Latham absently turned the sensor over in his hands, his pulse still racing. A million credits monthly? It felt surreal. Both his parents worked for Black Phage Group’s subsidiaries as mid-level white-collar employees, their combined salaries barely scraping 100k monthly. Yet Schneider made a million sound like pocket change.

  When Latham fell silent, Schneider frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Latham forced a laugh. This is just speculation. Don’t jinx it. The tension dissolved. His gaze drifted to the sensor’s sleek surface—then froze. Tiny characters etched near the rim caught his eye.

  “Schneider… I still can’t accept this.”

  “Still doubting me?”

  “No.” Latham pushed the sensor across the table. “But I’ll take a different one.”

  Schneider squinted at the engraved characters: ?“XI”?.

  “Shit.” He groaned. “Of course the priciest model’s locked to Level XI.”

  Latham smirked. “I’d need a decade to grow mold on this thing before I could use it.” The “XI” mark meant only those with psychic or combat skills above Level 11 could activate it—a badge of elite status. At Level 7, Latham might as well strap a brick to his wrist.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “My bad,” Schneider muttered. “Didn’t check the specs.”

  “You never check specs, do you?”

  “Be right back.” Schneider bolted from the booth. “I’ll handpick one this time!”

  Alone, Latham refilled his glass. The wine—?Voltaire?—burned smooth down his throat. A luxury he’d never afford himself: 15,000 credits per bottle. Schneider’s casual extravagance baffled him.

  His parents’ faces flickered in memory. They’d married at 50—young by modern standards—and thrown themselves into careers once he turned 16. Solitude had become his norm.

  Schneider barged back in twenty minutes flat.

  “Done. They’re delivering it to your place.”

  “Thanks, but I should head home.”

  “Wait—” Schneider tapped his wrist device. A program blinked onto Latham’s interface.

  “Combat simulator. Drills for mech piloting. Basic stances won’t cut it against live opponents.”

  As the悬浮车 hummed homeward, Latham replayed Schneider’s parting words:

  “When Black Phage’s offer hits, don’t settle for scraps. Your skills are worth eight figures minimum.”

  The empty apartment greeted him as always. He activated the simulator—and froze.

  The holographic menu glowed: ?ADVANCED COMBAT MODULES - LEVEL XI COMPATIBILITY REQUIRED?.

  Schneider’s laughter seemed to echo through the sterile room.

  “Oops,” Latham muttered. “This friendship’s going to bankrupt me.”