Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

”How old are you,” she said.

Sean let out a silent hiss because he was a little irritated by everyone asking him this particular question but he chose to keep it to himself.

”Eighteen,” said Sean.

”Is any of this illegal,” said Elena.

”The document is entirely legitimate,” said Sean. ”Sixty years old and kept in original condition in a storage unit by the seller’s granddaughter. Every piece of information I’ve given you is accurate.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer. Then she opened her desk drawer and produced a retainer agreement.

Sean read it, signed it, and transferred three hundred thousand dollars from his phone while Elena watched with the expression of someone who had seen a lot of things in fifteen years of property law and was quietly adding this to the list.

[300,000 dollars spent]

[Balance: $1,578,480]

[600,000 dollars received]

[New Balance: $2,178,480]

Sean glanced at the notification for a half second longer than usual. Standard doubling. Not the Makima multiplier. He’d half expected the 10x to fire, since the entire point of the retainer was protecting her building, but the system apparently drew a sharper line than that. Money spent on Makima triggered her tier. Money spent fighting on her behalf, paid to someone else entirely, didn’t qualify.

He filed that distinction away carefully. Useful to know exactly where the boundary sat before he made any bigger moves.

He kept his expression completely neutral and put his phone in his pocket.

”I’ll begin the title search today,” said Elena. ”I’ll have preliminary findings by Thursday.”

”Thank you,” said Sean.

”Mr. Miller,” said Elena, as he stood to leave. ”Whoever currently holds that land. If the clause is valid and you choose to exercise it on behalf of the family with rights under it, you’ll be complicating something significantly. In my experience, complications of this kind tend to generate responses.”

”I’m familiar with responses,” said Sean.

”Be careful anyway,” said Elena Voss.

Sean almost smiled. Third person this week.

”I’m working on it,” he said.

=============

Afternoon

He sat in the back of the Rolls Royce after leaving Elena’s office and looked at his balance for a long moment.

$2,178,480.

Standard rebate, doubled cleanly, nothing more dramatic than that. He thought about it for a moment, turning the logic over. The system seemed to care, specifically, about direct generosity toward a bound target. A gift. An experience. Care given to her personally. Legal warfare conducted on her behalf through a third party clearly didn’t count the same way, however much it served the same underlying purpose.

It was a strange kind of math to live inside. He could spend three hundred thousand dollars trying to save Makima’s building and get back exactly double, the same rate he’d get spending money on a stranger on the street. But buy her something directly, take her somewhere, do something for her in person, and the multiplier jumped to ten times over.

He thought about what that meant going forward. Legal fees, security costs, anything paid to Elena or Walsh or Max in service of the larger fight would always sit at baseline. If he wanted the full power of the 10x, he’d need to find ways to spend on Makima herself, not just on her behalf.

It felt almost like the system was drawing a line between investment and devotion. Protecting someone’s interests, however necessary, wasn’t the same currency as simply choosing them.

He sat with that for a moment, the strange, oddly precise architecture of a system that rewarded direct connection more than indirect defense.

His phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number he didn’t immediately recognize.

Mr. Miller. This is Patricia Moyer. Your friend gave me your number. I hope that’s alright.

Sean saved the contact immediately. Of course. Everything okay?

A man came to my door this afternoon, she wrote back. An hour after you left. Said he was from a property development survey company. Same as before but different man. He asked again about the storage unit. Seemed surprised when I said I’d already been there recently.

Sean felt his pulse pick up. Did you tell him anything?

I told him I wasn’t interested and closed the door, said Patricia. But Sean. He didn’t leave right away. He sat in a car outside for twenty minutes before driving off.

Sean was already texting Walsh on a separate thread. I need coverage on another address. Tonight if possible. I’ll send the location.

Walsh has people, Walsh texted back within a minute. Send it.

Sean sent Patricia’s address.

Then he called her.

She picked up on the second ring.

”Patricia,” he said. ”I need you to do something for me tonight.”

”What,” she said. Calm. Direct. The same energy she’d had when she opened her door that morning.

”Is there somewhere you can stay that isn’t your house? Family, friend, anywhere comfortable. Just for a few nights while I sort something out.”

A pause. ”My daughter lives across town.”

”Can you go there tonight? Don’t make a big deal of it. Just a visit.”

”You think they’ll come back,” said Patricia.

”I think they know I was there this morning,” said Sean. ”And I think they’re trying to figure out what we talked about and what you might have given me.”

”They don’t know I gave you the document,” said Patricia.

”Not yet,” said Sean. ”But I’d feel better with you somewhere else for a few days.”

Another pause. ”You’re eighteen years old,” said Patricia Moyer, with the exact same tone she’d used that morning.

”I know,” said Sean.

”And you’re already making sure a sixty-four-year-old woman I just met is somewhere safe because of a document her grandmother kept in a storage unit,” she said. ”That’s either very impressive or very alarming.”

”Probably both,” said Sean honestly.

A beat. Then: ”I’ll call my daughter.”

”Thank you,” said Sean. ”And Patricia. If anyone contacts you again about the storage unit, about the property, about anything related to Clement Street, call me before you say anything.”