The Viridian Gentleman caters to an elite cadre—think billionaire entrepreneurs, cultural moguls, and secretive diplomats. Membership requires a referral and a demonstrated appreciation for rarity, whether in art, nature, or style. New members receive a polished obsidian case containing a single rare herb seed, symbolizing their initiation into this exclusive world.Clients also get to collaborate with a master tailor, an antique curator, and a botanical alchemist. A client might commission a suit inspired by a 19th-century duke’s portrait, select a walking stick carved from 2,000-year-old bog oak with a sapphire pommel, and choose a rare Amaranth plant believed to symbolize immortality for their private study. The result is a curated ensemble that makes the client feel like they’ve inherited the power of empires past, with every step radiating purpose and every glance commanding respect.It was more than a shop—it’s a transformative experience for affluent men who crave distinction.

The waitress led Warren down the velvet-lined hallway, her heels clicking like a metronome counting down to trouble. The air grew heavier, laced with the faint metallic tang of gun oil and something colder—anticipation. His ring hummed against his finger, a subtle pulse that sharpened his senses, catching the faint rustle of her uniform, the too-steady rhythm of her breath. The hallway ended at a heavy oak door, its carved vines twisting like serpents in the flickering sconce light. She pushed it open, revealing a small, dimly lit room that reeked of danger cloaked in civility.Inside, a receptionist sat behind a sleek obsidian desk, her face a mask of professional calm, her eyes cold as slate. Two armed men loomed in the shadows, their black suits blending into the walls, hands resting on holsters that gleamed faintly under the low light. The door thudded shut behind Warren, the sound final, like a coffin lid slamming closed. Before he could blink, the men lunged, moving with the pre

The receptionist, her composure softened by a fleeting flush of contrition, inclined her head and murmured, “My apologies, sir. Yes, we can proceed.” Her voice, now warm as a hearth’s glow, carried a note of amends as she addressed Warren’s inquiry. “Today, our halls are graced by a host of discerning patrons from across the globe, drawn here by the day’s extraordinary offerings.It was no ordinary day, for not one but two auctions were ordained to unfold. The first had already concluded, its echoes fading into the annals of the elite’s commerce, but a second, far more clandestine, was set to commence within the hour. Already, the grand hall stirred with the presence of honorable billionaire titans, their postures regal, their eyes alight with the hunger of those who possess all yet yearn for the unattainable. At the heart of this forthcoming spectacle was a singular marvel: a plant, the Elysium Vitae, its leaves whispered to hold the divine power to mend any affliction or malaise. S

Now? The auction hall buzzed with frenetic energy, a whirlwind of wealth and ambition. At the center of it all was the rare herb, its vibrant leaves glowing under the spotlight, possessing medicinal properties worth killing for. Bidders raised placards, numbers climbing in a fevered dance to outbid one another. A man in a sharp suit stood beside the herb inside the glass, his voice commanding the room, orchestrating the chaos.Then, a shockwave. Warren, a man who had earlier not been taken as a competition by the elite crowd, won the bid with a staggering $70 million. Murmurs rippled through the room. Mrs. Fortune, the haughty socialite who had been outbid at a mere $2 million, stared in disbelief, her disdain for Warren now tinged with envy.She had try to denigrate him in the public for rejecting her sexual advances back, to make him look like nobody not worthy of being at the auction...not only that, an ex-convict fresh from prison, yet here he was, outshining her in front of th

The air in the auction hall cleared as Mr. Jack, his menacing demeanor softened by necessity, offered Warren a profuse apology for the false accusation. “A grave error,” he said, his voice smoother now, the edge of his bloodthirsty nature carefully veiled. To prove his sincerity, he gestured grandly, offering Warren a priceless antique from his collection—free of charge. The elite, sensing the drama’s end, dispersed, their whispers fading as they exited, leaving the hall eerily quiet.Mr. Jack invited Warren to his private office, and Warren, still wary but curious, followed. As they walked through the labyrinthine corridors of the auction house, Warren felt a surge of spiritual energy prickling his senses. Passing a display, he noticed a small glass-encased garden, its miniature plants no taller than three feet yet radiating an ancient vitality. Their thick trunks, gnarled and sturdy despite their diminutive size, pulsed with an otherworldly essence. Warren’s eyes lingered, intrigued