Saturday – 11:00 A.M.
MARQUISE | Urban Designer Boutique, Brooklyn
Bell chime.
Ethan stepped into MARQUISE, the ambient-cool fashion house nestled between minimalist glass storefronts and a vegan espresso bar. The boutique's interior was a study in curated chaos—fluorescent tubes glowing from asymmetric angles, matte black racks showcasing androgynous outfits, a wall-length screen flickering with looped fashion reels.
He scanned the place with a hawk's calm eye.
Then he saw her.
Pink hair, purple highlights, draped over one shoulder like spun candy dipped in danger. A black cropped tee with "Game Over, Try Again" glitching across the front, paired with a short tartan skirt and sheer fishnet tights that blurred over her thighs. Combat boots. Dark lip gloss. She couldn't have been more than nineteen.
She turned her head and locked eyes with him.
Recognition.
"Oh my god," she mouthed, before walking straight over with the confidence of someone who owned the floor—and the world behind it.
"You're that guy," she said, voice bright but edged. "From the street fight clip—B&G corner, three masked idiots, one man takedown. Ethan… something?"
He nodded once. "That's me."
No bravado. No explanation.
She grinned. "Damn. You're quieter in person. Like an introverted warhead."
He didn't answer that. He just looked around the boutique, scanning merchandise and noting foot traffic.
"I need part-time. Three days a week. No crowd, no noise. Just enough hours to stay busy. Two or three figures weekly is fine," he said.
She blinked, then looked at her manager—an older woman in a maroon pantsuit, standing a few feet away with tension in her arms.
"I mean… shouldn't we at least check his background?" the manager asked cautiously. "He could be a—"
"He's him," the girl interrupted. "I watched that clip five times this morning between Destiny ranked queues. He's perfect."
She turned back to Ethan and smiled. "Trial for two weeks. Two figures. After that, we bump to three if you don't suck."
Without waiting for further objections, she tapped him on the shoulder and called out to the staff counter.
"Register him. Full access. Part-timer role."
Then, without asking, she took his hand and led him down a hallway marked STAFF ONLY, heels clacking against tile as if this was her runway.
---
Inside the Staff Room
Neon pink LED signs buzzed faintly above racks of uniforms and measuring equipment. She gestured for him to stand still as she grabbed a measuring tape.
"So tall…" she muttered. "Six-one?"
"Correct."
She wrapped the tape around his shoulders, biceps, and torso without hesitation. He remained still, letting her work in silence.
"Seventy-nine kilos?" she guessed.
"Eighty-one after water weight," he replied coolly.
"You model?"
"No. But I don't wear weakness."
She chuckled under her breath and adjusted the tape over his chest.
His body was efficient—defined by calisthenics, MMA drills, and years of pain repurposed into structure.
"You're gonna break sales records with your face alone," she said, stepping back, finally looking him in the eyes again. "And those cheekbones could be killer."
He ignored the compliment.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She blinked like it hadn't occurred to her.
"Kiera Vance. Daughter of the owner. Soon-to-be heiress, apparently. Gamer. Night owl. Future ruler of the fashion-slash-tech empires."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"I'll just handle stock and floor assistance."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be boring, Ethan. You're in the middle of a neon jungle now."
---
11:23 A.M. – Registration Desk
The boutique manager handed Ethan a small black ID card with a magnetic strip and the MARQUISE logo.
"Two weeks," she reminded him, still wary. "Then we review."
Ethan took the card.
Kiera flashed a smile behind him. "Welcome to trouble and battle Royale."
He said nothing.
But in that moment—amid fashion, fishnets, and flickering neon—Ethan knew he wasn't just employed.
He was creating another domain.