Crown's doors finally open for the night, and eager customers who want to start their evening of debauchery early already begin to pour in after an anxious wait, most of whom are businessmen still in their blazers, fresh from their tedious desk work. A few younger faces with less to spend also dot the booths in the lower floor, resolving to skip having a drink and meal in favor of simply savoring the company of the girl of their choice.
The band on stage begins their set with soft, smooth jazz to ease the atmosphere and soothe the hearts of anyone within earshot, and a few specific patrons take the opportunity to have an intimate, slow dance with their beautiful company. Atreus, peering over the railing of the VIP balcony overlooking the first floor, notices the bright blue highlights of Max's hair among the dancers. She seems out of her element, but the man standing with her – an only slightly older individual in a slate suit – looks more than happy to teach her the right moves. A somewhat clumsy slow dancer, she can't help but frequently look down at her two left feet, but regardless of her awkward steps, she smiles from ear to ear, as does her customer. Perhaps it's the charm of her authenticity, or the sight of seeing her somewhat vulnerable in a situation she didn't expect to be in yet making the best of it, but either way, Atreus can't help but be drawn to her.
His quiet admiration of Max is cut short by the increasing volume of a boisterous voice approaching him, accompanied by the forced guffaws of multiple women. Atreus turns his head to the staircase near him and sees a clerk guiding a stocky, middle-aged man with a bald head and bushy mustache, arm-in-arm with two of the club's girls, up the steps and towards one of the wider, comfier booths of the VIP area which are attached to the chef's counter, allowing the cook to pass a dish directly to customers upon completion.
“Let me tell you girls something, you haven't experienced a truly high-class ride until you plant your ass in a seat of real leather, in a three-hundred thousand dollar vehicle that shakes with so much horsepower, your panties will soak as it goes from zero to sixty, you know? Ha ha! Classic combustion engines put the electric shit of this day and age to shame!” the pompous patron loudly brags, with his breath reeking of unmatched narcissism, each word punctuated by small chomp of the thick cigar hanging from his lips. He's so eager to sit down and revel in his purchased esteem, that the women with him are practically being dragged like puppies on chain leashes.
“Here's your table, sir,” the clerk gestures towards a vacant booth with long, cushioned seats and a polished table. The obnoxious customer wastes no time fitting himself in a corner of the U-shaped seat, and snugly between the girls, draping his arms over their shoulders in an overly familiar way. “Here's your menu. A cook will be out shortly to take your order,” the clerk places a foldable menu on the table. “Can I get you a drink in the meantime?”
“Sure,” the rich man groans with a sour face as he pulls his cigar from his lips, the unlit end dampened with his saliva. “How about a bottle of wine? Doesn't matter which; money's no object. Surprise me,” he says with clear intent on getting the clerk to leave as soon as possible.
“Yes, sir. One moment,” the clerk responds with a polite and deep bow and excuses himself to the second floor kitchen to retrieve a random bottle of wine – likely the most expensive one.
“So, as I was saying,” the boastful man resumes his attempts at wooing the two young women with stories of his expensive lifestyle, “I decided to take this brand new, luxurious ride over to Senator Williamson's party, because I knew him from way back – back in middle school, when he was just a meek little kid with his nose stuffed in books, always a bit of a pushover, and I was the one who had to get those uppity shithead bullies away from him, you know how kids are around that age: ruthless, just ruthless. He always clinged to me since then, and I guess my charisma rubbed off on him enough to put him in office, right? Ha ha!” without so much as a pause for breath, he spouts tall tales of his embellished past with such zeal and detail; it'd almost be engrossing if it weren't so transparently exaggerated.
Atreus tries to zone out the inane ramblings of the first 'VIP' of the evening by going back to his enthralled viewing of the activity on the first floor. Though the club had barely opened less than a half hour ago, it's incredibly lively and active. He scans the dance floor with his searching gaze for Max again, but can't seem to find her. His eyes dart from table to table, and before he can ask himself why he's so inclined to find her, he sees her vibrant blue highlights again at a booth near one end of the club floor, with the same grey-clad customer she danced with and a second man and hostess joining them. A smile is still gleaming across her face, and her patron has been effectively caught in her whirlwind of casual charm.
After a moment of quiet, content watching, her eyes find their way up and pointed at the VIP balcony, where her gaze and Atreus's lock for a brief instant. He isn't sure if he should acknowledge her with a wave out of fear of looking awkward, but as he worries, she takes the initiative with a gleeful wave of her own. The uncertainty drains away, and almost without thinking, he raises his hand and waves back. She returns to entertaining her customer, and Atreus resumes his bouncer duties, which, at the moment, still only constitutes listening to a narcissist's stories.
The night's shift continues without a hitch, and the gangster only has to suffer more loud boasts of various spoiled rich VIP patrons. Though most are just normal, well-behaved customers who just so happened to possess more money, the noise pollution unleashed by some of the more obnoxious individuals makes him consider the low possibility that they may purposely be sitting near him. Less than a half hour until his shift is over, and a voice in his earpiece calls out to him.
“Atreus, you have a visitor in the lobby. Says his name is Devin,” it's the low, monotone voice of Shin, the bouncer working at the entrance.
Atreus presses a button on the side of his wristwatch-shaped receiver and speaks into it, “Is it urgent?”
“He says it isn't. Should I tell him to wait in the lobby for your shift to finish?”
The gangster looks around and sees that most VIP booths are empty, and considering that the club is closing soon, they won't fill up anymore. “Nah. Send him up to the VIP section,” he instructs.
“Got it,” Shin swiftly acknowledges.
Less than a minute later, Devin eagerly ascends the stairs to the second floor of the club hall, and Atreus meets him at the top.
“Hey, what's up?” Atreus asks, curious about the sudden visit. “I thought we were gonna meet up at the office?”
“No need for that,” Devin says a quick, dismissive wave of his hand. “Immediately after my collections, I went back to my place to hop onto Black Iron VR and talk to my friend, and he said we can go over to his place tonight.”
“Seriously?” the on-duty bouncer widens his eyes, not expecting good news regarding their investigation so soon. “So we can go right after my shift is done?”
Devin gives a strong nod. “Yup. I stopped by the office already to grab the phone, too,” he reaches into his pant pocket to pull out Takiyama's phone and battery.
“What the hell happened to your hand?” Atreus asks, pointing to his friend's swollen, red knuckles.
“Oh, that,” Devin quickly becomes sullen. “The last guy we saw on our collections tried to fucking swing at me, so I swung back, and little did I know, the piece of shit had a titanium jaw. It's no big deal, though. I'll be fine, nothing's broken.”
“So where does this guy live, anyway?”
“Up north a bit, on Kensei Street. It's only a couple blocks from your building, actually. If you haven't eaten recently, then he's okay with ordering stuff from his place. We might be there for a while, depending on how effective he is at cracking this thing open.”
“Alright,” Atreus agrees to the last-minute meetup and turns to one of the empty VIP booths. “Sit tight somewhere, and we can head out as soon as my shift is done. It'll only be like twenty minutes or so.”
“Got it,” Devin eagerly complies and takes a load off in one of the large, soft, empty VIP seats. The scents of a variety of high-class dishes from the kitchen next to him waft around his head, and he can't help but take them in. “Damn, is that Wagyu beef?” he quietly asks himself as he pokes his head up to peer over the counter.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Not long after, Crown finally begins to close its doors for the night. A handful of late-night customers are graciously ushered out of the hall, and the girls begin to pile themselves back into the dressing room to return to their normal, day-to-day attire and begin their journey home. The bouncers retreat to the locker room to do the same, and the band starts to put their equipment together. The remaining staff – clerks and servers – begin the end-of-day cleanup by hastily vacuuming the carpeted sections of the floor and sweeping the hardwood or tiled surfaces.
“I'll go change,” Atreus says to Devin, who is still savoring the fading smells of expensive Crown meals. “Wait for me in the lobby, alright?”
“Sure,” Devin responds with a small nod, barely able to shake himself out of his hungry stupor.
The two men descend the stairs, but split off as soon they touch down on the first floor. Devin goes for the lobby, and Atreus goes to the back area next to the stage to reach the locker room. Inside, several other bouncers are already peeling away their uniforms and switching over to their regular clothing. The gangster goes to his locker and does the same, transitioning from his black dress shirt to his white one, his black vest, tie, and his own black pants. He also doesn't forget to reattach the Sanada-gumi pin to his vest lapel, something he obviously couldn't wear on the job.
After several minutes of changing, Atreus is one of the last men out of the locker room. He exits to make his way to the lobby, but he's suddenly stopped by Max, who had been standing next to the break room door, waiting for him to emerge.
“Hey!” she calls out, practically ambushing him before the locker room door closes behind him. She seems somewhat eager, but also a bit more fidgety than usual. “So, I was wondering if you were doing anything right now? You busy?”
Atreus, realizing what's about to happen, can't help but heave a disappointed sigh, “I, uh... Yeah, I am, actually. I need to go with my friend Devin to somewhere important. Clan business, I'm afraid.”
“Oh,” Max, not expecting a rejection, immediately drains the enthusiasm from her face, but tries to maintain composure. “Well, mind if I just get your number instead? Maybe we can set something up when you're not tied up in your... private stuff,” she finds a positive suggestion to fall back on and pulls out her phone.
“Definitely,” he happily obliges, accepting her phone momentarily to input his own number. He feels a pang of guilt, however, as he didn't know she intended to hang out with him outside of work in their blossoming acquaintanceship. If it weren't for his obligation to his mission, he'd have accepted the invitation immediately. “I can't really give a guarantee on when I can be free, because this particular thing I'm working on for the clan is... not really something that's tied to a set schedule.”
“No problem. I'm patient,” she flashes an upbeat smile, the letdown of rejection already washed away and replaced with optimism for another opportunity.
“I really would like to hang out some time, so hopefully things clear up for me soon,” Atreus emphasizes his wishes as he returns her phone. “I'll see you later.”
“See ya,” Max gives a small wave as they part ways for the night.
Atreus meets up with Devin again in the lobby, and the two exit the club and quickly order an Automa ride, which promptly arrives. On their way to their destination, they discuss the upcoming meeting, considering it'll be Atreus's first time meeting this supposed hacker.
“So what's this guy like, exactly?” the augmented gangster ponders aloud.
“He's a tiny bit eccentric – tends to ramble a little when he's talking about stuff he likes, but he's pretty laid back and chill, otherwise,” Devin describes. “Like I said before, we can definitely trust him with something this important, and he's absolutely skilled enough to give us the results we need. I just can't really guarantee he'll do it quickly.”
“Alright, I'll take your word for it,” Atreus remarks, accepting but still not fully convinced.
After a ten minute ride through the busy streets of late night Kyoba, their silver taxi arrives at a four-floor apartment building along the northern side of the district, easily walking distance away from Yazawa Commons, Atreus's complex. It's a relatively new, off-white color building, comfortable and of respectable quality, though not especially high class, particularly when compared to some of the luxurious hotels nearby.
“What's his room number?” Atreus asks as the men look upon the complex from the sidewalk.
“421,” Devin plainly answers. “He actually lives in one of the bigger, nicer apartments in the place. Apparently doing cybersecurity can earn you some serious cash if you work with the right companies.”
“Well, digital security is pretty important when everything is digital. Let's head in already,” Atreus, growing impatient, leads the way into the building.
The interior of the first floor lobby is decorated with off-white walls, white vinyl tiles and red carpeted areas off to the side that have leather chairs and couches resting on them. They approach the elevators to call one down, and it soon arrives with a pleasant three-note tune, and its black and highly reflective tempered glass doors slide apart to an empty enclosure, welcoming the visitors. They walk in and press '4' on the panel, and they're taken to the top floor.
Another short tune is heard, and the elevator doors open to their destination, and the difference in economic class separating the apartments on this floor from the rest of the building becomes heavily suggested. Instead of the white vinyl tiles seen in the lobby, the floor is now polished tigerwood, with a dark crimson carpet in the center, leading the way down the hall, as if to treat every inhabitant or visitor like some sort of A-list celebrity. The doors to each apartment are made from sturdy, solid, dark mahogany and room numbers that emblazon them are unblemished stainless steel. Each of them has a keyless, passcode-operated deadbolt, and some near the end of the hallway even have eye scanners installed at face level.
They finally approach the door for room 421, and Atreus notices an additional security precaution: a fingerprint reader embedded on the face of the door lever. He silently wonders if it's not a hassle to operate three different types of locks at once to merely open a door, but he realizes that the inhabitant of the apartment might not leave that often to begin with if he works from home.
“He prefers visitors hitting the doorbell since it's easier for him to hear in case he's playing Black Iron,” Devin comments as he reaches over to the bell button to press it.
An extended moment passes, and the door doesn't open. Curious, Devin leans over to reach for the doorbell button again, but before his fingertip touches it, the loud clacks of the door's numerous security measures unlocking are heard and it simply inches open by itself – just enough for about a centimeter of space to be put between the door itself and the edge of the frame. Before the two men can process what's going on, an eager, welcoming voice is heard from inside.
“Hey! Come in! I'm in the middle of a raid right now, but it'll be done in a moment!” muffled groans of strenuous effort punctuate every few words, and Devin gradually pushes the door open further to look into the apartment.
Before even walking in, the two gangsters peek directly into the apartment's living room from the hallway and are greeted with the sight of a skinny man with shaggy black hair that goes past his ears, in a grey t-shirt and gym shorts. He's sitting on an expensive leather office chair at a messy desk covered in cords, electronics, and snack residue that supports a giant, custom-built personal computer and four monitors mounted on movable arms in a two-by-two formation. A large virtual reality visor is over his eyes, an over-the-ear headset covers the sides of his head, and his hands clutch a game controller. He comically jerks his upper body side to side as he fights whatever foe he's fighting in the game.
Not wanting to awkwardly stand in the hall for much longer, the two visitors finally decide to walk in, closing the door behind them. They notice that the kitchen is to the immediate left of the entryway, and the black marble countertops are equally as messy as the owner's desk, littered with empty fast food bags and pizza boxes stacked on top of one another. The floor, at the very least, is quite spotless, allowing the grey granite tiles to breathe. The stainless steel kitchen appliances are also clean, but it's uncertain if it's because the hacker cleaned them himself or because he simply doesn't use them enough due to clearly opting for delivered food instead.
“Hell yeah!” the hacker suddenly unleashes a celebratory cry into the headset microphone. “Destroyed that asshole. Good shit. Fuck maintaining a high party DPS while dodging those AOEs, though. That shit is fucking rough. Alright, I gotta get off early tonight – got a job to do. I'll see you guys later,” he promptly logs out of the game and begins removing the peripherals that cover his head and face, revealing a pair of glasses that he keeps on when using the VR headset. After resting the devices on his desk, he finally stands to give a proper greeting. “Hey! Sorry about that, I was in the middle of the new raid. Anyways, my name's Tetsuya Evans; Devin's told me a lot about you,” he eagerly holds his hand out.
“Atreus Watanabe,” the gangster responds while clasping his host's hand and shaking it stiffly. “Thanks for helping us out.”
“Man, oh man, these arms are a hell of a piece of work!” Tetsuya immediately becomes distracted by Atreus's arms, and, while still holding his hand, begins to examine them closely with overbearing interest. “Tungsten plating over a carbon fiber body and plasticized PVC coat, and is that a bit of titanium I see around there in certain places? Beautiful. Not that many people go commando with their cybernetics, though the synthetic skin available nowadays are pretty damn lifelike and tough in their own right.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Atreus begrudgingly accepts Tetsuya's praises with a subtly sour expression.