The weather was clear and cloudless, a rare perfect day that mirrored Latham’s jubilant mood. Holding the pale gold card in his hand, he felt, for the first time, truly wealthy. Though this wealth paled in comparison to real tycoons, for a penniless student just three days prior, it was a staggering windfall.

  A million credits—a signing bonus handed to him like a dream. After Schneider’s call, Card himself had arrived at Latham’s home within an hour, speeding through three traffic violations in his hovercar. Before anyone could process it, the contract was signed. Now, Latham held his first payment from Black Phage Group: a million credits.

  What to do with the money? His parents urged investment—"Let money breed money," his father, a finance scholar, insisted. But Card, visibly relieved after sealing the deal, offered starkly different advice: Spend it. Under his parents’ baffled glares, Card argued that Latham’s future would eclipse such trivial sums. Learning to spend, he claimed, was part of growing into independence. After a heated debate, his parents reluctantly relented, letting Latham stride out with the golden card.

  Driving aimlessly through the city, he realized he had no idea how to splurge. Shopping bored him; arcades felt childish. Bars? Tempting, but the risk of parental wrath outweighed fleeting thrills. His gaze drifted until it landed on the towering structure in the west—the famed racetrack complex.

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  Entry wasn’t cheap—500 credits an hour, a sum he’d never have considered before. Now, patting the card in his pocket, he steered his beat-up hovercar toward the glittering entrance. His rust-bucket of a vehicle, worth less than 3,000 credits, drew sneers from valets as he parked beside luxury models.

  Inside, a receptionist greeted him with polished professionalism, showcasing rental options on a holographic display. Three mid-tier racers caught his eye—each 1,500 credits an hour. As he hesitated, a collective gasp erupted behind him. A sleek black hovercar streaked past the track, its custom modifications gleaming.

  “Private vehicle,” the receptionist explained. “Anyone can bring their own, as long as it’s weapon-free.” Latham glanced back at his eyesore of a hovercar and shuddered. “I’ll take the rental,” he said, swiping his card.

  The racetrack sprawled across fifteen levels—five underground for parking, ten above for racing. Each tier represented escalating difficulty, its mobile tracks reconfigured every ten days to maintain challenge without repetition. On marginal planets like Millard, such extravagance was feasible; in the capital, this scale would’ve cost a galactic fortune.

  As Latham collected his rented racer, the roar of engines above echoed his thrumming pulse. Today, he’d learn what it meant to burn credits—and maybe, just maybe, taste the rush reserved for the elite.