The Earl circled him slowly, her expensive robes whispering against the thick, plush carpet like venomous whispers in a tomb of luxury, each fiber drinking in the faint echoes of arena roars below.
Each step landed deliberate, a calculated thud that vibrated up through Pete's battered soles, the movement of a sovereign who owned the very air, her scent—jasmine laced with iron—clinging heavy, suffocating.
Her dark eyes raked him like a slaver's gaze on prime stock, not mere trinket but enigma, value dangling untapped, shimmering in the haze of bloodloss.
"You put on quite a show down there," she said, voice a velvet scalpel, refined enunciation carving each syllable clean, but underneath lurked the bite—sharp, predatory, silk sheathing steel poised to gut. "Unexpected. Entertaining. Profitable, even."
Pete said nothing. His leg throbbed with the relentless pulse of a dying star, infection's fire gnawing bone; his shoulder burned, flesh torn and weeping, every inhale dragging shards of agony through cracked ribs like nails on coffin wood. But he stood—fucking stood—eyes locked, defiance a fragile shield against collapse.
She stopped dead before him, eclipsing the light from jeweled lanterns, thirteen feet of imperious flesh and power gazing down.
The chasm of height should've crushed him into infantilized shame—speck before a monolith—but she twisted it intimate, a chosen descent of attention, her breath warm and spiced washing over him like a lover's threat.
"But let's not forget why you were in that arena in the first place, shall we?"
Pete's battered mind lurched to catch the thread. "Why I was—?"
"You were destined to die down there," she declared, tone flat as etched tombstone, breezy as idle chatter on executions. "Execution by combat. A fitting end for someone who dared to steal from me. From my treasury. From my house."
The words cratered into him like a belly punch from a god, expelling air in a ragged wheeze, vision spotting black.
"I... what?"
Her eyes slitted, not wrath—dissection, probing for lies in the meat. "Did I stutter, Boy from Beyond?"
"Steal from you?" Pete's voice pitched shrill, unintended, panic clawing. Brain spun frantic, shards of memory clashing in the fog. "I didn't steal anything! I just woke up down there in that arena!"
"Woke up?" She laughed—abrupt, lacerating, joyless bark of a ruler batting down pleas like gnats. "Is that the story you're going with? You were caught in my private treasury. Red-handed, as you mortals say. My guards dragged you out with your pockets full of my gold, my jewels. You fought them—rather poorly, I'm told—and were sentenced to death in the arena."
Pete's jaw slackened. Snapped shut. Cognition stuttered, gears stripping in the storm.
And then—defying the torment ripping his body, fatigue dragging like lead chains, death's shadow coiling tight—he laughed. Erupted raw, unhinged, shoulders convulsing in spasms that reopened gashes, blood sluicing hot down his skin in fresh rivulets.
The Earl's facade blackened, stance rigidifying like storm clouds freezing. "You find your crimes amusing, mortal?"
"No, no, it's just—" Pete gasped, hauling breath through fire, swiping at eyes stinging with hysterical tears. Giggles surged unchecked. "I'm sorry, it's just—the irony of it. The cosmic, beautiful irony."
"Explain." Single syllable, lashed out—edict, not invitation.
Pete tilted up at her, grin carving despite doom, wild gleam in bloodshot eyes. "I'm Pete Castellanos. My father—my father—was worth over a hundred billion. Billion. With a capitol B. I grew up in a world where I literally couldn't spend money fast enough if I tried."
He flung arms wide, shrug tearing scabs anew, pain a white-hot flare. "I've given away more money than most people see in ten lifetimes. Donated millions because I was bored. I've caught employees stealing from me—from my family's companies—and instead of prosecuting them, instead of destroying their lives, I forgave them. Gave them severance packages. Helped them find new jobs."
Grin bared teeth, feral edge sharpening. "Why? Because money means nothing to me. It's just... numbers. Digital numbers that go up and down and I don't even notice. I tip waiters a thousand percent because I genuinely forget that money has value to other people."
His stare roamed the lavish box—silk banners undulating like captive flames, golden fixtures hungering in the light, jewels pulsing like caged hearts. "And now I'm here. In another world. Accused of theft. Me. The guy who had so much money he literally forgot he owned three houses in different countries."
Laughter crashed again, fiercer, frame rebelling with stabs but screw it— "What kind of absolute idiot tries to rob giants? Giants! Tell me, My Lady—did this supposed version of me think you wouldn't notice? That you'd just miss a tiny human scrambling around with armfuls of treasure? 'Oh look, the gold is moving by itself, how curious!'"
The Earl's lips twitched—faint, ephemeral, but Pete latched like a drowning man to driftwood.
"In all the beings in existence," Pete plunged on, chuckles ebbing to labored pants, "in all the the worlds, in all the realms—in what universe does it make sense for someone to rob giants? You people are thirteen feet tall! You could crush my skull with your thumbs! Your pinky finger has more mass than my arm!"
He shook his head, grin etched like a wound. "So yeah. Sorry. It's just... yeah. It's hilarious. Whoever this person was that you think I am? They were the dumbest criminal in the history of crime."
The Earl scrutinized him endless seconds, veil impenetrable, but rigidity seeped from her like venom from a lanced boil. "You have a strange sense of humor for someone facing execution."
"Yeah, well." Pete drew upright, agony spearing his leg like heated pokers. "I've had a really weird day. You have no idea."
She snapped a gesture to an attendant—imperious flick. A servant materialized, proffering a golden cup vast as Pete's torso, brimming with liquid dark and viscous. She accepted, sipped slow, gaze riveted to his, the wine's bouquet—ripe berries, aged oak, undercut with something metallic—mingling with his blood's acrid tang.
Silence ballooned, wire-taut, Pete's heart hammering audible, sweat carving frigid paths down his spine amid the box's chilled opulence.
At last, she broke it. "You survived your retribution. Not only survived—you won. Defeated one of my trained arena fighters. A warrior who's killed seventeen opponents. And you, a supposed thief with no training, no weapons, barely any understanding of where you were or what was happening—you beat her."
Pete nodded cautious, measured. "I got lucky."
"Luck?" Her smile flashed glacial, lethal. "You displayed powers, Boy from Beyond. Powers we've never seen. You vanished and reappeared. You moved like water. You survived wounds that should have killed you. That's not luck. That's valuable."
*Hook's baited, you colossal schemer. Reel me in or gut me—your call.*
"So," the Earl pressed, depositing the cup with a resonant clink like fate's die cast, "the question becomes: what do I do with you?"
Pete's synapses fired frantic, dread knotting bowels but instinct honing razor-sharp. Valuable. Singular. Mob's idol. Forks in the path glared—she'd proffer deal or doom, his retort the pivot to breath or burial.
Vision crystallized: Hawk the windfall. Crowd's mania? They'd howl if their pet anomaly evaporated. Crave the Boy from Beyond, spectacle-ravenous. Novelty minted empires—enigmatic outsider, eldritch gifts. In this colosseum cult of might and theater, a peerless gladiator equaled prestige, rival nobles seething green, coffers overflowing.
Spell it stark: Revenue streams. Acclaim. Supremacy via keeping him leashed, battling under her banner.
She'd swallow it whole. Logic demanded.
But.
'But safe's for corpses, Pete. You've waltzed with oblivion—ante up, you magnificent bastard, and flip the fucking table.'
But...