The bitter Amsterdam wind howled through the narrow streets, biting through Elias’s thin, thrift-store jacket. He didn’t shiver. A man carrying a nuclear football didn’t complain about the weather, and the heavy cardboard box tucked under his arm was exactly that—a weapon of mass financial destruction.
Inside the box were five hundred high-end, matte-finish Comp Cards, shot by Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin. To the untrained eye, it was just ink on paper. To Elias’s fifty-year-old capitalist brain, it was a bearer bond waiting to be cashed.
He stopped in front of a sleek, modernist building in the upscale museum district. The brass plaque by the door read: Paparazzi Model Management. In 1991, this was one of the gatekeepers of the European fashion scene, a direct pipeline to Paris and Milan.
Elias pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped into a lobby that smelled of expensive espresso, leather upholstery, and the crushed dreams of thousands of naive teenagers.
He marched straight toward the massive chrome reception desk. The receptionist, a sharply dressed woman in her late twenties, looked up. Her eyes immediately scanned his outfit—the frayed collar, the worn-out boots, the sheer lack of designer labels. Her expression hardened into the practiced, polite disdain reserved for lost tourists and desperate walk-ins.
Elias glanced at the small, silver pin on her lapel. Saskia.
"Can I help you?" Saskia asked, her tone suggesting she very much hoped she couldn’t. "Open calls are on Thursdays. Between two and four. And you need to bring a port—"
Smack.
Elias didn’t say a word. He simply pulled a single Comp Card from his box and slammed it face-up on the polished chrome desk.
Saskia blinked, annoyed by the aggressive gesture, and looked down. Her breath hitched.
The photograph was entirely devoid of the cheesy, over-tanned, commercial gloss that dominated the early nineties. It was black and white, shot with brutal, raw contrast. Elias looked out from the heavy cardstock like a starving, predatory aristocrat. The hollow cheeks, the sharp jawline, the dead, mesmerizing eyes—it was the pure, distilled essence of the Grunge aesthetic, executed with a level of technical mastery that only top-tier artists possessed.
Saskia’s eyes darted to the bottom corner of the card, spotting the tiny, stylized watermark of the photographers. Inez & Vinoodh.
She looked up at the sixteen-year-old boy in rags standing before her, then down at the card, her brain short-circuiting. Nobody walked in off the street with a test shoot from the most notoriously selective avant-garde photographers in the city.
"I don’t do open calls, Saskia," Elias said, his voice dropping into a smooth, commanding register that sent a shiver down her spine. "I do private acquisitions. Tell your director that Elias van Kempen is sitting in the lobby. He has exactly five minutes to make me an offer before I take this box to Elite Management in Paris."
Saskia didn’t argue. She didn’t roll her eyes. She practically scrambled out of her ergonomic chair and speed-walked down the glass-paneled hallway, clutching the Comp Card like it was a winning lottery ticket.
Elias turned and casually strolled over to the waiting area. He bypassed the selection of fashion magazines and headed straight for the complimentary beverage station. His stomach was currently performing a violent, agonizing symphony of hunger, courtesy of the single piece of stale bread he had eaten at dawn.
With absolute, shameless grace, Elias poured himself three consecutive glasses of premium, imported sparkling water and drank them in rapid succession to trick his stomach into feeling full.
He sat down on the plush leather sofa, resting one ankle over his knee.
"You lost, kid?"
Elias slowly turned his head. Sitting on the adjacent sofa was a young man in his early twenties. He was the quintessential early-nineties male model: aggressively styled, wearing an oversized, double-breasted Armani blazer, loafers with no socks, and a haircut that required entirely too much gel.
Elias didn’t need a system to recognize the archetype. This was the Try-Hard Alpha. The Golden Boy of a local pond, propped up by Daddy’s money and a false sense of superiority.
"Not lost," Elias replied mildly, pouring himself a fourth glass of water. "Just hydrating."
The model scoffed, looking Elias up and down with blatant disgust. "They let anyone into the lobby these days. If you’re looking for work as a lighting assistant, the service elevator is in the back. Paparazzi doesn’t sign street urchins. I should know. I’m Johan. I booked the prime spread for Bijenkorf’s spring catalog. I’m their top priority."
Johan confidently extended a leg, deliberately showing off his Italian leather loafers. "These cost six hundred Guilders. You look like you’d mug an old lady for sixty."
Elias swirled the sparkling water in his glass, his expression completely blank. He was profoundly bored by the man’s arrogance. It was so painfully amateurish. Real power didn’t boast about catalog spreads and shoes. Real power owned the factory that made the shoes.
"Let’s see how much of a priority you really are, Johan," Elias whispered to himself.
He focused his eyes on the arrogant model and mentally called upon the loan shark living in his cerebral cortex.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: ACTIVATING CORPORATE X-RAY SCAN.][DEDUCTING -10 CP. CURRENT BALANCE: 0 CP.][SCAN COMPLETE. DISPLAYING TARGET’S FINANCIAL LEDGER...]
[CHA-CHING!]
A translucent, red-tinted screen materialized in the air beside Johan’s head. Elias’s eyes scanned the data, and a slow, deeply sociopathic smile spread across his lips.
Johan wasn’t rich. Johan was an indentured servant wearing an Armani straitjacket.
"You know, Johan," Elias said, his voice easily carrying across the quiet, echoing lobby. Several booking agents and assistants at their desks paused to listen. "You talk a lot about your shoes. But I’m more interested in your math."
Johan frowned, sitting up. "Excuse me?"
"I was at Inez and Vinoodh’s studio this morning," Elias began, seamlessly deploying his Financial Alibi. He spoke with the clear, terrifying articulation of a prosecutor reading a guilty verdict. "Their assistant is quite messy. She left a copy of Paparazzi’s billing manifest open on the light table. Your name was on it."
Johan’s face twitched. The smugness wavered.
Elias leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Let’s break down your ’top priority’ status, shall we? You booked the Bijenkorf catalog. Congratulations. It pays two thousand Guilders. But according to the ledger, Paparazzi charges you nine hundred Guilders a month for your bed in the model apartment—which you share with three other guys. They charged you five hundred for ’runway walking lessons’, which is hilarious, considering you walk like a constipated duck."
A junior booker across the lobby stifled a snort of laughter.
Johan’s face drained of color, turning a sickly, ashen white. "Shut up," he hissed, glancing around the lobby in pure panic. "You don’t know what you’re talking about!"
"Oh, but I do," Elias said, his voice rising, shameless and utterly ruthless. "They fronted you your flight from Maastricht. They advanced your test shoots. And the best part? They’re charging you a fifteen percent predatory interest rate on the balance. Right now, Johan, you don’t have six hundred Guilders to your name. You are fifteen thousand Guilders in the red. You owe the agency more than you will make in the next two years."
Elias took a sip of his water, holding Johan’s terrified gaze. "You don’t work for Paparazzi, Johan. You are their property. Those shoes aren’t yours. You’re just renting them until your knees give out."
The silence in the lobby was deafening. The illusion of Johan’s wealth, his entire constructed persona, had been stripped away and vivisected in front of his peers.
Johan stared at Elias, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. A massive, comical drop of sweat visibly rolled down his temple. His mind couldn’t comprehend how this homeless-looking teenager possessed the exact, classified figures of his crippling debt.
Unable to bear the suffocating humiliation and the staring eyes of the booking agents, Johan scrambled to his feet. He tripped over his own six-hundred-Guilder loafers, nearly face-planting into a potted ficus, and bolted out of the glass front doors, fleeing into the Amsterdam streets.
Elias calmly finished his water and set the glass down. "Amateur."
"That was incredibly cruel."
Elias looked up. Standing at the end of the hallway was a man in his late forties, wearing a tailored charcoal suit and a very stressed expression. In his hand, he was tightly gripping Elias’s Comp Card.
"I prefer the term ’market correction’," Elias replied, not bothering to stand up. "Are you the director, or just another guy in debt trying to look important?"
"Maarten," the man said, walking over. He looked at the empty sofa where Johan had just been sitting, then down at Elias. He was furious that his talent had just been publicly humiliated, but his eyes kept darting back to the photograph in his hand. The sheer, undeniable magnetism of the shot was overriding his anger. "You just chased away one of my reliable catalog earners."
"I did you a favor," Elias countered smoothly. "He’s a depreciating asset. I, on the other hand, am a blue-chip stock currently trading at a massive discount. Shall we go to your office, Maarten, or do you want me to keep educating your staff on basic compound interest out here?"
Maarten’s jaw tightened, a drop of sweat forming on his brow. The sheer audacity of this kid was staggering. But in this industry, audacity sold. Maarten turned on his heel. "My office. Now."
Maarten’s office was a shrine to corporate vanity—glass desk, modern art, and a massive wall of magazine covers. Elias walked in, ignored the uncomfortable wooden guest chair, and sat down on the leather sofa reserved for VIP clients, throwing his arm over the backrest.
Maarten sat behind his desk, placing the Comp Card down like it was a fragile artifact. "Inez and Vinoodh don’t shoot unknowns. Who are you, Elias? And who sent you?"
"Nobody sent me. I sent myself," Elias lied seamlessly. "And I’m not here to share my life story. I’m here to negotiate. You saw the card. You know the trend is shifting. The glossy, muscular 80s look is dying. The world wants raw. They want edge. I am the edge. I can walk right out of this door, take the Thalys train to Paris, and Elite will sign me before I even finish my espresso."
Maarten laced his fingers together. He was a veteran agent. He had dealt with arrogant divas before. "You have one good test shoot. That doesn’t make you a supermodel. It makes you a gamble. But, I am willing to take a risk."
Maarten opened a drawer, pulled out a thick, legal-sized document, and slid it across the glass desk.
"Standard new talent contract," Maarten said smoothly. "We take a forty percent agency commission across the board. Twenty from you, twenty from the client. In exchange, we manage your bookings, handle your PR, and front your travel expenses. And, of course, a three-year global exclusivity clause. You belong to Paparazzi."
Elias didn’t pick up the pen. He didn’t even read the document. Thanks to his thirty-four years of being chewed up by these exact contracts, he already knew every single predatory trap printed on those pages.
He leaned forward, picked up the contract, and with a casual, almost lazy motion, dropped it into the stainless-steel trash can beside Maarten’s desk.
Maarten’s eyes widened in sheer shock. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"I am saving us both time," Elias said, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding tone. "Forty percent? Exclusivity? Maarten, please. I didn’t come here to sign a slavery pact. I’m not Johan. I actually know how to read."
"That is the industry standard!" Maarten shouted, slamming his hand on the desk. "You are a sixteen-year-old kid off the street! You don’t dictate terms to me!"
"I dictate terms to whoever needs me more," Elias retorted, his eyes flashing with a sociopathic chill. He stood up, grabbing his box of Comp Cards. "You need a face to pivot your agency into the high-fashion editorial market, because right now, your book is full of aging catalog models. I have the portfolio to do it. But I don’t sign exclusive contracts. Ever. I am a free agent."
"Then get out!" Maarten yelled, pointing at the door. "Good luck in Paris without representation!"
Elias turned and walked toward the door. He didn’t rush. He counted in his head. Three... two... one...
"Wait."
Elias stopped, a triumphant smirk flashing across his face before he wiped it clean. He turned back. Maarten had buried his face in his hands, heavily massaging his temples. The agent’s greed had overridden his pride. He couldn’t let a face like Elias’s walk into a rival agency.
"Fine," Maarten sighed, looking utterly defeated. "A non-exclusive management agreement. We represent you in the Benelux region only. Standard twenty percent cut. But you pay your own travel."
"Acceptable," Elias said smoothly. But he didn’t sit down. "There is one more thing."
Maarten looked up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What?"
Elias stepped back to the desk, leaning his knuckles on the glass. He deployed the ultimate, shameless capitalist hustle. "I told you, I am considering Paris. The only reason I haven’t left yet is because I’m currently standing in your office. If you want me to delay my train to France, if you want me to sit down and formally sign this non-exclusive agreement with Paparazzi... you need to pay for my time."
Maarten stared at him, genuinely unable to process the audacity. "Are you... are you asking me for a bribe to sign with my own agency?"
"I prefer the term ’Non-Binding Cash Advance’," Elias corrected, completely deadpan. "Two thousand Guilders. Cash. Right now. Consider it a retainer fee. You pay me two thousand Guilders, and I promise not to walk into Elite Management’s office for the next forty-eight hours."
Maarten’s face cycled through anger, confusion, and finally, a deep, reluctant respect. He was being extorted by a teenager in rags, and the worst part was, the logic was flawless. Two thousand Guilders was a tiny price to pay to secure an asset that could generate hundreds of thousands in editorial fees.
"You are a monster," Maarten whispered, pulling a small key from his pocket and unlocking his bottom desk drawer.
"I am a capitalist," Elias smiled, unapologetic and shameless. "We’re the same thing."
Maarten pulled out a thick envelope and counted out twenty crisp, hundred-Guilder notes. He slid them across the desk. "Two thousand. Cash. Don’t go to Paris."
Elias picked up the envelope, feeling the beautiful, tangible weight of the cash. He didn’t bother counting it; his photographic memory had tracked Maarten’s hands perfectly.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Maarten," Elias said, slipping the envelope into his jacket. "I’ll be in touch."
Elias walked out of the office, past the terrified receptionist, and out into the freezing Amsterdam air. He didn’t look back.
He pulled the envelope from his pocket. Two thousand Guilders. One thousand US dollars. He had walked into the agency with eighteen dollars and left with a grand, simply by weaponizing his face and refusing to blink.
He didn’t need to go to Paris. Paris was too small. With a thousand dollars in cash, he could afford a cheap, one-way coach ticket across the Atlantic.
It was time to go to Los Angeles.