Adam led us toward what looked like a frat house—I couldn’t think of a better way to describe it. The bass was thumping so hard I could feel it in my teeth from a block away.


    "Please tell me we''re not going in there," Placid groaned, eyeing the building like it might be contagious. "I just got these shoes, and I can smell the cheap beer from here."


    "Your shoes will survive," Temple deadpanned. "Your faith in humanity, however..."


    "Bold of you to assume I had any left," Placid shot back.


    "Could be worse," I offered, trying to be optimistic. "Remember that warehouse party last month?"


    "Oh god," Placid shuddered. "The one with the guy who thought he could breakdance?"


    "And somehow managed to break everything except dance," Temple finished.


    Adam turned back to us, his expression a mix of anxiety and irritation. "Can we focus? My girlfriend''s in there!"


    "Right, sorry," I said. "Rescue mission. Got it."


    We cut through a small park, following Adam around a corner that desperately needed a streetlight. The house loomed ahead—a two-story testament to poor life choices. Music poured out of every window, and the whole place reeked of what I generously decided to call "college experience."


    "You know," Louvel spoke up for the first time, his voice carrying that dangerous calm, "I''m starting to think these guys need a lesson in hospitality."


    "And basic human decency," Temple added.


    "And interior design," Placid muttered, squinting at the neon beer signs in the windows. "This place looks like a sports bar had a midlife crisis."


    "Ten bucks says someone''s already thrown up in the garden," Temple muttered, stepping carefully around a suspicious puddle.


    "Twenty says it was the garden''s owner," I countered.


    "Fifty says it was multiple someones," Placid chimed in, then paused. "Wait, is that a... is that a LAWN CHAIR in the TREE?"


    We all looked up. Indeed, there was a lawn chair tangled in the branches.


    "Now that''s just impressive," Temple mused.


    "Focus, people," Adam hissed, but I caught him doing a double-take at the chair.


    The front door was hanging wide open like a mouth mid-yawn, spilling out noise and rgb lights. Inside, it looked like someone had crammed an entire nightclub into a space meant for family dinners. Bodies were everywhere—dancing, stumbling, probably questioning their life choices.


    "Hey!" A clearly drunk guy stumbled up to Temple, caught in her pretty looks. "You look like... like someone who can solve a really important debate. Is a hotdog a sandwich?"


    Temple stared at him. "Is this really the time—"


    "PHILOSOPHICALLY speaking," he insisted, swaying slightly in his attempts to flirt.


    "Move," Louvel said quietly, and something in his tone made the guy practically teleport out of our way.


    Adam pushed through the crowd like a man on a mission, completely ignoring the chaos around us. The floor made concerning sticky noises with every step. "They''re on the second floor," he called back over the music.


    "What?" Placid shouted.


    "He said second floor!" Temple yelled back.


    "WHAT?"


    "OH MY GOD, JUST FOLLOW HIM!"


    The living room was pure mayhem. Some guy was attempting to juggle empty beer cans and failing spectacularly. A group on the couch was having what appeared to be a very intense philosophical debate about pizza toppings. Someone had drawn a mustache on their passed-out friend and was now adding a monocle.


    "Ah yes," Placid narrated in her best documentary voice, "here we observe the college student in its natural habitat. Note the remarkable lack of survival instincts."


    "And basic coordination," Temple added as the would-be juggler dropped another can.


    "This," Placid announced, dodging a wildly gesturing arm, "is why I don''t do house parties. Give me a nice, quiet rooftop bar any day."


    Temple snorted. "Last month we went to a ''nice, quiet bar'' you started a karaoke riot."


    "That was ONE time—"


    "You got three different couples to break up during ''Sweet Caroline.''"


    "They were weak! Their relationships couldn''t handle my raw emotional delivery!"


    "You made the bartender cry."


    "He said my rendition of ''Total Eclipse of the Heart'' brought up repressed memories!"


    "Guys," Adam interrupted, "can we save the greatest hits for AFTER we rescue my girlfriend?"


    A guy nearby overheard and perked up. "Ohhh, you''re here for the hostage situation!" He immediately wilted under our collective glares. "I mean... what hostage situation? I know nothing. I am but a humble drunk person."


    "Ladies," I interrupted, "maybe we can reminisce about Placid''s greatest hits later?"


    We pushed through the crowd, getting way too many stares for comfort. A group playing cards looked up as we passed, and their expressions made me wish I''d brought pepper spray. Or a hazmat suit.


    "Up here," Adam whispered when we reached the stairs, suddenly moving like he was in a stealth video game.


    The stairs protested under our weight, making sounds that suggested they''d really rather be lying down.


    "Christ," Temple muttered, looking around. "What a mess. I wonder what their parents think of them."


    Adam stopped outside a door, his hand hovering over the handle. "They''re in here," he said, voice tight with worry.


    Louvel didn''t waste time with subtlety. He shouldered past Adam and threw the door open like he was making an entrance in his own movie.


    The scene inside was like a bad crime drama. Six guys around a card table, whiskey bottle center stage, and enough weed smoke to hotbox a cathedral. Adam''s girlfriend sat in the corner, tied up with what looked like a Designer scarf. The ringleader looked up with the kind of grin that made you want to introduce his face to a brick. "Well, well," he drawled, leaning back like he was auditioning for a villain role. "If it isn''t the rescue squad. And you brought friends!" He looked us over like we were items on a menu. "How thoughtful."


    "Wow," Placid stage-whispered. "Someone''s been practicing their bad guy lines in the mirror."


    Louvel stepped forward, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "What do you want?" Each word came out sharp enough to cut.


    The guy''s smirk widened as he watched Adam rush to untie his girlfriend. "Chill out, man. We were just having some fun."


    "Fun?" Adam whirled around, looking ready to commit murder. "You kidnapped my girlfriend for FUN?"


    "Calm down, bro. No one’s hurt. You’re so dramatic. And kidnapped is such an ugly word," the guy chuckled. "We prefer... surprise social gathering."


    Adam started toward the table, but Louvel’s hand shot out, stopping him in his tracks. “I’ll handle this,” he said coldly.


    The leader''s ‘Darren’ smirk faltered slightly at Louvel''s composure, but he recovered quickly. "Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You want her back? Sure. Let''s make it interesting." He gestured to the cards on the table with exaggerated hospitality. "Have a seat. Play a few hands. Win, and she walks. Lose..." His grin widened. "Well, let''s cross that bridge when we get there."


    Placid rolled her eyes from the corner, muttering just loud enough to be heard. “This guy’s watched too many bad gangster movies.”


    We stayed silent by the door, scanning the room. I noticed Temple''s hands resting at her sides, her fingers dancing lightly over the shadows cast by the table lamp. Always ready, that one.


    Louvel stepped forward, and suddenly the room felt different—heavier, like the air itself was holding its breath. He pulled out a chair with deliberate slowness. "Poker, then?" His voice was casual, but there was steel underneath. "Fine by me. But let''s make it worth our time."


    "Oh?" Darren leaned forward, intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"


    "Simple enough. I win, we walk out of here—all of us. And you leave her alone. Actually, you leave everyone alone." Louvel''s eyes flickered to the other students in the room. "I''ve heard about your little... recruitment tactics."


    "Wow, throwing shade and making deals," Placid whispered. "I''m getting emotional whiplash here."


    Darren''s eyebrow arched up. "And if you lose?"


    Louvel''s smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "I don''t lose."


    "Everyone loses eventually," Darren shot back, but something in Louvel''s confidence made him shift in his chair.


    That''s when I saw it—a golden number materializing above Darren''s head like a Vegas marquee. Another Ghost Writer meta-user. Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting.


    "Hold up," one of Darren''s friends called out. "Are we really letting this rich boy—"


    "Shut up, Mark," Darren snapped.


    He picked up the deck, shuffling it with smooth, practiced motions. The golden number above his head gleamed faintly as it pulsed in rhythm with his movements. The number held steady at 100, its presence imposing. Everyone in the room noticed it. Immediately, the casual banter from earlier evaporated, replaced by an almost reverent silence as the room shifted focus to the match


    "Five-card draw," he announced, his voice carrying that fake-casual tone of someone trying too hard to sound in control. "Winner takes all."


    Louvel nodded, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes locked onto Darren like a hawk circling its prey. Around him, a faint golden shimmer rippled through the air, subtle yet heavy. It was his wealth aura—barely visible but suffocating if you paid attention. At the moment, the all the gold coins he carried, and more he brought along with himself had transformed into a tangible force that seemed to crush the air from the room.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Then things got wild.


    The pressure in the room suddenly doubled, then tripled. One by one, people started dropping to their knees like they were being crushed by invisible weights. It was like gravity had decided to play favorites, and anyone without a solid bank account was getting the short end of the stick.


    "Jesus," someone wheezed from the floor. "What the hell is this?"


    "That would be the weight of compound interest," Placid commented, standing perfectly fine alongside Temple.


    Rich kids and their immunity to wealth-based attacks, I swear.


    I was barely staying upright myself. Thank god for that lottery win last month—without it, I''d be kissing the floor like everyone else. Still, my knees were shaking like I was doing squats with a truck on my shoulders. Finally, I simply squat down, saving myself from the torture.


    "Cute party trick," Darren said, still sitting comfortably. Either he was loaded too, or his meta-nature was giving him some serious perks. He dealt the first hand with a flourish that screamed ''I watched too many card-shark movies.'' "So, what are we betting here? Besides pride, of course."


    "Pride''s enough for now," Louvel replied. "Unless you''re scared to put that golden number of yours on the line?"


    A chorus of "Ooohs" rose from the floor, followed by several groans as the wealth pressure reminded everyone of their current predicament.


    The first hand started with Darren''s usual flair. He snapped his cards up with practiced showmanship, his golden number glowing strong at 100. "Watch and learn, rich boy."


    One of his lackeys tried to peek at Louvel''s cards. Suddenly, a golden coin materialized and flicked itself at the guy''s forehead. "Ow!"


    "Keep your distance," Placid warned, examining her nails. "Unless you want to find out what good beating feels like."


    Darren revealed three of a kind, kings. The smile on his face screamed victory—until Louvel quietly laid down a pair of aces. The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.


    The golden 100 above Darren''s head flickered and dropped to 93. For a split second, I saw him flinch as Louvel''s wealth pressure found its first crack in his armor.


    "That''s impossible," one of Darren''s friends muttered. "He never loses the first hand."


    "First time for everything," Temple commented softly from the shadows. "Including humility."


    The second hand raised the stakes. Darren''s leg was bouncing under the table now, and I noticed beads of sweat on his forehead. The wealth pressure that had been bouncing off him was starting to stick.


    "Having trouble breathing?" Louvel asked casually, adjusting his cards. "The air gets a bit thin up here in the one percent."


    Darren slapped down a straight, diamonds from 4 to 8. "Read ''em and—"


    Louvel''s flush hit the table like a guillotine blade. The number plummeted to 84, and Darren''s chair creaked as he suddenly found himself supporting what felt like double his body weight.


    "Anyone else feel like gravity''s playing favorites?" Placid mused, watching Darren struggle. "Or is it just the crushing weight of inevitable defeat?"


    "Just deal," Darren growled, but his voice had lost its edge. He glanced nervously at his dwindling number, then at his cards, then back at the number.


    The third hand was where it all fell apart. Darren''s full house—queens over tens—would have been the talk of any normal poker night. But when Louvel revealed a royal flush, even Temple let out a low whistle.


    The number crashed to 71, and this time Darren physically buckled. His shoulders hunched as if someone had draped a lead blanket over them. The wealth pressure that had been keeping his followers pinned was finally breaking through his defenses.


    “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Darren muttered, his voice shaking. He stared at the cards as if willing them to change.


    Louvel leaned forward, “One more loss like that,” he said, his tone sharp enough to cut, “and you won’t just lose this game.”


    The number above Darren’s head flickered again, dipping erratically between 71 and 65 as if struggling to stay stable. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his fingers twitched as he gathered the cards for the next hand. The once cocky leader now looked like a cornered animal.


    "All in," he declared suddenly, desperation clear in his eyes. His hands shook as he pushed his chips forward, and not just from anger this time—Louvel''s wealth aura was really bearing down on him now.


    "You sure?" Louvel asked mildly. He let the implication hang in the air.


    "Just. Play. The. Hand." Each word seemed to cost Darren more energy than the last.


    The final hand played out like a slow-motion car crash. Darren''s four of a kind—aces, no less—earned an appreciative murmur from the crowd. For a moment, his number stabilized, the crushing pressure easing slightly.


    Then Louvel''s straight flush appeared, and everything came crashing down. Literally, in Darren''s case—he slumped forward, finally feeling the full weight of Louvel''s power as the golden number above Darren’s head plummeted to 53, its glow flickering like a dying bulb.


    Immediately, his face went ghostly pale. The room seemed to hold its breath. Darren’s mask of composure shattered as his humiliation hit him like a freight train. The game had spiraled out of his control from the very beginning, and now it was utterly lost. He’d never even considered this outcome, never once thought he could be outmatched.


    "That," Temple observed with clinical detachment, "is what rock bottom looks like."


    "I think," Louvel said softly, gathering up the cards, "we should talk about that deal we made."


    "This can''t be!" Darren roared, his voice cracking with frustration.


    In a fit of rage, he flipped the table, sending cards, chips, and a half-empty whiskey bottle crashing to the floor. The sound rang out like a gunshot, and the students around him scattered, flattening themselves against the walls in fear.


    "Darren, chill!" one of his friends shouted, but Darren was beyond reason. His eyes locked on Louvel, wild with fury.


    "You smug little bastard!" he snarled, lunging forward like a cornered animal.


    Louvel didn''t just sidestep—he emanated a sudden pulse of golden light that made Darren''s movement stutter mid-lunge.


    The Golden Aura of Influence shimmered around Louvel like a second skin, and for a split second, doubt flickered across Darren''s face. The room seemed to move in slow motion as Darren, fighting against his own body''s sudden hesitation, careened past Louvel and through the second-floor railing.


    A beat of silence passed before Placid let out a low whistle. "Well, that''s one way to make an exit."


    Temple folded her arms, glancing over the shattered railing. "He''s alive. Unfortunately."


    With a guttural growl, Darren shoved himself upright. The golden number above his head flickered to 49, but something else was happening—his power truly manifested as ribbons of Golden light erupted from his body, bathing him in a brilliant glow that made him look like a vengeful god.


    Then, the very air around him began to ripple with the collective energy of every person who''d ever believed in him. He stormed back up the stairs.


    "I''m not done with you!" he bellowed.


    My focus was split between the fight and the realization that had just hit me. The pieces finally clicked, and a grin tugged at my lips.


    I’d figured it out.


    Darren was a Popularity-Powered Hero.


    His title was likely something along the lines of Hero of the Crowd. The stronger his audience, the stronger he gets. How fitting—and how foolish.


    At the moment, he was running on fumes because he had lost the popularity contest.


    Darren had such a strong meta-nature, yet instead of using it for something meaningful, he squandered it. Fighting people he could befriend to gain power? How shortsighted could someone be? I sighed, shaking my head at the sheer stupidity of Darren’s strategy.


    Louvel''s response was immediate and spectacular. Golden light erupted from his body, but instead of dispersing, it began to take shape. First came the armor, liquid gold flowing over his form like a living stream. Then, the very air around him began to shimmer with what looked like falling golden coins, each one catching the light and reflecting his influence throughout the room.


    "Good," Louvel replied coolly, his voice carrying an otherworldly weight that made several onlookers change their sides immediately from Darren to Louvel. "I didn''t think you would give up so easily."


    The lights flickered, and the sound was deafening—like thunder cracking indoors.


    Darren charged, but this time he wasn''t just running in rage. He unleashed his Mob Mentality Strike—a technique that amplified his strength based on how many people were watching the fight. The air around his fists began to crystallize with the solidified faith of his followers. Louvel met the charge with a new strategy. As Darren''s fist approached, a shimming golden vault materialized between them, its surface etched with intricate patterns of wealth and power. Darren''s punch connected with the vault''s door, and the impact sent shockwaves through the building—but the vault held.


    "Is that all?" Louvel taunted, his golden aura intensifying. "Let''s see how your popularity holds up against true power."


    The vault suddenly dissolved into a swarm of golden particles that surrounded Darren like a glittering tornado. Each particle began to pulse with Louvel''s Bankruptcy Strike, attempting to drain away the accumulated power of Darren''s popularity. But Darren countered with his Fanbase Shield—a defensive technique that let him draw on his followers'' unwavering loyalty to resist power-draining effects. The number above his head fluctuated wildly with each exchange, dropping to 45 before surging back to 47.


    Louvel''s eyes narrowed. His Bank Vault Fortress reformed, but this time it appeared in segments around the room, mirrors of wealth that began reflecting and amplifying his Golden Aura of Influence.


    "You''re strong," Louvel acknowledged, "but popularity is fickle. Money? Money endures."


    “I’m the strongest here!” Darren''s Viral Velocity kicked in, letting him move at speeds proportional to his trending popularity. He became a blur of motion, landing hits that would have pulverized ordinary opponents. But Louvel''s Money Shield held firm, each impact sending ripples of golden energy across its surface.


    "You''re not the only one who can play with perception," Louvel taunted, intensifying his Golden Aura of Influence. The aura began to affect the spectators, making them question their loyalty to Darren. With each seed of doubt planted, Darren''s number ticked down—46, 44, 41.


    Realizing his power was waning, Darren activated his ultimate technique: Popularity Singularity. His body began to glow with an intense light as he channeled every ounce of fame, every moment of recognition, every scrap of admiration he''d ever received into a single point. The number above his head surged dramatically to 55, the highest it had ever been.


    "This ends now!" Darren roared, his voice carrying the weight of thousands.


    Louvel responded by combining all three of his abilities. The Bank Vault Fortress condensed into gauntlets around his fists, each one pulsing with the Bankruptcy Strike and amplified by his Golden Aura of Influence. "You''re right about that."


    Their final exchange was devastating. Darren''s Popularity Singularity collided with Louvel''s combined assault in a blast that shook the entire house. For a moment, pure white light from Darren''s attack wrestled with Louvel''s golden energy, neither seeming to gain the upper hand. But Louvel had planned for this. While Darren had poured everything into one massive attack, Louvel''s Bankruptcy Strike had been quietly working throughout the entire exchange. Like a leak in a dam, it had been steadily draining away the foundation of Darren''s power base.


    The number above Darren''s head began to plummet. 40, 35, 28—each drop more rapid than the last. His Popularity Singularity began to flicker and fade as his power reserve depleted. Darren tried to maintain the attack, but his Celebrity Armor was cracking, his Fame Flames dimming.


    "No," Darren gasped, watching his power literally fade away. "This isn''t possible!"


    But it was. The number continued its freefall—15, 8, 3, 1... When it finally hit zero, the counter above Darren’s head vanished completely. With them, every manifestation of Darren''s power—the armor, the flames, the shimmering aura of charisma—vanished like smoke in the wind.


    Just like that, his title was gone. And with the title gone, so was his Ghost Writer meta-nature—permanently.


    “No…” he muttered, swaying on his feet. “That’s… impossible…”


    I watched Darren collapse to his knees, his earlier rage replaced by a hollow emptiness.


    It was a strict and unforgiving rule of the GhostWriter Hive meta-nature: titles were everything. These users could steal meta-natures from one another, growing stronger in the process. But losing their title? That meant losing their powers entirely. It was a gamble every user with the Ghost Writer – Hive meta nature lived with—and Darren had just paid the ultimate price.


    I glanced at Louvel, wondering if his title would upgrade now that he’d won the match. It was unlikely he’d inherit Hero of the Crowd. Titles like that didn’t transfer to the victor; they passed on to someone else deemed worthy of carrying the metaphorical lantern. But perhaps Louvel’s title might evolve into something new, reflecting his growing strength and reputation.


    Louvel didn’t waste any time. With a final, decisive step forward, he drove a powerful punch into Darren’s chest. The golden armor on Louvel shimmered brightly for a moment before dispersing into a faint mist, coagulating back into coins as the impact landed.


    Darren’s body crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. His head hit the floor with a dull thud, and his limbs sprawled out awkwardly. He was out cold.


    The room seemed to exhale collectively. Meanwhile, the remaining students, his taunt followers, who had been watching from the corners with bated breath, shrank back, their bravado vanishing along with Darren’s consciousness. They exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what to do without their leader.


    Louvel stood over Darren’s unconscious body, breathing heavily but otherwise composed.


    “Well,” he rolled his shoulders and straightened, “I guess that settles it. Popularity buys you power," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, coins tinkling softly as they fell around him, "but in the end, Money Reigns.”


    He adjusted his cuffs with elegant precision. "And I always ensure my accounts are clear."