Wealth Ascension System

Chapter 6: The Uniform of Mr. AK

The visual distortion faded like a receding tide, leaving behind a phantom ache behind Ethan’s eyes and a crystalline clarity in his mind. The System’s punishment was a lesson written in neural fire: precision mattered. Time was a weapon you either wielded or were wounded by.

He stood in the immaculate, silent expanse of the Imperial Suite. The silence was oppressive. The only artifacts of his existence were the data stick on the marble console and the pile of reeking clothes on the bathroom floor, the khakis and scorched shirt that had absorbed the river, the hospital, the sweat of his desperate run. They were the uniform of Ethan Cross, the ghost. To build something new, he needed a new skin.

The decision was logistical, not aspirational. He needed a uniform for Mr. AK.

He called the concierge. “I need a car to take me to the most exclusive retail district. Not a boutique. A destination.”

“The Galleria at Monarch Heights, sir. It is… particular about its clientele.”

“Perfect,” Ethan said, the word flat.

An hour later, he stood before the Galleria’s entrance, less a mall, more a vault of polished limestone and silent money. His arrival in the black sedan meant nothing. His exit from it in his stained, days-old outfit meant everything.

His first stop was a temple of Italian tailoring: Valentino’s Atelier. The air inside smelled of new wool and quiet judgment. A sales associate, a man named Gregory with hair so perfect it looked helmeted, intercepted him before he’d taken three steps past the lacquered door.

“Can I help you, sir?” Gregory asked, not with curiosity, but with the firm politeness of a bouncer. His eyes performed the same swift, devastating inventory all the others had.

“I need a wardrobe. Suits, casual wear, everything. Now.”

Gregory’s smile was a thin, condescending line. “I see. We do offer an introductory line. The outlet store, however, is on the south side of the city. I’d be happy to write down the address for you.” He gestured subtly toward the door.

Ethan looked past him, at the rich fabrics on minimalist racks. “I’m in the right place. I want that navy suit. That cashmere coat. Three shirts, the shoes on that display. In my size.”

Gregory’s patience evaporated. “Sir, with respect, that suit is a limited-edition Loro Piana wool-silk blend. It is thirty-two thousand dollars. The coat is twenty-two. This is not a ‘see now, buy later’ establishment. This is for serious clients.”

“I am a serious client.”

“Your current presentation suggests otherwise,” Gregory said, his voice dropping, losing its professional sheen for something crueler. “We cater to an elite who understand aesthetic continuity. You are a… rupture in that continuity. You are distressing the other clients. Please leave.”

Ethan felt the old humiliation rise, hot and familiar. Then he felt the cold counterweight of $20,000,000.00 in his account. The System’s logic was purer: money was a tool to silence noise.

He didn’t argue. He turned and walked out, leaving Gregory looking smugly victorious.

He crossed the marble concourse to Brioni. The result was identical, though the manager here, a severe woman, threatened to call security if he “continued to loiter.”

The Galleria was a fortress, and his clothes were the proof he didn’t belong. The mockery was quieter here than the nurses’ station, but more precise, cutting to the core of his social worth. He was a stain on their perfect world.

He was about to enact a simpler, colder plan—find the director’s office, wire the money for the entire store, and watch the panic—when he heard the voice.

“Oh my God. Ethan?”

It was a voice of honey and venom. He turned.

Lacey. Claire’s younger sister. She was draped in the effortless chic of new money, a cream silk blouse, tailored trousers, a bag that cost more than his old car. Her face, so like Claire’s but sharper, was a mask of incredulous delight. Not the good kind.

“I heard you were out, but I didn’t think this was where you’d crawl to,” she said, walking over, her heels clicking a triumphant rhythm on the marble. She didn’t stand too close, as if afraid of contamination. “Shopping? Let me guess, here to apply for a job? As… what, a human mannequin for ‘what not to wear’?”

Gregory from Valentino watched from his doorway, smirking, enjoying the validation.

“Just browsing, Lacey,” Ethan said, his voice calm.

“Browsing?” She laughed, a tinkling, horrible sound. “Ethan, you can’t browse air. You need money to browse here. The last time you ‘browsed’ was the menu at the diner you couldn’t afford.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper the others could still hear. “Let me save you the embarrassment. They won’t even let you clean their toilets. The cleaners here have better references. You know what your best move is? Walk out to the avenue, find a dirty enough street corner, and start begging. At least that’s a job you’re qualified for. Filthy environment, filthy clothes, pathetic returns. It’s you.”

Each word was a needle, expertly placed. She was rehearsing the family line, etching the final judgment of him into the public record.

Ethan looked at her, and for the first time, he didn’t see the girl whose party he’d paid for. He saw a gatekeeper. A foot soldier in Claire’s empire. The hollow calm within him didn’t crack; it hardened.

“Are you done?” he asked, his tone devoid of emotion.

His indifference ignited her. “No, I’m not done,” she hissed, her composure slipping. “You called me! You harassed my family! And now you’re here, stinking up the place where real people shop. You’re a persistent, pathetic infection. I’m going to make sure you’re removed.”

She pulled out her phone, not calling security, but taking a picture of him. “I’m sending this to the Galleria’s head of client relations. And to Claire. Let’s see how long you last before you’re dragged out by your rags.”

He said nothing. He simply turned and walked away, not toward the exit, but deeper into the concourse, toward the most brutalist, monolithic storefront: GUARDIAN AESTHETICS. It wasn’t a fashion house; it was a tactical outfitter for the hyper-wealthy. Its tagline, etched into steel beside the door: “Apparel as Armor.”

This time, when a massive, ex-military looking associate blocked his path, Ethan didn’t speak. He opened his banking app, turned the screen, and pointed at the nearest head-to-toe ensemble on a faceless avatar: a matte black engineered suit, a graphene-weave overcoat, boots. The price for the single outfit was $187,000.

“This. In my size. Now. And I do not have time for a fitting.”

The guard’s eyes flicked to the balance on the screen. His posture changed instantly, from obstruction to readiness. “Yes, sir.”

In seven minutes, Ethan emerged from a private changing room. The transformation was not into a dandy, but a specter. The clothes were dark, severe, impossibly tailored yet movement-perfect. They had no visible labels. They projected silence and cost. He looked like the consequence of a financial decision.

He didn’t stop at one. He pointed. “That. That. The five shirts. The three coats. The footwear in these sizes.” He amassed a arsenal of anonymity. The total flashed on a discreet tablet: $2,457,000.00.

“Wire or card, sir?”

Ethan initiated the transfer. The manager, now pale, processed it. “Your… previous garments, sir?”

“Burn them.”

He walked out of Guardian Aesthetics carrying nothing. The new clothes were being packaged and would be delivered to the Aethelstan. He was a man who had just spent two and a half million dollars in seven minutes, and the only sound was the whisper of technical fabric.

As he exited the Galleria’s main doors into the muted daylight of the private parking circle, the figure was waiting for him.

Not security. Lacey.

Her face was flushed with fury. She must have been watching, following, seeing the impossible transaction happen.

“What did you do?” she spat, blocking his path to the waiting sedan. “Did you rob someone? Steal from my sister? There is no way. No way that is your money.”

“It’s mine,” he said, trying to step around her.

She shoved him, a surprising burst of strength fueled by rage. “You liar! You filthy, bridge-jumping liar! You think a new suit changes what you are? You’re a cockroach. Claire was right, you’re a disease!”

Her hand flew to strike him. Ethan caught her wrist, not roughly, but with a firm, cold finality she couldn’t break. He looked down at her, his new, dark silhouette engulfing her.

“The debt for your sixteenth birthday party is now settled in full, Lacey,” he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the hum of distant traffic. “You got the final payment today. We are square. Do not approach me again.”

He released her. She stumbled back, clutching her wrist, her eyes wide with shock, not at his strength, but at the absolute, glacial certainty in his eyes. The ghost wasn’t pleading anymore. It was giving receipts.

He slid into the sedan. As it pulled away, he saw her in the rearview mirror, standing alone, small and furious on the vast marble steps, her perfect afternoon in ruins.

In the quiet of the car, the System’s message appeared, a familiar, demanding ghost in his visual field.

[TASK 3: CRYPTO SURGE MOVE. SPECIFICS PENDING.]

[PREPARE FOR VOLATILITY.]

The new clothes were a shell. The confrontation was a skirmish. The real battle, the one that could maim him with a single wrong move, was waiting in the ether. He closed his eyes, the phantom ache from the last punishment still whispering behind them.