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"Achoo!"
Max sneezed violently, nearly dropping his glass of water. He shivered, rubbing his arms.
"Weird," he muttered, sniffing. "It's July. Why do I feel like I'm standing in a freezer?"
The sun outside was blazing, turning the pavement into a frying pan. Yet, Max felt a chill that settled deep in his bones. It was that feeling again—the sensation of being watched by a predator. A very large, very hungry predator.
He glanced around the living room. Everything seemed normal. The new furniture was assembled (mostly). The dust was gone. The apartment smelled like lemon cleaner instead of old pizza.
Jasmine was in her room, presumably organizing her arsenal of tactical gear.
"Must be the stress," Max decided. "Or maybe I'm allergic to memory foam."
He shook it off. He had work to do. The promotional trailer for the National Game Producer Contest wasn't going to edit itself. He had been up late last night "celebrating" with Jasmine (which mostly involved eating street food and listening to her critique his lack of physical fitness), so he needed to catch up.
Just as he turned to head back to his room, his phone erupted.
The ringtone was a chaotic remix of a popular meme song—a chicken clucking to a trap beat.
"Chicken-nugget-biscuit-nugget in a biscuit!"
"Max!" Jasmine roared from her bedroom. "Turn off that dead chicken noise or I will come out there and shove that phone so far up your—"
"Okay, okay! No appreciation for art!"
Max scrambled to answer the phone. He cleared his throat, trying to sound professional.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a smooth, corporate voice answered. "Is this Mr. Max, the founder of Silverwood Studios?"
Max straightened up. "Yes. Are you from the contest committee?"
"No, sir. My name is Liu, and I am the Senior Acquisition Manager for Vanguard Games."
Max froze. Vanguard Games. The "Goose Factory." The biggest shark in the ocean.
"Oh," Max said cautiously. "I assume you're not calling to congratulate me. Am I being sued?"
Liu chuckled. It was a practiced, polite sound that didn't reach his eyes (if Max could see them). "Not at all, Mr. Max. Vanguard supports innovation! We are huge fans of your work. Holy Grail War is... unique."
"Unique is one word for it," Max agreed.
"We'd like to invite you to join the Vanguard family," Liu continued smoothly. "We want to help you take your vision to the next level."
Max leaned against the wall. He knew exactly where this was going.
"Sorry," Max said. "I'm doing fine on my own. I'm not looking for partners."
"Is that so?" Liu's tone shifted slightly. It became sharper. "Mr. Max, let me be direct. We are interested in acquiring the IP for Holy Grail War."
"Acquiring it?"
"Yes. We are prepared to offer you a very generous sum. Five million dollars. Cash. Upfront."
Max blinked. Five million.
To a normal college student, that was life-changing money. It was retirement money. It was "buy a yacht and disappear" money.
But Max wasn't a normal student anymore. He was a System User. He had 178 million Emotion Points. He could generate five million dollars worth of tech in a heartbeat.
More importantly, he knew Vanguard. They didn't want to "help" him. They wanted to strip-mine his game, fill it with microtransactions, and turn Artoria into a loot box prize.
"Five million," Max repeated. "That's a lot of zeros."
"It is," Liu purred. "Think about it. No more stress. No more server costs. You hand us the code, we hand you a check, and you walk away a rich man."
Max smiled. It was the cold smile of the Count of Monte Cristo.
"Mr. Liu," Max said calmly. "Thank you for the offer. But I'm not selling."
Silence on the other end.
"Mr. Max," Liu's voice dropped an octave. "Perhaps you didn't hear me correctly. Five million is the starting offer. We can discuss—"
"It's not about the money," Max interrupted. "This is my masterpiece. I'm not going to let you turn it into a cash grab. It's not for sale. Not for five million. Not for fifty."
"Is that your final answer?" Liu asked. The politeness was gone now. It was just ice.
"Yes. Have a nice day."
"Very well. I wish you a... pleasant life, Mr. Max."
Click.
The line went dead.
"Wow," Max muttered, staring at his phone. "They really don't waste time with goodbyes."
He knew what this meant. He had refused the "Treat." Now comes the "Behead." Vanguard would come for him. They would copy his game. They would attack his servers. They would try to bury him.
"Bring it on," Max whispered. "I have a System. And I have Jasmine."
Speaking of Jasmine...
Before Max could take a step, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind.
He yelped as his feet left the ground. He was hoisted into the air like a ragdoll.
"Jasmine!" Max flailed. "Put me down! What are you doing?"
"Nothing~" Jasmine hummed, her chin resting on his shoulder. "Room is clean. I'm bored. We're going shopping."
"Shopping? I have work to do!"
"Work can wait," she declared, turning him around to face her. "You need clothes. If you're going to the Phoenix Nest Expo in the capital, you can't wear a hoodie. You need a suit. A nice one. Fitted."
"It's not confirmed yet!" Max argued. "I haven't even won the prelims!"
"Doesn't matter," Jasmine grinned, pinching his cheek (the one that wasn't bruised). "I believe in you. My Max is the best. So we prepare for victory."
"But—"
"No buts!" She set him down, but kept a firm grip on his arm. "Staying inside all day is bad for you. Your muscles will atrophy. You'll turn into a shrimp."
She dragged him toward the door.
"Come on," she said. "I'll buy you a suit. And maybe you can buy me lunch. I'm thinking steak."
Max sighed, letting himself be dragged. "You just want the steak, don't you?"
"Maybe," she winked. "But mostly, I want to see you in a suit. I bet you clean up nice."
Max felt a flush heat his cheeks. "I... uh..."
"See?" Jasmine laughed, opening the door. "You're blushing. It's cute. Now march, soldier!"
As they walked out into the sun, Max checked his phone one last time. No new messages from Vanguard.
Yet.*
"Hey, Jasmine," Max asked casually. "Hypothetically... if a massive corporation sent goons to break my kneecaps... could you handle it?"
Jasmine stopped. She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. The playful roommate vanished, replaced by the bodyguard.
"Who threatened you?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"Nobody yet," Max said quickly. "Just... hypothetical."
Jasmine relaxed slightly, but her gaze remained sharp. She cracked her knuckles.
"Hypothetically?" she smirked. "I'd break their kneecaps first. And then I'd use them as bowling pins."
She patted his head.
"Don't worry, boss. You're my meal ticket. Nobody touches the meal ticket."
Max smiled. "Good to know."
Vanguard Games had money. But Max had a Valkyrie. He liked his odds.
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