The Defender purred as they pulled onto the road, the city unspooling in silver reflections across its hood. Marcus clutched the door handle like a man riding shotgun in a fighter jet.
"Holy— this thing growls, man. Are you even touching the pedal?"
Edward's hands rested lightly on the wheel, calm and steady. "Barely."
"Barely?" Marcus glanced at the digital speedometer. "We're doing eighty, bro! In a thirty-five!"
Edward only smiled, eyes on the road. It had been a long time since he'd felt this — that rush of having something new, that childhood thrill you get when your father brings home a toy you've begged for. Most people lose that feeling as they grow up, buried under bills, expectations, and the slow grind of adulthood.
Social media didn't help either — always someone richer, flashier, happier, making you feel small no matter how hard you worked.
But now, for the first time in years, Edward felt free. The system hadn't just dumped wealth on him — it had made him earn it, piece by piece, reward by reward. And somehow, that made it better. More satisfying. Even if no one would ever understand how much it truly cost him to get here, he didn't care.
Marcus eventually stopped prying. Whatever Edward had done — whether he'd won the lottery, hacked a bank, or made a deal with something darker — it didn't matter. He was still his friend. That was enough.
"So, Ed," Marcus said finally, breaking the comfortable silence. "Where to now?"
Edward glanced at him, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Shopping."
Marcus groaned. "You? Shopping? The guy who once patched his sneakers with duct tape?"
Edward laughed softly. "Let's just say it's time for an upgrade."
He thought back to the dealership — to the saleswoman's polite, condescending smile. She hadn't said a word, but he'd seen it in her eyes: You don't belong here.
Maybe she was right. Or maybe it was time to change that.
Even if he didn't care about other people's opinions, there was a part of him — the quiet, stubborn part — that wanted to see those looks fade into awe. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was masochism. Either way, he planned to enjoy every second of it.
The Shopping
The Defender slid to a stop in front of a sleek plaza, all glass walls and quiet money. Marcus looked out the window and groaned.
"Oh no. Not here, man. These places charge you for breathing."
Edward smirked. "You'll survive. Come on."
Inside, the store smelled like polished wood and cologne that probably cost more than rent. A man in a tailored suit approached, flashing the kind of smile trained in boardrooms.
"Welcome to Velren," he said smoothly. "How may I assist you today?"
Edward glanced around. "Just browsing."
Marcus tugged at his sleeve. "Bro, half the mannequins in here have trust funds. We're underdressed just standing here."
Edward laughed, the sound light and easy. It had been years since he could laugh like that — without the weight of a bank balance in the back of his head.
The salesman's polite gaze lingered on Edward's hoodie, then shifted to the shining Defender parked outside, visible through the window. His posture straightened immediately. "Of course, sir. Right this way."
Marcus whispered, "Ah, yes, the universal language of money. Works every time."
Edward ignored him and ran his hand across a rack of shirts — soft, cool fabric that felt like water between his fingers. He didn't even glance at the price tags. For once, he didn't have to. The realization sent a quiet thrill through him — not arrogance, just the simple joy of not needing to count every penny.
He tried on a fitted black shirt, a navy blazer, dark jeans that actually felt like comfort instead of compromise. The reflection in the mirror startled him — confident, calm, sharp.
Marcus leaned against a display, grinning. "Damn, look at you. You went from 'guy who argues with vending machines' to 'guy who owns the vending machine company.'"
Edward chuckled. "Guess I clean up okay."
He turned to the attendant. "Add these. And a few more sets — similar style."
Marcus blinked. "You're buying multiples? Bro, you used to do laundry just to avoid shopping."
Edward handed him a pair of sunglasses. "Try those."
Marcus hesitated. "Nah, I'm good. Those cost like half my rent."
Edward raised an eyebrow. "Then I guess I'm paying rent this month."
Marcus froze. "Wait, what?"
Edward grinned. "Pick a few things. My treat."
Marcus's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my broke best friend?"
"Just shut up and choose before I change my mind."
The next twenty minutes were chaos — Marcus darting between racks like a kid on a sugar high, mumbling, "Is this what rich people feel like?" every few minutes.
Edward watched, half amused, half… content. There was something healing about it — seeing his friend light up, feeling the weight of scarcity lifted even for a moment.
When they reached the register, the total flashed on the screen — a number that would have once made Edward's stomach drop. This time, he didn't even blink.
The card went through without hesitation.
The salesman smiled with new respect. "Excellent choices, Mr. Hale."
Marcus shouldered a bag, still dazed. "Dude, this is insane. You sure you didn't win some secret billionaire raffle?"
Edward just smiled, taking the receipt. "Something like that."
As they stepped out into the fading sunlight, Marcus swung a bag in each hand, laughing. "Man, this is wild. You're out here living like a movie montage. What's next — fine dining and mysterious phone calls?"
Edward chuckled. "Close enough. I know a place."
Marcus squinted. "Please tell me it's not another temple for rich people."
Edward's grin widened. "No promises."