They saw what? Ethan Black stepping out of that cherry-red Ferrari SF90 like he was auditioning for a Bond flick? The group's collective brain short-circuited. No one—no one—saw that coming. A freshman rolling up in a $600,000 supercar? That's not just wild—that's alien-abduction-level insane.
Inside Bryce Tanner's BMW 7 Series, someone gulped so loud it echoed. Tara and her crew stared, shell-shocked, at Ethan's ride. Their jaws were on the floor, and their egos? Buried six feet under. The two who'd backed Bryce's "Ethan's car sucks" spiel turned beet red—talk about eating crow with a side of humble pie.
Bryce? He looked like he'd seen a ghost. A freshman with a Ferrari? No way. His own words boomeranged back: "Ethan's ride can't be worth squat—probably a $20K rust bucket. My Beemer's the king!" Now, with the SF90 flexing in his face—worth five of his $120,000 BMWs—Bryce's bravado melted into a puddle of shame. "King? More like court jester," he muttered, mortified.
Sophia Winters slid into the Ferrari's passenger seat, cool as ever, while Bryce's posse gawked. "Man, I'd sell my grandma for a spin in that," Tara whispered. Bryce's hands shook on the wheel—jealousy and rage on full boil. This ain't over, he seethed, peeling out ahead of Ethan. He'd reclaim his throne, one way or another.
Twenty minutes later, they rolled up to PrimeBite—Westfield's crown-jewel restaurant, all glitz and gourmet. Bryce hopped out, puffing his chest. "Feast your eyes, plebs—this is PrimeBite, the hottest spot in town. I'm a gold member here—six-figure spender, VIP perks out the wazoo."
Ethan's brow ticked up. PrimeBite, huh? The game's reward—just handed to him for dining with Sophia. He whipped out his phone and peeked at Monthly Pay $3,000, I'm the World's Richest:
[Challenge Complete]
[Congrats! You Own 100% of PrimeBite—New Boss Alert!]
[Congrats! +5 XP, +2 Points]
Ethan smirked. Task done, and he'd just bagged a multi-million-dollar restaurant—$20 million, easy, by Westfield standards. Add that to his $5 million SkyHigh villa and $600,000 Ferrari, and boom—his net worth smashed past $25 million. A billion in sight? Check. Two days ago, he was a broke freshman; now, he was a legit tycoon. "This game's my sugar daddy," he chuckled. "Forever MVP."
The 5 XP bumped him to Lv1 (5/100), and 2 points nudged his total to 14. Level-ups and store upgrades were closing in—Ethan could taste it.
Bryce, oblivious, kept flexing. "PrimeBite's packed 24/7—local big shots, CEOs, you name it. Top chefs, killer vibes—I've got the hookup." He strutted toward the entrance, posse in tow. But a waiter blocked him like a bouncer at a club. "Sorry, sir, we're at capacity. You'll need to wait."
"Queue's about an hour, maybe ninety minutes," the guy added, polite but firm.
Bryce froze. What?! He'd just hyped his gold-member status to the moon, and now he couldn't even get in? Tara's crew groaned—trucked all this way for nothing? "An hour?" Tara whined. "My stomach's gonna eat itself!"
"Relax, I've got this," Bryce said, regaining his swagger. He flashed his gold card like it was a magic wand. "Gold member here—perks mean no line, right?"
The waiter didn't even touch it. "Sorry, sir, gold members ahead of you. Still gotta wait."
Bryce's face went from smug to stunned. "Ahead of me? What?!" Gold-tier flex, denied—by other gold members? Oof. His crew winced; this was a faceplant of epic proportions.
"I know your manager, Mike!" Bryce barked, doubling down. "Tell Mike it's Bryce Tanner—he'll sort this!"
"Sure thing," a waiter said, scurrying off.
Bryce spun to the group, forcing confidence. "Chill, guys. Mike's my guy—one word, and we're golden. Connections beat cash any day." He shot Ethan a smug side-eye. Supercar or not, kid, I've got the juice.
Minutes later, the waiter hustled back. Bryce smirked, ready to lead the charge—only to get blocked again. "Mr. Tanner, sorry—Mike says we're maxed out. No cuts, even for you. Please wait."
Bryce's world imploded. Shot down? Mike didn't even show his face—just yeeted him to the back of the line? After all that chest-puffing, he was a nobody again. Tara's gang sighed—dreams of fancy grub fading. Bryce wanted to vanish—his "juice" was tap water now.
As the group debated bailing, Ethan stepped up, cool as a cucumber. "Hold up," he said, pulling out his phone. "Let's try this."
Bryce snorted. "What, you gonna call the president? Good luck, rookie."
Ethan ignored him, dialing the number from his game's "Ownership Confirmed" alert. "Hey, it's Ethan Black—new owner of PrimeBite. Clear a table for six, pronto."
The line buzzed, then: "Mr. Black! Right away, sir—VIP suite's yours!"
Seconds later, the head waiter dashed out, bowing like Ethan was royalty. "Mr. Black, apologies for the delay! Your suite's ready—best spot in the house. Follow me!"
Tara's crew gaped. Bryce's jaw hit the pavement. Sophia raised a brow—her first flicker of surprise all night. "Owner?!" Tara squeaked. "Ethan, you own this place?!"
"Yep," Ethan grinned, strolling in. "Perks of the gig. Let's eat."
Bryce trailed behind, a shell of his former self. His $120,000 BMW and gold card? Peanuts next to Ethan's empire.
Ethan's phone buzzed mid-stride:
[Auto-Purchase Detected: Tech Startup, $5.00 – Acquired]
[Next Suggested Item: Luxury Yacht, $7.50]
[Warning: Reality's Roaring. Brace Yourself.]
Outside, that black SUV idled, headlights piercing the dusk. Ethan glanced back. "Tech startup now?" he muttered. His billion-dollar ride was accelerating—and something big was tailing him.