Chapter 6: The Obsidian Suite

The hovercar glided to a stop in front of Hearthstone's Apex, its sleek chassis reflecting the glowing facade of the restaurant.

Evan stepped out, the cool night air brushing against his tailored charcoal suit. The Valthorne Chronograph gleamed on his wrist, its weight a quiet reminder of the stakes.

The central district's skyscrapers loomed overhead, their holo-lights painting the sky in shifting colors. Evan squared his shoulders, his posture flawless from days of System training, and approached the entrance.

His heart pounded, but his expression remained calm, the System's hum a steady anchor in his mind.

As he crossed the threshold, a soft chime rang in his head, and the azure panel flickered briefly.

[Assessment begun. Evaluation mode: Silent. The System will observe and judge without interference. Maintain composure. Standards: Posture, utterance, conversational poise, demeanor. Begin.]

Evan exhaled, the panel vanishing. 'No hand-holding, huh?' he thought, his nerves twitching. Hearthstone's Apex was a world apart from the diner where he washed dishes, and the System's silence made it feel like he was walking a tightrope without a net.

He scanned the entrance, noting the crystal chandeliers, walls draped in living greenery, and the soft hum of a live quartet playing in the distance. The air carried a faint scent of exotic spices, and every detail screamed wealth.

A receptionist, a woman in a sleek black uniform, approached with a professional smile. "Good evening, guest. May I have your reservation details?"

"Evan Quillian," he said, his voice steady but warm, as the System had taught him.

He met her gaze, chin slightly raised, exuding the quiet confidence he'd honed in System Space.

The receptionist's eyes widened briefly, and she tapped her dataslate, her smile shifting to one of deference.

"Mr. Quillian, of course. Welcome to Hearthstone's Apex. Your private room, the Obsidian Suite, is ready. Please follow me."

Her tone was almost reverent, and she gestured for him to follow with a subtle bow.

Evan nodded, maintaining his poise, though his mind raced. 'Why's she acting like I'm some megacorp exec?'

He had no idea why his name prompted such a reaction, but the System's training kept him grounded. He followed her through the main dining area, his steps measured, his suit moving with him like a second skin.

Diners at nearby tables—men in tailored jackets, women in shimmering dresses—glanced his way, their eyes lingering on his Valthorne and polished appearance. Evan felt their scrutiny but didn't falter, his temperament module keeping his nerves in check.

As they approached a corridor lined with frosted glass doors, Evan caught a heated exchange at another reception desk. A group of young men, roughly his age, stood in a loose circle, their voices sharp but controlled.

They wore expensive but understated clothes—tailored blazers in muted tones, crisp shirts, and smartbands with sleek, minimalist displays—reflecting the modesty expected of the city's privileged youth.

One of them, a tall guy with slicked-back hair and a silver earpiece, was speaking to a second receptionist, his tone firm but not shouting.

"This is unacceptable," the young man said, leaning forward. "We booked the Onyx Room weeks ago, and now you're telling me it's canceled? A refund isn't enough. You expect us to sit in the lobby like we're nobody?"

The receptionist, a man with a tight smile, raised his hands placatingly. "I apologize, sir. An unexpected priority booking displaced your reservation. We can offer a 50% discount on your next visit or a premium table in the main dining area tonight."

The young man scoffed, crossing his arms. "The main dining area? You think that's a fix? We didn't come here for your leftovers."

Evan kept walking, the receptionist leading him past the scene, but he couldn't help overhearing.

The group's frustration was palpable, and he felt a pang of sympathy—until he remembered his own life, scraping by on eight AR and a prayer.

'Rich kids arguing over private rooms,' he thought, a wry amusement flickering. 'Must be nice to have those problems.'

---

The young man with the earpiece, still fuming, glanced around the lobby, his eyes narrowing as he weighed his options.

His friends—four others, all dressed in similarly refined, modest attire—stood nearby, murmuring among themselves.

The receptionist's offer was insulting, and he wasn't ready to let it go. Booking the Onyx Room had been a status move, a chance to impress their social circle, and now it was gone, replaced with a weak apology.

He was about to relent, his energy draining, when he caught sight of a lone figure being ushered down the corridor.

A young man, about his age, dressed in a charcoal suit that screamed bespoke, with a watch that glinted like a fortune.

The receptionist leading him was practically bowing, her demeanor far more respectful than the one he'd been dealing with.

The young man's posture was impeccable, his walk smooth, like he belonged here.

"Hold on," he muttered, his curiosity piqued.

He stepped away from the desk, ignoring his friends' puzzled looks, and followed at a distance. The group exchanged glances but trailed after him, their steps quieter now.

---

Evan reached the frosted glass door marked "Obsidian Suite," the receptionist pausing to tap her dataslate. Before she could open it, a voice called out from behind.

"Hey, excuse me!"

Evan turned, his movement fluid, his expression calm but curious. The young man with the earpiece approached, his group hovering a few steps back.

Up close, Evan could see the guy's frustration, though his tone was polite, almost conciliatory.

"You dining alone?" the young man asked, his eyes flicking to Evan's Valthorne, then back to his face.

Evan nodded, keeping his gaze steady. "Yeah, just me."

The young man's shoulders relaxed slightly, a relieved smile breaking through. "Cool. Look, we just got bumped from our reservation, and they're trying to stick us in the lobby. Mind if we tag along? We'll cover our share, no problem."

Evan blinked, caught off guard. The System's silence left him to navigate this alone, and he weighed his options. The assessment was about his performance, not who he dined with, and refusing might draw more attention than he wanted.

Besides, the guy seemed genuine, his anger directed at the restaurant, not Evan. 'What's the harm?' he thought, his training urging him to maintain poise.

"Sure," Evan said, his voice warm but controlled. "Plenty of room, I guess."

The young man grinned, clapping his hands. "You're a lifesaver, man. I'm—" He paused, then waved it off. "We'll sort intros inside. Thanks for this."

As the receptionist resumed leading them toward the Obsidian Suite, the group of young men fell in behind Evan, their steps quieter but their murmurs growing.

They overheard the receptionist mention the room's name again—"Obsidian Suite"—and their mouths fell open, their eyes widening in disbelief. They exchanged stunned glances, their earlier frustration overshadowed by shock.

The Obsidian Suite was legendary, reserved for the highest echelon of society—megacorp founders, global influencers, people whose names moved markets. Even their families, wealthy as they were, had never secured it.

"Is he serious?" one of them whispered, a guy in a charcoal blazer, his voice barely audible. "That's the Obsidian Suite. Nobody gets that room."

"Who is this guy?" another muttered, adjusting his smartband nervously. "He's our age, and he's got that kind of pull?"

The young man with the earpiece didn't respond, his eyes fixed on Evan's back. He didn't know why this stranger had snagged the Obsidian Suite, but he wasn't about to question his luck.

He leaned toward his friends, keeping his voice low. "Just play it cool. We're in, so don't mess this up."

The receptionist paused at the frosted glass door, tapping her dataslate to unlock it. She raised an eyebrow at the group but didn't object, likely noting the updated reservation.

Evan stood calmly, his posture unwavering, as she opened the door to the Obsidian Suite. He stepped inside, the group following, their murmurs trailing behind him.

The suite was breathtaking—a private dining room with walls of polished black stone that shimmered like liquid night. A long table, set with titanium cutlery and crystal glasses, dominated the space, lit by a floating light array that cast soft, shifting patterns.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city's skyline, its towers aglow with holo-ads. The air was cool, scented with something crisp and floral, and a soft hum of ambient music filled the silence.