The blue 1984 Honda Civic hatchback was less a vehicle and more a mobile violation of several noise ordinances.
As it sputtered and backfired its way down the palm-lined extravagance of Rodeo Drive, the squealing serpentine belt completely drowned out the soft, ambient jazz drifting from the open doors of high-end boutiques. Pedestrians carrying shopping bags that cost more than the Civic itself stopped to stare. Women in Chanel sunglasses sneered, while men in bespoke summer suits quickly ushered their wives away from the curb, as if the poverty radiating from the rusted tailpipe was contagious.
Inside the sweltering, un-airconditioned cabin, the atmosphere was thick with sweat and localized trauma.
"Elias," Paul Rudd gasped, his face pressed against the glass of the back window. "There is a man in a Rolls Royce currently looking at us like we are actively carrying the bubonic plague. You cannot park this... this thing here. The police will tow it just to improve the neighborhood’s property value."
"The police enforce the law, Paul, not aesthetics," Elias replied smoothly, his hands relaxed on the cracked steering wheel. He ignored the heat and the judgment, his dark eyes scanning the polished storefronts. "And we are fully within our legal rights to utilize public parking."
He spotted an empty space directly in front of a sprawling, aggressively minimalist glass storefront. The name Armani was etched elegantly into the marble above the door.
With a violent crunch of gears, Elias forced the hatchback into the spot, parallel parking with a sudden, jerky momentum that threw Charlize forward against her seatbelt. The engine rattled, coughed a plume of black smoke onto the pristine Beverly Hills sidewalk, and finally died.
"We have arrived," Elias announced, stepping out of the boiling cabin and casually shrugging his faded vintage leather jacket over his shoulders.
Charlize practically tumbled out of the passenger side, gasping for the slightly less suffocating outdoor air. She looked up at the Armani sign, then down at her scuffed combat boots and Elias’s distressed jeans.
"Tell me we are just using their bathroom," Charlize pleaded, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Elias, I’ve lived in this city long enough to know how this works. We look like we just climbed out of a dumpster. If we walk in there, they aren’t going to show us clothes; they’re going to spray us with mace."
"You underestimate the universal language of liquidity, Charlize," Elias said, flashing a dark, charismatic smile that was equal parts street-smart and utterly predatory. "We are going to secure my wardrobe for tomorrow’s shoot. Quentin Tarantino wants us in black suits. He expects me to show up in a cheap, poly-blend rental from a strip mall. I intend to disappoint him. Come along, employees."
Elias turned and strolled toward the heavy glass doors, walking with the long, unhurried stride of a man who owned the entire block. Paul and Charlize exchanged a terrified look before reluctantly following him, both bracing themselves for the inevitable humiliation.
The interior of the Armani boutique was a sanctuary of hushed wealth. The air was frigid, smelling faintly of cedar and expensive musk. There were no racks of clothes, only individual, perfectly tailored pieces displayed on matte black mannequins spaced far apart to emphasize their exclusivity.
Standing near a display of silk ties was a salesman. He was a man in his thirties, wearing a perfectly fitted navy suit, his hair slicked back with an intimidating amount of precision. His silver name tag read Julian.
Julian looked up as the bell above the door chimed. His eyes landed on Elias, then drifted to Charlize and Paul.
The salesman’s expression didn’t change into outright anger, but it tightened into a mask of pure, practiced retail disdain. He didn’t walk toward them to offer assistance. He simply crossed his arms, his posture screaming: You have exactly ten seconds to realize you are in the wrong place before I call security.
Elias didn’t wait to be greeted. He walked directly toward the center of the store, stopping in front of a mannequin wearing a classic, single-breasted black wool suit.
"The lapels are a fraction too wide for the current European trend," Elias commented casually, running a hand over the fabric. "But the Italian cut will provide the necessary silhouette. I require this in a 40 Regular."
Julian finally stepped forward, moving with stiff, irritated steps. He looked Elias up and down, his eyes pausing on the frayed edges of Elias’s t-shirt.
"Sir," Julian said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I believe you may be looking for the department stores on Wilshire Boulevard. The garments in this boutique are part of our exclusive Milan collection. That particular suit begins at three thousand dollars. We do not carry... entry-level pricing."
Paul winced, instinctively stepping back toward the door. Charlize’s jaw tightened, her pride stinging at the blatant insult.
Elias didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice or puff out his chest. He turned his head slowly, locking his dark, mesmerizing eyes onto the salesman. The sheer, relaxed confidence radiating from the teenager was staggering.
"Julian," Elias said, his voice smooth, warm, and utterly lethal. "Do I look like a man who is interested in entry-level pricing?"
Before Julian could formulate a sarcastic response, Elias reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He didn’t pull out cash. He pulled out the blue vinyl checkbook Brenda had given him at the bank.
With a practiced, elegant flick of his wrist, Elias tossed the checkbook. It sailed through the air and landed squarely on the glass display case next to Julian, the gold-embossed Sovereign Media catching the overhead lights.
"That is the corporate checking account for Sovereign Media," Elias stated, stepping closer to the salesman, his height advantage suddenly very apparent. "The routing number is at the bottom. The phone number for the Melrose branch of Bank of America is on the back. I suggest you pick up the phone behind your counter, call the branch manager, and ask them to verify the liquid capital currently resting in that account."
Julian stared at the cheap vinyl checkbook. He looked back at Elias, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his perfectly groomed face. In Beverly Hills, eccentric billionaires occasionally dressed like vagrants. It was a rare, but dangerous phenomenon.
"Sir, we do not typically verify—"
"Call the bank, Julian," Elias interrupted, his smile vanishing, replaced by the chilling, absolute authority of a warlord. "Or I will take my business to Hugo Boss across the street, and I will personally ensure that your regional manager knows exactly how much commission you just threw out the door because you couldn’t see past a vintage jacket."
The tension in the air was suddenly suffocating. Julian swallowed hard. The kid’s bluff—if it was a bluff—was terrifyingly solid.
Julian slowly picked up the checkbook and walked over to the phone behind the register. He dialed the number, his eyes never leaving Elias. He spoke in hushed tones, reading the account number.
A moment later, Julian’s posture completely collapsed.
The color drained from his face. A massive, comedic sweatdrop rolled down his temple, threatening to ruin his perfectly slicked hair. The bank had just confirmed that the teenager standing in the middle of the store in dirty boots had over forty-five thousand dollars in liquid cash, ready to clear.
Julian hastily hung up the phone. He scrambled back around the counter, clutching the checkbook with both hands as if it were a holy relic.
"Mr. van Kempen," Julian gasped, his voice cracking, the condescension entirely replaced by desperate, fawning sycophancy. "My deepest apologies, sir. Please, forgive my presumption. We... we have the 40 Regular in the back. I will have it steamed and brought to fitting room one immediately. Can I offer you a glass of champagne? Or perhaps some sparkling water for your associates?"
Elias took the checkbook back, slipping it into his pocket with a satisfied, street-smart smirk. "Sparkling water will be fine, Julian. And make it quick. I have a production schedule to keep."
Ten minutes later, Elias stepped out of the velvet-curtained fitting room.
The transformation was absolute.
The black Armani suit clung to his 189-centimeter frame like a second skin. The tailoring was impeccable, broadening his shoulders and tapering sharply at his narrow waist. Combined with the crisp white shirt, the thin black tie, and his sharp, exotic bone structure, the effect was devastating. The raw, aggressive energy of the street hustler was suddenly encased in millions of dollars of European elegance.
He didn’t just look like a movie star. He looked like the man who owned the studio.
Julian, holding a lint roller, was literally trembling with awe. "Sir... it is flawless. The garment was practically designed for your proportions."
Paul Rudd stood near the mirrors, his jaw hanging open. "Okay, I hate to admit it, but you look like you’re about to buy a small country."
Charlize was sitting on a plush leather ottoman. When Elias stepped out, her breath caught in her throat. For a brief, terrifying second, a flush of heat rose to her cheeks. She was looking at the most dangerous, intoxicating man she had ever seen. She quickly averted her eyes, violently suppressing the blush and coughing into her hand to regain her composure. He’s a sociopath, she reminded herself fiercely. A beautiful, penny-pinching sociopath.
Elias checked his cuffs in the mirror, his face perfectly impassive. "It is adequate. Wrap it up, Julian. I’ll take it."
Elias walked to the counter and flawlessly wrote out a check for exactly three thousand dollars. He handed it to the still-sweating salesman, took the heavy black garment bag, and led his entourage out of the store.
As soon as they hit the blistering heat of the sidewalk, Paul let out a triumphant cheer.
"Yes! Finally!" Paul threw his hands in the air. "Elias, I am so proud of you! You finally spent some money! You invested in yourself! A three-thousand-dollar suit! This is the turning point, man. Sovereign Media is officially playing in the big leagues!"
Elias didn’t say a word. He walked to the rattling, sun-baked Honda Civic, opened the back hatch, and carefully laid the garment bag inside.
He then unzipped the bag just enough to expose the left sleeve of the pristine black suit jacket.
With a smooth, practiced motion, Elias reached into the sleeve and pulled out a thick, white cardboard square attached by a black plastic string.
It was the price tag.
"What are you doing?" Charlize asked, frowning as she watched him.
Elias reached into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of clear medical tape he had stolen from the Mervyn’s first-aid kit. With sociopathic precision, he folded the price tag flat against the inner lining of the sleeve, and aggressively taped it down so it wouldn’t flap or become visible during movement.
"Elias," Paul said, his voice dropping into a register of dawning horror. "Why are you taping the price tag to the inside of the suit?"
"Because," Elias explained, speaking with the casual, breezy confidence of a man discussing the weather, "tomorrow, I am going to wear this suit on the set of Reservoir Dogs. I am going to sit under hot studio lights for twelve hours. I am likely going to sweat profusely while Quentin Tarantino screams directions at me."
He paused, patting his other pocket, retrieving a small, aerosol can he had purchased for $15 at a minimarket on the way to Beverly Hills. It was generic, industrial-strength dry-cleaning spray.
"When the shoot wraps," Elias continued smoothly, "I will return to the motel. I will douse the suit in this chemical solvent to neutralize the biological odors. And the morning after next, I will walk back into that Armani boutique."
Charlize’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. A massive sweatdrop slid down her temple. "You... you’re going to return it."
"I am going to cite ’Buyer’s Remorse’," Elias smiled, a dark, shameless grin that sent a shiver down Paul’s spine. "The tag will remain fully attached. The garment will technically be unworn in the eyes of their return policy. I will extract my three thousand dollars in full, completing a forty-eight-hour, high-end wardrobe rental for the net cost of a fifteen-dollar can of spray."
Paul physically staggered back, leaning against the burning metal of the Civic, clutching his chest. "You didn’t buy the suit. You’re renting it for free. You’re a monster! A terrible, cheap, brilliant monster! What if you get blood on it?! It’s a violent movie!"
"Then I will ensure the blood lands on Harvey Keitel instead," Elias said, slamming the hatch shut. He walked around to the driver’s side, completely unbothered by their horror.
Deep inside his neural pathways, the loan shark erupted in digital applause.
[CHA-CHING!]
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: SPECIAL OPERATION COMPLETE - HIGH-END RETAIL FRAUD INITIATED.][EVALUATION: YOU UTILIZED A FLAWLESS BLUFF TO BYPASS A GATEKEEPER, ONLY TO SET UP A RETURN-POLICY EXPLOITATION THAT WOULD MAKE A WALL STREET BANKER WEEP. TRULY SHAMELESS.][REWARD: +15 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP)]
Elias slid into the boiling driver’s seat. "Get in. The AC is still broken, and we have lines to memorize."
Paul and Charlize got into the car, completely defeated by the sheer, impenetrable density of their boss’s cheapness. Elias van Kempen wasn’t just playing the game. He was refusing to pay the entry fee.