Sitting in the backseat of a cab, munching on a street-bought Mexican wrap, Orsaga half-listened to the enthusiastic rap being belted out by the African-American driver, his gaze lazily drifting over the scenery outside.
After ten or so minutes, the taxi pulled up in front of a luxurious five-star hotel.
Don't ask why he chose a five-star hotel—
Even if times are hard, one must still live with dignity. Orsaga wasn't the kind of Abyssal demon who'd let himself suffer unnecessarily.
That said, if circumstances forced him to, he could adjust. After all, if your mindset is good enough, everywhere can feel as warm and cozy as the Abyss itself.
Tossing a $100 bill to the driver, Orsaga stepped out under the man's gleeful expression.
Then, with a casual flick of his wand, he cast a subtle hypnotic charm on an elegantly dressed elderly gentleman who had just exited the hotel.
The man jerked slightly as the spell took hold. Instantly, he felt as if he and Orsaga were old friends—closer than he'd ever felt to his own father.
Without hesitation, he pulled out a checkbook and handed over a blank check, excitedly insisting that it didn't matter how much was filled in—"Even a hundred million is just a starting goal!"
His enthusiasm made it genuinely awkward for Orsaga to refuse.
So, reluctantly, he accepted two "small" goals, and kindly told the man not to get too sentimental about their fateful meeting.
After a few more overly passionate exchanges, the old man finally left—visibly unwilling to part.
And just like that, Orsaga secured his spending money for the day.
---
Pushing open the hotel doors, he was immediately greeted by a well-dressed concierge with a polished smile.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you today?"
"Book me the presidential suite," Orsaga said casually. "And send up your best food."
The concierge remained smiling.
"Of course, sir. Will you be paying by card, or would you prefer another method?"
Without a word, Orsaga handed him one of the checks he'd just received.
"…Huh?"
As the concierge read the amount written on the check, his hands began to tremble violently—as if he were suddenly holding something impossibly heavy.
His heartbeat stuttered, eyes locked on the string of zeroes.
He didn't even manage to finish processing the number before he collapsed in a faint.
Another nearby staff member gasped and rushed over to help, but as his eyes caught sight of the check—
Thud!
He fainted on the spot as well.
Watching this unfold, the lobby manager froze mid-step.
"???"
"Crap... could this be some kind of new biological attack…?"
He instinctively shot a glance at the head of security standing nearby.
After a few seconds of silent communication, they both seemed to come to the same grim conclusion.
Driven by a mix of fear and responsibility, the lobby manager approached Orsaga cautiously and asked:
"Sir… may I ask what just happened?"
Orsaga shrugged innocently.
"I have no idea. I just asked them to book me a presidential suite and bring me some good food… and then they ended up like this. The check's still in their hands, by the way."
The manager didn't believe a word of it, but professionalism forced him to at least look into it.
He glanced toward the check still clutched in the fainted concierge's hand—
And then began to tremble violently.
Seeing this, the head of security instinctively reached for the gun at his hip.
But just before he could draw, the manager—still standing—slowly bent down, gently retrieved the check, and carefully read the number.
A moment later, with the most bootlicking smile of his life, he turned to Orsaga and said:
"Right this way, sir! Whatever you need, just say the word! Our hotel's motto has always been: 'If the customer wants it, we'll make it happen!' Even if it's impossible, we'll still do our very best!"
Watching the manager's sudden attitude shift, the head of security was left with a head full of question marks.
He tried to get the manager's attention with a discreet look, hoping for an explanation.
But now that the manager held a check worth a hundred million dollars, he had no time for bodyguards. Hell, even if the owner of the hotel showed up, he wouldn't bother responding.
Sure, the money wasn't his. But at that moment, the manager felt limitlessly powerful. As if he might float off into the sky at any second if gravity wasn't holding him down.
---
Ten minutes later
Having politely declined the manager's offer to arrange a few "personal attendants," Orsaga was now comfortably soaking in the massive bathtub of his presidential suite.
He lazily flicked on the TV.
A news report flashed onto the screen.
The anchor was a curvy, sultry-looking woman, currently reporting live from a hospital.
Her expression was serious as she explained:
"Earlier today, in northern Queens, New York City, a pedestrian was severely injured outside a supermarket after being impaled by a falling icicle. According to reports, the icicle was formed when a passing aircraft released waste from its sewage system. The cold air currents froze the discharge mid-air, creating a lethal spike of ice."
"The victim not only suffered a life-threatening impalement injury but was also exposed to high levels of bacteria from the frozen sewage. He is currently in critical condition…"
Before she could finish her report—
BOOM!
An explosion shook the screen, and flames briefly illuminated the camera lens.
The reporter screamed and ducked, grabbing the cameraman and scrambling for cover.
They moved fast, clearly well-practiced.
After all, this was America. In the Land of the Free, being prepared for sudden mass chaos was just basic survival instinct.
(If you get it, you get it. If you don't, well… that's on you.)
Several minutes passed.
The reporter returned to the screen, her expression back to solemn professionalism.
"We've just received unfortunate news. While the patient was undergoing emergency treatment, the hospital's aging equipment suffered a catastrophic malfunction, resulting in a deadly explosion. The victim has unfortunately succumbed to his injuries and passed away."
She bowed her head for a moment of silence.
Back in the bathtub, Orsaga raised an eyebrow.
"What kind of unlucky bastard was that?. Injured by frozen sewage and killed by a hospital explosion? That's just pathetic."
As he sipped his drink, he observed the reporter's micro-expressions.
Behind her solemn look, he clearly read her real thoughts:
'Yes! A front-page exclusive!'
Orsaga scoffed.
"Save your fake mourning, lady…"
_____
T/N:
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