The opposite wall was a different kind of dominance. A massive curved ultra-wide monitor dominated the space—forty-nine inches of seamless black glass, bent like a horizon, its surface reflecting the night sky in deep, liquid obsolescence.

The screen glowed with a serene desktop, mountains and fog rolling across it in slow motion, the time displayed in crisp white at the bottom.

Beneath it, the desk was a sculpted masterpiece—dark, matte black with subtle LED underglow in cool white, curving into a wide, ergonomic arc that cradled the user like a predator's embrace. The surface was seamless, almost liquid, with built-in wireless charging pads and cable management hidden beneath.

A minimalist keyboard and mouse sat aligned with precision, their white bodies stark against the void.

The chair was a throne in disguise: high-backed, contoured in gray and black leather, its lines aggressive yet supportive, the kind that promised hours of immersion without surrender. RGB accents were absent—no garish lights here, only the subtle halo of underglow that traced the desk's edges and the chair's base, turning the room into a cocoon of controlled illumination.

The room itself was a study in restrained decadence. Walls clad in deep charcoal acoustic panels, their texture absorbing sound like secrets.

Overhead, the ceiling was a cloudscape of sculpted, cloud-like forms in soft white, lit from within by hidden strips of cool white light that mimicked a starlit sky.

A single, massive star emblem glowed at the center—pure white, sharp-edged, a constellation of one, dominating the wall behind the monitors like a personal sigil.

Speakers flanked the setup, sleek and matte black, their presence felt more than seen. The space was gray-toned throughout: charcoal, slate, obsidian—everything muted, deliberate, expensive. No color to distract.

No warmth to soften.

Just the quiet pulse of power.

Phei stepped inside and felt the door click shut behind him like a vault sealing. This was no longer a borrowed corner. This was his war room, his escape, his slow, deliberate coronation. Every hour spent here would be a reminder: he had taken it all back.

And the city below could watch.

This is where the shadows work now. This is command central for Operation: Fuck Everyone Who Wronged Me.

...That's a terrible operation name. I'll workshop it.

"The guest bedroom is through there," Sarah said, pointing down a hallway. "And two separate bathrooms."

Phei nodded, still mentally calculating how many hours he was going to spend in that chair playing games without anyone telling him he didn't deserve to relax.

All the hours. Every single hour.

The third floor was the master suite.

Phei walked in and laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. A full, unhinged cackle that bounced off the cathedral ceiling and probably made Sarah question her career choices.

"Sorry," he said, absolutely not sorry. "It's just... a lot."

A lot was underselling it.

The bedroom was a different beast altogether—elevated on the top floor, a private penthouse within the penthouse.

Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated three walls, framing the city in a relentless panorama: Downtown Paradise glittering below like a sea of fallen stars, the bay dark and restless, the distant skyline a jagged crown.

The glass was tinted just enough to keep the outside world at bay, but not enough to dull the view. No curtains. No mercy. Just exposure.

The ceiling was a vast expanse of exposed beams and recessed lighting, dimmable to a sultry amber that turned the room into a cave of shadows and firelight. The floor was dark, polished concrete, softened only by a massive gray area rug that swallowed footsteps like secrets.

At the center, the bed commanded everything. A king-sized platform—custom, oversized, easily wide enough for seven bodies if the mood ever struck—draped in charcoal silk sheets and black duvet.

The headboard was a slab of raw, textured stone, veined in gold, lit from below by hidden LEDs that cast a low, predatory glow. Pillows in varying shades of slate and obsidian were piled high, inviting collapse, surrender, or conquest.

Around it, the room whispered of indulgence: a low, floating fireplace built into the wall, flames dancing behind black glass; sculptural side tables in matte black metal holding crystal decanters and half-read books; plush ottomans and a chaise in deep charcoal leather for lounging.

A hidden panel concealed a private bar, stocked with bottles that caught the city lights like jewels.

The air was cool, scented faintly with sandalwood and smoke. This was no ordinary bedroom. This was a lair—dark, vast, and deliberately built for excess.

Phei stood at the threshold, the city sprawled at his feet, and felt the weight of it settle into his bones. He could sleep here. He could do far more than sleep here. And no one would ever tell him otherwise again.

It was less a bed and more a landing pad. Emperor-sized? Dictator-sized? Small-country-sized? He could sleep horizontally, diagonally, in a starfish formation, and still not touch the edges.

I could fit seven people in there. Why do I know that? Why was that my first thought? Am I becoming a pervert? ...Yes. The answer is yes.

On the wall opposite hung another TV—because apparently one massive screen wasn't enough when you were cosplaying as a billionaire.

"The walk-in closet," Sarah said, gesturing to a set of double doors that looked like they led to Narnia.

Phei opened them.

And stopped breathing for the second time in ten minutes.

She didn't.

She fucking DID.

Racks lined both walls like a designer clothing army standing at attention. Shelves climbed toward the ceiling. A central island held drawers and display cases and probably a small country's GDP in accessories.

And every inch of it was full.

Suits in charcoal and navy and black, cut in styles that actually looked modern instead of middle-aged accountant at a funeral. Dress shirts in every color. Casual wear that probably cost more per item than his monthly food budget used to be.

Jackets. Coats. Sweaters that looked soft enough to cry into.

Jeans. Slacks. Shorts for the summer he was definitely going to survive now.

Shoes. Dress shoes, sneakers, boots—arranged on dedicated shelving like a tiny shoe museum.

And there, hanging in a neat row: Ashford Academy uniforms. Multiple. Brand new. Actually fitted to his actual body instead of whatever hand-me-downs Danton had grown out of.

When did she do this? HOW did she do this? Did she clone herself? Hire a personal shopper? Develop time manipulation powers?

He ran his fingers along a jacket sleeve. Soft. Expensive. Real.

All mine.

Nobody's hand-me-downs. Nobody's rejects. Mine.

"The master bathroom," Sarah called from somewhere behind him, probably used to clients getting lost in their own closets.

Phei emerged from his fabric wonderland to find the bathroom.

The universe owes me this. Every inch of this.

They made their way back down through the condo—his condo, his three-story monument to "fuck you, I win"—and Sarah wrapped up the tour.

"The shared gymnasium is on Floor 95. All residents from floors 95 through 100 have access. Fully equipped—cardio, weights, lap pool, sauna. Open twenty-four hours."

Perfect. The Dragon Rise Routine needs a gym. Now I've got one that probably has equipment I can't even identify.

"The rooftop terrace is accessible from the main stairwell on your floor. The three top floors—98, 99, and 100—each have designated sections with private pools. You'll share yours with the other Floor 98 residents."

"How many is that?"

"They are three but currently? Just one other occupied unit. You'll have considerable privacy."

Even better. Private pool, barely any neighbors, ninety-eight floors of "I can't hear the haters from up here."

"The floors below have different configurations," Sarah continued. "Floors 97 through 80 feature two-story units. Below 80, single-floor layouts."

So, the hierarchy was literally built into the architecture. The higher you lived, the more space you got. The more floors inside your floor.

And Phei was near the top.

Not THE top—99 and 100 existed above him, owned by people with even more money than Melissa's alias apparently had. But close enough. Close enough to look down on almost everyone.

"Any questions?" Sarah asked.

Phei looked around the living room. The ridiculous TV. The city lights painting the windows gold. The spiral staircase leading up to a study full of books and a bedroom full of clothes and a bathroom with heated fucking floors.

Do I have questions? I have about a thousand. Starting with "is this real" and ending with "what did I do to deserve this" and filled in the middle with "am I going to wake up back in my piss-closet any second now?"

"No," he said instead. "I think I'm good."

Sarah nodded.

"Mr. Ryujin Tiamat?"

He turned.

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