When I tell you to get on your knees, I’m praying you don’t look too closely at the carpet. When I pull out the silk tie I got from a thrift store for two dollars, I’m hoping you don’t notice it’s actually a woman’s scarf with a small mustard stain on the underside. My "toy bag" is a ripped Jansport backpack. Inside, you’ll find a spatula (don’t ask), a roll of electrical tape, and one very lonely, very cheap riding crop I bought on clearance from a website that definitely sells my data to Russian bots.
Standing there was Marcus. Marcus was everything Elias wasn't. Marcus was in his thirties, wore a suit that probably cost more than Elias’s debt, and held a heavy crystal tumbler of something amber. He was a patron of the arts, so to speak. He funded the security at The Iron Gate, and he liked to browse the merchandise.
Elias was twenty-four, broke, and by all definitions of the underground scene, a "Top." But tonight, he felt like a fraud.
Metrics to track
You have the mechanical skill. You have the game sense. But your headphones are held together with duct tape. Your mouse pad is a magazine. You can’t afford coaching, and you definitely can’t afford to upgrade your decade-old GPU.
He was wearing his best gear—combat boots laced to the knee, black denim tight enough to restrict blood flow, and a vintage band tee ripped at the collar. He looked the part. He had the jawline for it, the sharp angles and the dark, brooding eyes. But his phone buzzed in his pocket: a reminder from his landlord. Three days.
Elias looked at Marcus. He saw the money in his pocket. He saw the rent paid. All he had to do was intimidate a kid who was already half-dead with fear. It was easy money. It was the easiest money he’d ever make.