum. "Vanessa," I said, keeping my voice low. "I overheard her with her friends. They're planning to drug Delilah—slip a sleeping pill into her morning coffee tomorrow. Let those pervert coworkers at BrightWave have… sex with her while she's out, record it, and blackmail her to quit. If she refuses, they'll leak the videos online. They're laughing about it, like it's a fucking game. A game!"

Anotta nodded, her face impassive, swirling her champagne flute, the golden liquid sloshing left to right. She brought it to her lips, taking a slow sip, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Evil," she said curtly, setting the glass down on a passing waiter's tray. "But I've seen worse people."

"Worse?" I asked, my voice sharp, incredulous. "There's no worse than that."

"Trust me, Evan," she said, her eyes blank, almost cold, like she was staring through me. "There are worse. You just haven't met them yet."

I didn't respond, my jaw tight. "Hmm…" The weight of her words hung heavy, but Vanessa's plan burned hotter in my mind. I had to stop her—tonight.

Before I missed the chance, I gave her the black card and nodded.

Anotta glided away, her emerald gown trailing, her champagne flute now in the hand of a passing waiter. The gala's hum returned—clinking glasses, the quartet's soft strings, the crowd's fake laughter. I stood by the overpriced painting, my eyes flicking back to Vanessa, her red dress flashing as she laughed with her friends. My blood was still boiling, but I had a plan.

I pulled up the system UI, the familiar interface flickering in my vision.

Credits were low, but for Delilah, I'd burn every last one. Time Stop—90 credits—was the play. I selected it, the system deducting, leaving me with 145 credits.

╭────────────────────╮

- SHOP

==========================

• Aphrodisiac Drink (10c)

• Silk Lingerie Set (25c)

• Sensual Massage Oil (15c)

• Mystery Pleasure Toy (30c)

• Flirt Potion (20c)

• Hypnotic Perfume (40c)

• Time Stop (90c)

• 500 Dollars (50c)

• 1 Ability Point (150c)

==========================

- Credits: 145c

- Select item to purchase.

╰────────────────────╯

A new UI popped up.

╭────────────────────╮

- Time Stop

==========================

Duration: 10 minutes

Effect: Freezes all activity around user

Cooldown: 1 hour

==========================

▶ Activate? [Y/N]

╰────────────────────╯

I confirmed, and the world snapped silent. The sky outside the arched windows turned crimson, the gala frozen—guests mid-sip, waiters mid-step, the quartet's bows stuck on strings. Vanessa stood still, her smug smile locked in place, her friends' champagne flutes tilted.

I moved fast, weaving through the frozen crowd, my oxfords silent on the marble. I reached Vanessa, her purse dangling from her shoulder, and slipped it off, careful not to touch her. Her phone was inside, a black model. I grabbed her limp hand, pressing her thumb to the sensor. The screen unlocked.

Her texts loaded—a group chat labeled "BrightWave Boys." My stomach churned. There were Delilah's upskirt photos, sent by Vanessa, with laughing emojis and bids from coworkers, numbers like $50, $100. Fucking animals. I scrolled further, spotting an app called "LiveTV." I tapped it, and a list of recordings appeared, thumbnails labeled by date.

I clicked a random one. Delilah, crouched on a toilet, pissing, unaware of the camera. My throat tightened, and I shut it fast, bile rising. Another video—Delilah in the bathroom, crying, wiping tears, her face raw with pain.

"Fuck…" I muttered, my hands shaking. "Have you no shame? Degenearte bastards..."

I opened the first video. Sarah, setting up a hidden camera in the bathroom, adjusting it, checking her phone to confirm it worked. Vanessa appeared, asking, "Is it live?"

Sarah nodded. "It's working. You need LiveTV to view it."

Vanessa said, "Okay, show me how, then we'll check the camera again," and they walked off.

I forwarded the videos to my phone, the transfer quick, each file nailing Vanessa's guilt. With three minutes left on the Time Stop, I dug into her gallery. A thumbnail caught my eye, Vanessa, on her knees. I tapped it, and my stomach turned: a man pissing on her, her drinking it, then panting and barking like a dog, eyes wild. Was she in her bedroom? Probably. The video was taken by her boyfriend. Or whoever was fucking her.

"Dirty kinky bastard," I muttered, shaking my head. I sent the video to my phone, along with the group chat screenshot—six coworker names and numbers: Michael, Derek, Paul, Steven, Greg, Ryan. I closed the apps, slid the phone back into her purse, and hung it on her frozen shoulder.

I hustled back to the painting, heart pounding. Time resumed—the crimson sky faded, the gala's noise returning: clinks, laughter, strings. Vanessa sipped her champagne, oblivious.

I smirked, leaning against the wall. "Not enough," I muttered. "You need a punishment, whore."

I pulled out my phone, emailing the videos and screenshots to the cops anonymously, attaching everything: Delilah's bathroom footage, the upskirt photos, the group chat with the BrightWave perverts, and Vanessa's twisted video of herself drinking piss and barking like a dog. The subject line read: BrightWave Harassment Evidence. Sent. Done.

My eyes locked on the massive TV mounted on the lobby's far wall, cycling through gala promos. I opened my phone's Bluetooth, searching for the TV. It popped up, Hotel_Display_01, but it was already paired with another device. Fuck.

I scanned the room, spotting a power outlet tucked behind a velvet rope near a potted fern. Time to move.

I wove through the crowd, keeping my head low, the tuxedo's satin lapels catching the chandelier light. Vanessa was across the room, laughing, her red dress clinging to her curves, her gestures loud, commanding attention as she sipped champagne, oblivious. I slipped behind the fern, crouching, and yanked the TV's plug from the outlet, the screen going black. Heart pounding, I stood, brushing off my knees, and walked away, blending into the crowd.

A staff member in a crisp tux noticed the dead screen, frowning. He moved to the outlet, muttering, and plugged it back in. The TV flickered to life, still unpaired. I hit Bluetooth again, connecting to Meridian_Display_01 before anyone else could. My thumb hovered over the video—the one of Vanessa on her knees, a man pissing on her, her drinking it, barking, panting, soaked and wild-eyed. I hit play.

The TV blared to life, the video filling the screen, Vanessa's barks echoing over the gala's noise. She crawled, tongue out, yipping like a dog, her face glistening with piss, her expression twisted with depravity.

The crowd froze, gasps rippling, champagne flutes pausing mid-air. A woman dropped her glass, the shatter cutting through the silence. Men whispered, pointing; others laughed, shocked, their faces twisting in disgust or amusement.

Vanessa spun, her face paling, her eyes wide as she saw herself on the screen, her smug mask crumbling. She screamed, "Turn it off!" lunging toward the staff, who fumbled, clueless.

I leaned against a wall, arms crossed, smirking. Anotta stood nearby, her emerald gown shimmering, her eyes flicking from the screen to me. She said nothing, her expression unreadable, then looked back at the video, her champagne flute steady in her hand.

The staff yanked the plug, the screen going dark, but it was too late.

Just in time, sirens wailed outside, red and blue lights flashing through the windows. Cops stormed in, three of them, badges gleaming, heading straight for Vanessa.

"Vanessa Harding," one said, voice firm. "You're under arrest for distributing illegal surveillance footage, invasion of privacy, and orchestrating harassment at BrightWave." Her friends backed away, stunned, as cuffs clicked around her wrists.

She sputtered, "This is a mistake!" but they dragged her out, her red dress trailing.

"Fucking good riddance," I muttered, nodding. "Slut."

╭─────────────╮

Quest Completed

Title: Fixing fixing fixing

Reward: 120 EXP

╰─────────────╯

‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬

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