A seventh-floor bathroom.

Henry wiped a window in the fogged-up shower glass to glare at the intruding beaver-head. "Nope. You're not invited. It's a family trip."

"Am I—"

"Nope. Return to your raid."

Alex, ignoring the dismissal, began strolling about the bathroom, fiddling with a faucet, sneaking a glance at a report Caramel was reading on the toilet. "Nine Fists…Wingless Dragon…" The beaver-head commented as though randomly putting the two martial art names out into the universe. "Pretty demanding styles, these are. Would take a person a while to learn their basics…couple of months each, at least…weeks maybe for a human information sponge. But to learn seven in a single day, multiple days in a row...Kara, you're a fencer, what's the feasibility of this?"

Caramel rolled her eyes at him.

Alex gestured to the shower like a lawyer to the bench. "Hear that, Henry? Kara claims it's bullshit."

"'Nine Fists'?" Henry replied innocently. "Never heard of it. Is that some weird BDSM thing?"

The inquiry didn't alarm him since the beaver-head wasn't accusing him of being a cyborg. Rather, after Henry's duel with Loki, Alex had inferred the fabricated saga of The Return of The Cripple, who, in the time Henry'd actually been writing books and hunting for The Cap, had been secretly training in martial arts for his comeback. From this, one might deduce that, although he'd retired from the guild, it'd only been to return to his solitary origins as a duellist. Since Alex had orchestrated the recruitment tournament wager primarily for that very purpose, this was essentially an admission of Henry's defeat in the wider battle between them.

"But," Henry continued, "perhaps you're referring to my nine-contact-point-based martial art, 'Hacky-Sack Kung-Fu', which I invented after my observations of two hooligans tradin' the sack. That style can be mastered in forty minutes. Assuming you're an Uberpatrician."

Caramel laughed. "Uberpatrician?"

Henry smiled as she bit the diversionary bait. "The Uberpatrician is what lies beyond the Ultrapatrician. Borrowing from the language of the 19th century German—"

"Don't dodge the question, pal," Alex brazenly interrupted. "Will you let Kara get away with calling your martial arts sham a sham?"

"I will dodge until my dying breath. Go back to your raid."

The beaver-head, content with this acknowledgement, slumped his shoulders and sat on the rim of a bathtub in a dejected pose. "What's the point in raiding, mate? All those boasts on live television about hitting 5-3, and someone I'd mistaken for my closest chum had to humiliate me by snatching it up first." He sighed at the ruthless betrayal. "Are we in a ski-mood or a surfboard-mood?"

Henry dodged the travel topic, too. "If you're bored, there's an idea I'd been brainstorming before this mess, a special competition that'll need Flaming Sun's approval. Kara, your feedback would also be appreciated for the feminine perspective." He sent both of them a package of digital documents. "So, assuming the guild survives the azure affliction, after the recruitment tournament, during the events of which I may or may not be exposed as The-Cripple-slash-The-Tyrant due to certain suspicious martial anomalies that indicate a unique talent, I was considering funding a second event to deal with the tragic implications of that revelation - the romantic implications..."

He proceeded to explain his plans for the gold-digger tournament. First, he established the core issue of being inundated by so many gold-diggers after his international exposure that he, with his deficient social brain, would be unable to ascertain the sincerity of their motives. He outlined the systems by which this tragedy would be reversed, Henry all-inning on the gold-digger path and sifting through the deluge for the shiniest of them. He'd already figured out the rough logistics using their in-game stadiums and real-life facilities, and personable celebrity hosts from their entertainment division had been marked to build hype. Depending on which company won the bidding wars for the joint broadcasting license, the competition could be titled The Patricianchelor or Joe Sextillionaire.

The other two frowned at his 164-page proposal summary.

Alex expressed his doubts first. "Mate, weren't you asexual? You've never mentioned women before."

Henry was unsurprised by the misunderstanding. "Easy mistake to make, but no. Relationships just haven't been a priority for me yet. Realistically, my corpse might have joined those of such lonely climbers as Newton and Kant, who died on the climb before getting around to love. However, after my recent re-assessment of the question of gold-diggers, the error we've been making has become evident to me. Gold-diggers, by having the heart to accept money in lieu of more conventional but time-consuming methods of bonding, enable the cake to be had and eaten. We climbers labouring to advance our fields can kick up riches on the way upwards, and the gold-digger, who has freed themselves from the limitations of moral custom, cheerfully tags along behind, picking up these riches and converting them into affection. When others would summon you back, demand you squander your hours with them or your emotionally-neglected children, the gold-digger never relents in the chant for you to strive further onwards, to climb higher and earn more. The gold-digger, therefore, is our unicorn, our Eldorado, our philosopher's stone. She (or he) is the elusive bridge between the mountain and the heart, whose existence dismantles any illusion of the two's antagonism. One need not become a skeleton lying alone on the snowy slopes; I, who've shed the prejudice of my forebearers, will avoid their frigid demise."

Alex should have expected this moronic view of romance. "As the official leader of Flaming Sun, I hereby promise our full support!" He cracked open the shower door and extended a hand to shake on the deal. "In fact, I will sponsor 30% of the costs of this genius gold-digger tournament if you agree to attach a 6v6 event, with a minor condition of your parti—"

Before they could begin negotiations, they winced when Caramel's arm slipped past and cranked the shower handle, raining cold water on them and their ridiculous parade.

"No," she declared firmly. "Just no...we're not hosting a 'gold-digger tournament'. Henry, what have you imagined the public response will be?"

"'Wow, man. If someone this impressive has embraced gold-diggers, then maybe the rest of us should reconsider our prejudice.'"

"Sounds about right," agreed Alex. "That fungibility stuff…I'm convinced. My next wife will be a gold-digger selected through a global tournament."

Caramel snapped at the beaver-head. "Stop enabling him! Henry, this 'tournament' of yours reads like a misogynistic piss-take."

To this criticism, he shrugged. "Many who've led humanity forward have been misunderstood and denounced. If it's my turn to become a martyr for social progress, then so be it. Don't worry. I'll compile my ruminations into a stirring manifesto in defence of gold-digging."

"For god's sake, do not write a manifesto." Caramel hit him with another blast of cold water. "Henry, if your paranoia proves correct and your identity is leaked, then, unfortunately, yours becomes the public face of our organisation. This crazy proposal reflects poorly upon every one of us, millions of employees, millions of citizens. Also, The Tyrant abusing his wealth to round up women like livestock – isn't that the scandal you've been fretting about Karnon exploiting?"

"But I retired."

"That doesn't change anything."

Alex found this prospect exciting and wanted to continue regardless.

Henry, however, more of a humanist, submerged his head into the soberingly-cold shower as his flawed designs cracked apart and washed away. "Rats."

(He'd received this bad news in advance from his Digital half, who, amongst assessments of Karnon's paths of attack, had judged the gold-digger tournament to be a PR disaster in waiting.)

Fleshbag Henry rinsed the conditioner out of his hair sadly. "Once again, Saana steals my joy…my chance at speed-running the tedious distraction of romance. Worse, it deprives the respect long overdue to those enlightened alchemists transmuting gold to heart. When will their anthem of justice be heard? Another day, perhaps…another day..."

He was taking the piss now, but he actually did feel a tiny smidge downcast. Digital Henry seemed to accept their condition in an instant, that dude's romantic instinct being stultified by a century of solitude, which would continue for tens to hundreds of millennia more. The current him, however, hadn't been so liberated from his bodily finitude or the petty demands of teenage hormones.

He only had a week left of normalcy. In a week, the freedom of the anonymity he'd fought to preserve would be gone, the ability to vanish in the open, to be someone ordinary, to enjoy things as ordinary as an unhurried and uncomplicated love. If he'd wanted to reverse his choices, to give up on the recruitment tournament and A Thousand Tools, he couldn't; the gears of his exposure had been set in motion and were impossible to stop. Eventually, whether now or later, he, the person, would melt away in the eyes of most of the world as he transformed into 'The Tyrant' - an epithet, a mask, a freak, a spectacle, a character, a myth, a monster.

This gold-digger search, in all its silliness, had been him wrestling with one aspect of his rapidly-changing circumstances, trying to keep what he could in his grasp, to coerce it into a less unfavourable position.

A week left...

He still had a week left, though?

Suddenly, the screens were lighting back up around him.

"Back Monday…6 afternoons before…6...7 hours each…14 twenty-minute slots…56 candidates…4 half-afternoons for the final 4…maybe it's possible..."

Alex and Caramel watched him weave a whacky scheme to squeeze a lifetime of semi-normal dating into the next week. Each of the inner circle members would present him with a list of their top 3 candidates from amongst their associates. After he selected his favourites and enticed them with a censored resume and vanity shots, he would organise to have mini-dates with each over the coming days. For an incentive, whichever inner circle member introduced him to the final winner could choose 2 Legendaries from his arsenal.

"…since the pool has shrunken, we'll have to lower the criteria to permit imperfections. Thoughts on broadening the range internationally and flying chicks in? I'm unsure whether that's off-puttingly desperate or the free trip abroad would increase participation."

"International…" Alex muttered, searching through his contacts for a winner. "I love it. We're going global."

Caramel was growing frustrated with Henry's obstinacy. "Dude, why exert all this effort? If gold-diggers are this terrifying, just go out with Silver already. You've got your book hobby in common, and she's seemed like a nice person whenever I've bumped into her at the cafe. Isn't that enough?"

'The cafe' - due to Alex building their in-game palace next-door to Henry's little bookstore and knocking down one of its walls to adjoin a cafe, the guild members referred to the establishment thusly.

"Damn it!" The beaver-head kicked himself for not presenting the alpha-pleb first.

Henry, though, turned up his nose in revulsion. "Plebococcus alphii? I don't think that species has the intellectual complexity for pair-bonding. Alex, can you clear a full-week of reservations at one of the restaurants? The date setting should be kept consistent to minimise the interference of environmental noise."

The beaver-head grinned at Caramel's failure. "Still counts as one of hers. Japanese or French?"

"Henry," said Caramel, indifferent to the latest dumb scheme. "She's had a crush on you forever. You are fully aware of this."

"Oh, has she? French. 56 meals of soy and fish would be torture for the stomach."

He put no effort into acting surprised. In truth, he'd known for a while, before his arrival in Suchi.

The editing process could get quite intimate, sharing many midnight hours over tea, delving far into the hidden recesses of the creative mind. Propinquity, the psychological or physical nearness of others, was one of the main determinants of attraction; in this regard, few activities would cram two souls closer. Therefore, it wasn't at all unusual that a teenager might develop feelings out the process. After months on the joint conquest of literature, the alpha-pleb's growing sentiments had become so unsubtle that even a clueless numbskull like himself couldn't miss it. Take, for example, her chasing him across the oceans to Suchi. Before logging off last night, she'd shoved her latest story in his hands and claimed it'd been for that reason she'd sought him out. Logic dictated that to be a lie - editing didn't require meeting in-person and long distance travel was burdensome.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Since noticing this fledgeling fancy, Henry'd done his best to discourage its growth. He'd pulled back, pushing her to seek guidance from others in their writing circle, making himself, who'd already been inaccessible due to his day job, even more so, and dodging her whenever she inquired about his whereabouts. Ultimately, he didn't believe there could be any future down that road because of fundamental incompatibilities.

"Even if that is the case, Kara, it doesn't matter; some gaps are unbridgeable." He paused half-a-second, watching the water swirling down the drain, dyed faintly pink from his conditioner. "There can be no union between patricians and plebs. Toss me a towel, Alex. We begin."

By the time he was dried-up and out in his living area, a set of new clothes and accessories had been laid out by delivery drones, which'd arrived within minutes from the stores around their building. Given his present urgency, he should maximise his romantic odds, and a swanky wardrobe would be the perfect tool, broadcasting his financial security and functioning aesthetic taste. Who knew what was in store for him abroad? Perhaps, during his Australia trip, he'd stub his toes against an acceptable girlfriend somewhere in the outback, a shimmering sheila stuck amongst the brambles of wallabies and bogans. An unlikely scenario given the state of that desert-nation in 2050, but now was the moment to latch to any hope.

Caramel, who'd been irritated by Henry's pretentious dismissal of the alpha-pleb, was astonished that his attire wasn't disastrous after years of sweatpants. "When did you study fashion?"

"Modern fashion?" A dressed-up Henry sniff-tested an array of colognes while swapping between sunglasses he'd bulk-purchased. "In the shower. But I have wasted time in the past on a mini-investigation into Saana's clothing traditions for NPC disguises. The aesthetic principles are the same."

This was a white lie. He'd seriously investigated Rekadian Textileworking while hunting for The Cap. The Rekadians, the same cultured who'd produced Dancing-Stone Architecture, had also been renowned for their dressmakers due to a hexachromatic eye cone mutation—

He shook his head, flinging out the thoughts about Saana.

"Read your messages," said Alex, who'd been quietly researching in the background.

Henry had been sent a link to Rose's Wikipedia page. Skimming it showed no noteworthy updates. "Purpose?"

"Let me introduce my former co-worker's sister, Meimei. She's one of the few people on the planet who meets your preposterous criteria, and, as luck would have it, she's close by in-game, allowing you squeeze in extra hours for scrutiny and deliberation without chopping into your day plans." Alex also had spies in Suchi. "There is the risk of ending up in-laws with Simon, but that could be spun into something positive: stealing your enemy's sister, a juicy act of vengeance. Please note down officially that I proposed Rose as a candidate. For my two Legendaries, I want The Cloak of Wind and Stone and Worldcleaver if you ever kill Karnon."

The Trickster God owning this Ortheerian scimitar had been mentioned in the briefing.

Henry was absolutely disgusted. "Nope. Leave Rose out of this. Someone who's been through that much garbage doesn't deserve to be subjected to the absurdity of my crackpot romance rush - I'm not oblivious, mate, just desperate. But not that desperate. Nope, nope, hell nope. Soon as we're finished with her experimental stalker therapy program, I'll be severing this cursed connection and wishing that no-longer-crazy bitch a fond forever farewell."

When the other two didn't understand that last sentence, he summarised the experimental stalker treatment program. He told them how he'd been assisting her to reconstruct a healthier persona and disambiguating the overlap between stalking and fangirling. Like them, he'd been doubtful to the legitimacy of these methods, but it seemed to be efficacious. Over the past days, Rose had gradually shown signs of comprehending the inappropriateness of following him everywhere.

Alex was slightly amused. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! YOU MORON! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HOW CAN SOMEONE GET OUTPLAYED THIS HARD?! OH, NO NO NO NO NO NO! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA…"

Caramel muttered in commiseration for the two girls who'd fallen for this oaf. "Henry, this therapy program is utter nonsense. Teaching her how to draw, exploring the festival, the 'Starhunting demonstration', yeah, that was a date. You were tricked into going on a date with her."

"…AHAHAHAHAHA!' STARHUNTING DEMONSTRATION'! HAHAHAHA! OUR BOY'S MADE IT TO SECOND BASE! AHAHAHAHA! HOW CAN YOU…HOW CAN YOU…AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Henry was doubtful. "Who'd want to date a big brother? Seems incestuous."

Beneath everything else, the crazy stalking, the fangirling, that was their real relationship, Henry, big bro.

"WHAT?! BROTHER?! OH NO, I GET IT NOW! CRIPPLE-GEGE! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…"

Caramel couldn't follow.

"As the beaver-head said," Henry explained to her, "Rose literally calls me her big brother. Cripple-哥哥 - big bro. An odd choice of title, but if we review her case history, it happens that there's a vacuum in the conventional big brother figure slot caused by the contradiction between expectations she should have rightly had for an older sibling—role-modelling, guidance, protection, etc.—and what her brother ended up being. Through my defeating her in duelling, I highlighted myself as a metaphorical big brother within her speciality, one who is more mature, more knowledgeable, worthy of imitation. These—along with past experiences leading her to muddle animosity with brotherly affection and the fact that I, in general, exude the archetypal big brother aura—resulted in me being psychologically transposed into her big brother void. Thus, I became big bro or Cripple-gege. Trust me, that title has no romantic connotation. Mandarin expresses such sentiments through more affectionate alternatives."

"…AHAHAHA! THE BIG BROTHER VOID! THE AURA! HAHA…"

Caramel steepled her hands in prayer. "Henry, have you ever contemplated a less convoluted explanation? What if she'd been speaking indirectly because she's a teenage girl?"

"'Teenage Shyness' doesn't match the profile. Rose is an assassin. Although confidence is partially domain-specific, after summoning the will to kill, something like sharing your feelings becomes trivial. Example: Alex, I hate your guts."

“….AHA…”

Caramel, knowing she couldn't out-talk him, gave up on that approach. "Whose 'social IQ' is higher between you two?"

"Hers."

"If she decided to fool you, could she do it?"

Henry, considering the possibility of him being outmanoeuvred on the social battlefield, booted the pair out of his apartment so he could investigate these embarrassing matters alone.

While picking out hats to cover his hair before he got it styled, he compared his and Rose's interactions in Suchi according to the competing Themes of 'Experimental Mental Health Treatment' and 'Teenage Girl Dating Ruse'. Once the data was laid out so explicitly and he'd paid proper attention to it, between the incongruities he'd observed, in the rapidity of her mental recovery or the involvement of a victim in a stalker's recovery processes, it became clear that he'd been duped.

To be extra certain, avoiding a repetition of his earlier laxness, he anonymously contacted a company shrink for an expert opinion. They informed him that there was no established or experimental stalking therapy that matched Rose's behaviour, which sounded like it'd been ripped from a cornball dating advice forum. Seven other non-affiliated therapists, simulcalled to gather more data, supported this general conclusion. Three added that she'd probably regressed to her past stalking habits, while the other four, younger and more hip with the age, believed the behaviour, although odd, fell within the spectrum of normalcy for the cartoonish modality adopted by players in a videogame - if killing could be fun, why not stalking?

Rose's own shrink, whose number she'd given him to verify she'd signed up for therapy earlier, refused to comment on the client's history. Between their mutterings and exasperated tone, though, Henry picked up hints that she may have been in treatment before her arrival in Suchi and had hatched this scheme without their input.

Both angered and intrigued by that last revelation, he rang the guilty party herself to grill her for the truth. When she didn't pick up, Henry, against his better judgement, called her older brother.

The two of them hadn't spoken in half a year, not since the brother, appalled by Henry's peace-promoting reformations, had led the defection of a quarter of their guild to start a counter-alliance with their enemies - including Asatru among many others. Their last communication had been Simon/Geno's concession at the end of that war.

Even though it was 2 a.m. in Beijing, the brother still answered. In the dead air that followed, Henry could hear his amusement.

"Simon."

"Cripple-gege."

Henry wanted to vomit. "Can you stop being such fucking creep? You're almost 30. It's getting pathetic."

There were another few seconds of dead air.

"It's lovely to hear my favourite student hasn't lost all the fire I gave him. My student, my student...what's the reason you've contacted me? If it's an invitation for a round two, I'll have to reject the offer for the moment. My forces will take a while longer to rebuild."

"Fuck off, mate. You know exactly why. You used your network to leak my whereabouts to your mentally-unhinged sister once again, and she turned up and convinced me into helping with some new therapy to purge her of the garbage you stuffed into her brain. Only, it's recently come to my attention that your sister's been bullshitting me. The shrink she referred me to for verification, she's been visiting them for years. Did you put your sister up for this sick crap? Did you bribe the shrink? Must I clip your wings even shorter, you rabid fucking dog's cunt?"

Geno delayed again, meditating on what would be the most poisonous response. "Whoa, calm down. You know the dangers of losing your composure." He chuckled at a private joke. "I swear that, in the current affairs, my part has been nothing beyond what it's always been. This is merely the sad epilogue for the seeds I once planted. Two budding flowers, no matter how vigorously either has tried to cleanse themselves, my mark never quite washed out of their petals. Now, one rotates towards the other, but a question hangs above them both: is it the petals that allure or that familiar black stain?"

Henry, feigning ignorance of the teenage crush, remained silent as he pretended to struggle with parsing the extended flower metaphor. The quiet in his apartment was broken by a skin-crawling laugh that came through the receiver.

"Don't stress about it, my student. For now, it means nothing. Later, maybe everything. Just remember it. That's all I ask. And I know for sure that this is one task for which you, the perennial student extraordinaire, won't let me down. It's so adorable all this work you've put into fixing Twenty Tools; if Heavy-Fingers wasn't dead, I'm sure he would appreci—"

Henry cut the connection.

Well, there, at least, was another confirmation that Rose had already been in treatment and that the process of being 'cured' via his help was a fraudulent ploy at earning his affection.

Others might have been humiliated at falling for this transparent scheme or annoyed at their exploitation. Henry, though, felt pleased more than anything. If Geno's sister's actions could possibly be attributed to a more teenage-type of insanity, that would be wonderful news.

Leaving his apartment and hopping on the elevator, he bumped shoulders with Alex amongst a group of employees. The beaver-head flashed him a cocky eyebrow pump and typed a teasing note on his e-assistant.

-Alex Wong: our henry's first love triangle. grats, brother. imo, roses smell sweeter than wolves

Henry, taking one glance at the repugnant message, was punched by an attack of cringe to the gut.

First love triangle…the evening past, Karnon had said, 'Clue love triangle number two,' before revealing that Singaporean trio…the first love triangle hadn't been the simulacra in his story nor a metaphor for the three adversaries in Suchi…

Before the initial cringe pain could subside, he was struck by a second attack to the cheek. 'By the way, Professor HF, you, too - I've packed a sub-prank into this one for your continued pleasure.' That sub-prank hadn't been the danger of Silver Wolf dying and exposing him…it'd been a forced choice between the love triangle….no wonder the two of them had logged out in an unhappy state…Rose in tears because he'd picked Silver over her, not for the betrayal of picking a pleb over a dedicated fan, but the rejection of one corner losing to another…Silver in a huff because he'd ignored this romance element for the more important mission…

Oh, god…what was wrong with his—

A third, deeper wave of cringe sucker-punched him in the chin. His current teen self might be excused for his obliviousness…but Digital Henry had been analysing the pantsing prank for two decades, reviewing it from thousands of angles…for a point so basic to have soared over his head…

Alex noticed this internal drama in a subtle spacing out of his friend's habitually flat gaze.

-Alex Wong: cool?

-Henry Lee: As a fridge. Just fantasising about the ladies.

-Alex Wong: lol

Henry, sweeping these concerns back under the rug, resumed the easy-going mindset of the retiree, whose life wouldn't be intruded upon by madmen in video games.

In such a state, he strolled out of the HQ doors and greeted Earth's morning sun, an ordinary kid off on a post-retirement trip alongside his grandmother with, if he could sneak it in, a side quest at his last chance at love.

Flaming Sun HQ, outside on the street, a fleet of auto-taxis weaving in and out of a parking bay exchanging the spent nightshift crew with their fresher daytime replacements.

Among the arrivees jumping out of taxis was an intern who'd grown in recent days a bit more comfortable with her company-issued lanyard, the accessory gradually receding into the sensory backdrop of her work attire. The shoes her parents had bought her to celebrate her first job needed more adjusting to. Her heel snagged on the pavement.

"Ah!" She shrieked at a guy slipping past to snatch her auto-taxi. "Catch!"

He was too slow. She faceplanted.

Splayed out on the ground, the intern blinked to herself, her shock shifting to a confusion at the curious lack of pain.

Her cheek was being cushioned by a shoe.

The guy had thrown out his foot to decelerate her descent.

"Hey, if you can do that, why wouldn't…"

Her voice trailed off when she glimpsed the figure extending a helping hand. He was dressed immaculately, and half his face was hidden between a hat and a pair of over-sized designer sunglasses. A vague sense of recognition struck her.

Celebrity? Someone from the entertainment division slipping out after an early meeting?

Her misassumption was dispelled by the first sentence out of his mouth.

"The arms were a no-go; my reaction speed is giga trash. But, hey, a taste of toes for keeping your teeth intact, that's a decent trade. What department are you with?"

"Saana League." The intern accepted his hand up and a handkerchief.

As she wiped off the dust from her fall, the guy started barraging her with questions about her favourite teams, her role, her arena rating, her opinion of various tactical formations. Assuming from the foot-catch and his knowledgeability that he might be a higher up in her division, a disguised pro or an up-and-coming trainee, she tried her best to answer the examination. Within half a minute, though, they'd veered off into inexplicable territory, the teen probing the number of hobbies she'd mastered to a "semi-professional level or above" by certain age milestones.

"One moment." Apologising, the intern checked a message, only to discover that it was a calendar sent by the guy in front of her. "Hmm?"

"My resume's attached. Give it a glimpse, and if a date seems up your alley, pick any of the available timeslots. There's no need to rush your decision. You'd be the third candidate to pass into the preliminary stages." The teen, his e-assistant vibrating, skimmed a new message. "Fourth to pass."

Date? wondered the intern, confused by the out-of-place word.

Suddenly, her pulse spiked twenty beats per minute when she identified this guy.

The expensive clothes…the imperious demeanour...the in-depth familiarity with their organisation...her earlier recognition...

This was the rude cousin of Alex Wong who'd skipped the cafeteria queue!

It seemed that his shamelessness couldn't be satisfied with merely abusing nepotistic connections to leech food, accommodation, and face-time with The Company's brightest talent. He was also the type of scumbag to steal his cousin's wardrobe and hit on his cousin's employees.

Glaring at the lecherous brat with righteous spite, she made an exaggerated motion of deleting his message. "Not in y—"

"Sweet." The teen shrugged at the rejection, then jumped into the taxi, which glided off into traffic.

The intern, watching the 'cousin' rudely flee justice, sighed at the miserable state of the world.

It was 2050, and society had still not overcome the travesty of workplace sexual harassment.