Chapter 66: Investment Starts With Gaming Setup.

Amanda peeked through her fingers, her eyes darting toward the window where the supercar was parked before snapping back to me.

"Okay, look, in my defense, it’s one thing to talk to a text avatar on Discord," she stammered, dropping her hands, her social battery instantly recharging as her usual hyperactive energy surged back. "It’s a completely different thing when a literal multi-millionaire steps out of a twin-turbo hypercar that costs more than my entire family’s generational net worth!"

She leaned across the small wooden table, her hands gesturing wildly in the air.

"I was just sitting here overthinking! Like, what if I start talking about frame rates and accidentally make some weird assumption again? Or what if I embarrass myself and you realize you dropped ten grand on a complete dork? But seriously—that car?!" She practically pressed her face against the glass window, eyes wide. "Is that a carbon-fiber aero package on the front lip? Please tell me you actually drive it like it’s meant to be driven and don’t just idle at twenty miles an hour!"

I couldn’t help but laugh softly, taking a sip of the water the barista had just set down.

"I drove it fast enough to get here fifteen minutes early," I said, leaning back with a smirk. "And stop overthinking. If I cared about corporate formalities or filtered personalities, I wouldn’t be sitting in a college café right now. I’m here because your mechanics are S-tier and you don’t compromise who you are."

Amanda froze for a second, her flustered expression softening into a genuinely surprised, bright smile. She sat back in her chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Right. Okay. Good," she said, nodding to herself, her timidness completely evaporating. "Because if we’re building an elite esports team, we need to talk hardware. And I mean real hardware—not the marked-up pre-built junk."

"That’s why I’m here," I said, pulling out my phone. "Let’s build your dream setup right now."

Amanda tilted her head, her hyperactive demeanor suddenly shifting into something a bit more business-minded. "So... do you have a contract for me to sign, or what? Like, an NDA? A preliminary roster agreement?"

"No contract," I replied smoothly, folding my arms. "Not today. We just go. If you really want to know my profile and credentials, you should know I’m a major shareholder in Zenith Sportswear."

Amanda blinked, pausing mid-sentence. "Wait—Zenith?"

She instinctively glanced down at her own chest, staring at the iconic, high-end logo stamped right onto her tracksuit. A beat of realization hit her, and her jaw slowly dropped as she looked back up at me.

"Okay, wow," she muttered, tugging at her sleeve. "Flexing on me while I’m literally wearing your brand... cold move, Ethan. Cold move."

Before she could recover, she suddenly squinted, as if a completely separate thought had just crossed her mind. "Wait... Zenith Sportswear? Aren’t they the ones who just locked in that massive global deal with Ruby? The global record-holding artist who’s everywhere right now? Don’t tell me you know her too?"

Instead of answering verbally, I casually pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and flipped it around to show her the screen.

It was a completely candid photo—one Ruby had secretly snapped of us in the studio lounge while I was fast asleep on the couch, her grinning brightly right next to my face with her peace sign up.

Amanda stared at the screen, her eyes wide as saucers as she processing the image of the world-famous, record-breaking global face of Zenith casually hanging out with the guy sitting across from her.

"Woah..." Amanda breathed out, completely stunned, her voice barely a whisper. "You’re... you’re actually that guy."

I pocketed my phone, gave her a smirk, and stood up from the booth. "Come on. Time to put that potato setup out of its misery."

Amanda practically sprinted out of the café behind me, her eyes practically sparkling as I opened the passenger door of the supercar for her.

The drive to the high-end custom tech hub in the center of the city took ten minutes, during which she barely breathed, glued to the window and occasionally squeaking every time I dropped a gear and let the turbos whistle.

When we stepped into the glass-fronted, multi-floor tech sanctuary—a place where professional esports teams and ultra-wealthy rig builders sourced custom hardware—she stopped dead in her tracks.

Clean white lighting reflected off liquid-cooled custom cases, ultra-high-refresh-rate curved OLED monitors, and custom mechanical peripherals that looked more like aerospace engineering than gaming gear.

She turned to me, her fingers twitching nervously against her tracksuit pockets. "So... what’s the budget? Like, do I have a cap for the GPU? Or should I stick to mid-range display panels?"

I leaned back against a polished display counter, crossing my arms with a flat, effortless grin. "No budget. Pick whatever you want. Build the exact setup you’ve dreamed of since you were twelve."

Amanda’s jaw dropped. "No... no budget? Are you crazy? You know I’m going to pick stuff that costs more than a semester of tuition, right?"

"If it makes you play like an S-rank predator, I don’t care if it costs more than a house," I said smoothly. "Get to work."

For the next hour, Amanda was like a kid set loose in a fever-dream candy store.

At first, she hesitated, picking up mid-tier components and glancing back at me like she expected me to pull out a calculator.

But as soon as she saw I wasn’t even blinking, her hesitation melted away into pure, unadulterated passion.

She began pointing out top-of-the-line liquid-cooled custom rigs with dual flagship GPUs, studio-grade DAC audio interfaces, custom noise-canceling mechanical keyboards with rare switches, ultra-low-latency esport monitors, and professional-grade boom mics used by top-tier recording artists.

By the time she finished, she had accumulated a custom setup that looked like a command module for a space shuttle, complete with custom ergonomic seating and modular desk architecture.

The head sales representative at the register looked at the total invoice on his terminal, his eyes widening slightly as he cleared his throat. "Uh, sir... with the custom assembly, express delivery, white-glove installation at her dorm address, and full warranty coverage, the total comes out to $142,500."

Amanda froze beside me, her hyper energy instantly slamming into a brick wall. She looked at the screen, then looked at me, her face draining of color. "Wait—Ethan, hold on. $142k?! That’s... that’s insane. No, seriously, let me put the dual monitors back, I don’t need—"

Before she could finish her panic-fueled sentence, I stepped past her, casually tapped my black custom metal card against the contactless reader, and pulled up my system ledger in my peripheral vision as the machine chimed softly.

[Transaction Complete: $142,500]

[Remaining Balance: $27,857,500]

The transaction cleared in less than a second. A hundred and forty-two grand dropped out of my liquid account, and my balance barely even registered the hit—it was like taking a single drop of water out of an entire ocean.

I pocketed the card and turned back to Amanda, who was standing frozen in place, staring at the approved receipt in absolute, speechless shock.

"See?" I said softly, slanting a cold smirk her way as I tossed her the signed delivery manifest. "It’s barely a blip. Now stop worrying about my wallet and start thinking about how you’re going to stomp your first official tournament."