Chapter 191: ~ Half a Million Dollars

{Nathan's POV — Three Days Ago}

The first store didn't have it.

I stood there for a solid ten seconds staring at the empty shelf space where Apex Surge was supposed to be racked, earpiece still playing whatever playlist I'd stopped actually listening to, like maybe glaring at the gap hard enough would make a can materialize.

It didn't.

The second store didn't have it either. Some kid behind the counter told me they'd been sold out for a week, like that was supposed to make me feel better about it, like scarcity was a personality trait he got to have secondhand. I didn't even respond. Wasted breath.

I was already three blocks toward the third store, mentally drafting the review I was going to leave for store number two, when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I let it ring out. Didn't need whatever scam call or wrong-number nonsense was about to waste my afternoon.

It buzzed again immediately.

I answered on the second ring, mostly out of irritation, mostly to tell whoever this was to lose my number permanently.

"Who is this?"

A girl's voice. Light, a little too pleased with herself.

"It's a girl from your school."

"That's not a name."

"Lillian."

The name didn't land anywhere. Meant nothing. I kept walking.

"I still don't know who you are."

"Do you remember a hyperactive girl who used to help the team carry equipment? Props, water, that kind of thing."

I paused, dragging through a mental catalog I didn't particularly enjoy revisiting.

"You mean the one gluing herself to literally every guy on the field?" Something clicked. "Especially that new kid. That asshole. Adrian."

"Yes. That girl."

"Okay." I kept my voice flat, unimpressed. "So why are you calling me? And why does it sound like you're breathing directly into the mic?"

"I have an offer for you," the voice said. "I need your help. You'd be rewarded for it."

I stopped walking entirely.

Who exactly did this random girl think she was, offering me anything.

"Who are you to offer me help?"

"Half a million dollars," she said, ignoring the question completely. "And if that's not intriguing enough, I'll help you take down your nemesis for good."

I actually laughed, short and disbelieving.

"Half a million?" A beat. "Where would you even get that kind of money? And who the hell is my nemesis? I don't have a nemesis."

"You mentioned him thirty seconds ago. Adrian."

I frowned at the sidewalk in front of me.

"Why would I want to take him down?"

"Because he's the reason your shine's been dimming."

"I don't even see the guy anymore," I said. "He's not on campus. He's out of my way. That's plenty good enough for me." I kept going before she could respond. "And what does that even mean, take him down? Who are you to be proposing something like that?"

"You don't need to understand it yet. First you agree."

"This is insane." I shook my head, even though there was nobody around to see it. "Girls these days actually going crazy."

"He's coming back," the voice said, calm and certain. "I know him. I'm the one who told you he was close to Daisy, who told you he came after you because of her. So trust me when I tell you— he's coming back. Whatever quiet you've had lately is temporary. And when he returns, he takes everything with him. Your status. Your position. Your entire reputation. Exactly like he did the first time, except this time you'll have watched it happen twice."

I didn't answer that one immediately.

"The only way to keep what's yours until you're done with Westbridge," she continued, "is to help me now. And it's simple. You give me information when I ask for it. No questions. You wait until it's over. Then half a million dollars, cash, entirely yours."

"Why should I believe a word of this?" I said. Then, because something in the background had started sounding genuinely strange: "And is that actual gunfire, or are you playing some game while you talk to me?"

No answer.

Just noise. Real noise, layered and chaotic, and I stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, people walking past me on both sides, completely unaware that my entire afternoon had just tipped sideways.

The call switched to video.

Her face filled the screen first — the girl, vaguely familiar now that I could actually see her, and then the background behind her registered, and my stomach dropped clean through the pavement.

Gunfire. Bodies. Something that looked, impossibly, like an active war zone, the camera shaking with every step she took.

CGI, I told myself. A prank. Some elaborate joke I hadn't been let in on yet.

Except the details didn't lie the way a joke would. Too much texture. Too much noise that didn't loop or repeat cleanly.

"What I'm asking you," she yelled, ducking as something crashed somewhere behind her, "is crazy, I know! But what's actually going on around Adrian's arrival at Westbridge is bigger than you understand! This is mafia, Nathan! I can't explain all of it right now, but you need to trust me if you don't want to miss the biggest opportunity of your life! The chance to keep your status and walk away rich!"

Her voice never once sounded calm through any of it. It cracked and strained under the weight of whatever was actually happening around her, which somehow made it worse. More real.

"If you're still doubting me," she said, "I'll send you proof. But I need your answer now."

The call cut.

I stood there, phone still raised, completely dazed.

A text came through seconds later. A file, a name attached to it I didn't fully register on the first read.

I opened it.

It pulled up something that looked ripped straight out of a federal database — dense blocks of text, tagged sections, numbers I didn't understand attached to names I didn't recognize.

Except one face did register. Immediately.

Adrian. Same jaw, same insufferable calm expression. Full name printed beneath it.

Adrian Salvatore DeLuca.

Another text landed before I could finish absorbing it.

You can do your own digging later. I need my answer now. Are you in?

My heart had picked up a pace I didn't love. This was more than I'd signed up for by simply answering an unknown number on a Tuesday.

I typed back. I'm confused. This is insane. Is what you're asking me to do insane?

A bit, came the reply. Nothing you can't handle.

Then, immediately after: Are you in?

I dragged a hand through my hair, staring at the screen like it might soften if I looked at it long enough. This was mad. Sudden, mad, completely unearned trust in a stranger who'd just shown me a literal war zone through her phone camera.

But I needed the money. Genuinely needed it, in ways I wasn't about to type out to a random number. And underneath all of that, in the part of my chest I usually kept buried under enough confidence to bury a smaller man, I knew the truth she'd already said out loud.

If Adrian came back, I didn't stand a chance holding onto anything. I'd lost it all to him effortlessly once already. I wouldn't survive a second round.

I typed one word.

Yes.

Good choice, came the reply, instantly.

What am I even doing? What is this?

You're going to learn. A lot, about everything. But for now, in short — you're going to be an insider.

My fingers hovered, already typing an insider for what before another message cut in ahead of it.

Your first job. Call Mabel. Find out where she is.

Mabel won't pick up my calls, I sent back. The bitch has been acting up lately.

Then call this number. I think her name's Tessa. She's with Mabel.

Another message, right behind it.

Call. Find out exactly where they're headed. Meet them. Don't ask questions. Don't call or text me while you're there.

What? I sent, fast, before I could stop myself.

I'll speak when I contact you. Not before.

One final message landed a moment later.

Don't mess this up, and you'll walk away smiling.