Chapter 121: The Neon Nightmare

The Neon Nightmare

The sterile, aggressively bright fluorescent lights of the Vanderbilt & Co. dressing room hummed with a low, irritating frequency. Elias van Kempen sat perfectly still on a cheap plastic chair, his long legs crossed. Resting on the makeup counter in front of him was the silver aluminum briefcase containing exactly twenty-five thousand American dollars in cash.

It was a beautiful, tangible representation of liquid capital. It was the blood flowing back into the veins of his empire.

Then, the dressing room door swung open, and the reality filter of European fast-fashion slapped him directly in the face.

A frantic wardrobe assistant wheeled in a heavy metal clothing rack. The garments hanging from the hangers were not silk. They were not tailored wool. They were not even passable denim.

Elias stared at the rack. His jaw locked.

Hanging before him was a chunky, aggressively textured knit sweater the color of radioactive, neon yellow. It looked like it had been woven from the discarded fibers of a highly toxic tennis ball. Beneath it hung a pair of heavily pleated, oversized brown corduroy trousers that completely defied all accepted laws of human geometry.

It was an aesthetic war crime. It was a visual atrocity designed to humiliate anyone foolish enough to wear it.

"Mr. van Kempen," the wardrobe assistant smiled nervously, gesturing to the neon catastrophe. "Your look for the spring catalog. We shoot in five minutes."

The assistant quickly backed out of the room, leaving Elias alone with his pending humiliation.

For a long moment, Elias simply stared at the yellow sweater. His vanity, cultivated and polished to a God-Tier level through months of intense, sociopathic posturing, screamed in absolute, visceral agony. If Anna Wintour saw him in this ensemble, she would have him legally barred from entering the city of New York.

The door creaked open again.

Paul Rudd peeked his head into the room, followed closely by Owen Wilson. They had been waiting outside in the hallway, maintaining the illusion of Elias’s ’Hollywood Entourage’.

Paul looked at Elias. Then, Paul looked at the clothing rack.

Paul’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He slowly raised his hands, covering his mouth.

A high-pitched, strangled sound escaped Paul’s throat. It was the sound of a man trying desperately, and failing miserably, to contain a hysterical laugh.

"Oh my god," Paul wheezed, his shoulders beginning to shake violently. He leaned against the doorframe, tears instantly springing to his eyes. "Elias. Please tell me you are not going to put that on your body. You look like... you’re going to look like a giant, angry banana!"

Owen Wilson let out a low, deeply amused chuckle, scratching his messy blonde hair. "Wow, man. That sweater is, like, aggressively loud. It’s yelling at me, and I’m not even wearing it. It’s definitely a bold choice for a guy who usually dresses like he’s about to foreclose on a Gothic cathedral."

Elias turned his head slowly. He didn’t blush. He didn’t yell. He leveled a gaze of such cold, aristocratic disdain at his two assistants that the laughter momentarily died in Paul’s throat.

"You find this amusing, Paul?" Elias murmured, his baritone voice a smooth, silken threat.

"I... I can’t help it, Elias!" Paul choked out, completely losing the battle, sliding down the doorframe until he was sitting on the floor, laughing so hard he was silently gasping for air. "You’re a multi-millionaire! You own the master tape to the biggest song in America! And you are about to dress up like a neon highlighter for a discount catalog!"

Elias stood up. He walked over to the makeup counter and placed his hand flat on the cool metal of the silver briefcase.

"Dignity is a depreciating asset, Paul," Elias stated flawlessly, unbuttoning his vintage leather jacket. "It pays absolutely zero dividends. This hideous garment represents twenty-five thousand dollars of untaxed, immediate liquidity. I am not wearing a sweater. I am wearing our return flight to Los Angeles. I am wearing operational survival."

Elias stripped off his jacket and his t-shirt. He picked up the neon yellow knit nightmare and pulled it over his head.

The fabric was horribly itchy. The fit was boxy and completely destroyed his flawless, V-Taper silhouette. He pulled on the oversized brown corduroy pants, the fabric ballooning around his legs like deflated parachutes.

He turned back to his entourage.

Paul Rudd literally rolled onto his side on the floor, clutching his stomach, howling with pure, unadulterated comedic joy. "It’s worse than I thought! It’s so much worse! You look like a substitute teacher from 1982!"

"Assume the perimeter," Elias commanded coldly, entirely ignoring the mockery. "You are my Hollywood entourage. Maintain the illusion of exclusivity. And Paul, if you laugh while we are on the set, I will personally deduct the cost of this sweater from your non-existent salary."

Ten minutes later, Elias walked onto the brightly lit white cyclorama of the photography set.

The entire production crew, expecting a dashing, international superstar, stared at him in stunned silence. The sheer, overwhelming contradiction between his impossibly striking, chiseled face and the phenomenally hideous clothing was breaking their brains. It looked like someone had photoshopped the head of a Greek god onto the body of a tragic catalog model.

Paul and Owen flanked the set, both of them practically vibrating with the sheer, agonizing effort of suppressing their laughter.

"No eye contact with the talent!" Paul yelled, faking an aggressive, diva-handler tone, though a tear of pure joy slipped down his cheek. "Mr. van Kempen requires absolute silence on set! Do not speak directly to him!"

Owen nodded solemnly, staring intently at the ceiling to avoid making eye contact with Elias’s neon torso. "The vibe is highly restricted, guys. Only positive energy. No sudden movements."

The photographer, a frantic young Dutch man with a heavy, medium-format camera rig, stepped up to the mark. He looked at Elias, completely intimidated by the teenager’s dark, brooding aura, which aggressively clashed with the clothing.

"Okay, Elias!" the photographer called out, forcing a cheerful tone. "Beri aku senyum ceria Eropa! We want fun! We want casual European spring! Give me a big smile!" (Give me a cheerful European smile!)

Elias van Kempen did not give him casual. He did not smile.

Elias stood under the hot studio lights. He refused to let the fast-fashion garments humiliate him. He was a predator, and he would dominate this cheap polyester just as he dominated Wall Street. He needed this over immediately.

He mentally engaged the digital loan shark.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: TATAPAN KAMERA MAGNETIS (MAGNETIC CAMERA GAZE)][COST: -10 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 175 CP]

[CHA-CHING!]

The skill flooded Elias’s physiology. The ambient light of the studio seemed to suddenly warp, pulling inward, heavily concentrating on his sharp, exotic features.

Elias tilted his head, adjusting the itchy collar of the hideous yellow sweater. He locked his dark, bottomless eyes directly onto the camera lens.

He didn’t just stare. He unleashed a look of absolute, soul-crushing, sociopathic dominance. He projected the heavy, dangerous aura of a mafia boss who had just ordered a hit, completely overriding the comedic tragedy of his wardrobe.

"Kain poliester murahan ini hanya membatasi visi artistik kita," Elias stated, his baritone voice a dark, velvet rumble that completely paralyzed the photographer. (This cheap polyester fabric only restricts our artistic vision.) "Aku tidak menjual keceriaan. Mari kita jual pemberontakan murni." (I do not sell cheerfulness. Let us sell pure rebellion.)

Elias took a slow half-step forward, shifting his weight.

"Jepret kameramu sekarang sebelum aku menagih biaya tambahan untuk penderitaan mentalku," Elias commanded softly, holding the lethal, high-fashion glare. (Snap your camera right now before I charge an additional fee for my mental suffering.)

The photographer gasped out loud. His knees actually buckled slightly under the sheer weight of Elias’s projected magnetism. The camera slipped in his sweating hands.

The cheap clothes no longer looked cheap. Against Elias’s terrifying, unapologetic confidence, the neon yellow sweater suddenly looked like an intentional, avant-garde statement of aggressive irony.

"Oh... oh my god," the photographer breathed, his face flushing bright red. He brought the heavy camera back up to his eye. "That’s... it’s terrifying, but it’s brilliant! Don’t move!"

The photographer slammed his finger onto the shutter release.

CLICK-WHIRRR. CLICK-WHIRRR. CLICK-WHIRRR.

Elias didn’t change his expression. He executed three flawless, microscopic adjustments to his jawline, catching the strobe lights perfectly.

The photographer was practically panting, burning through the entire roll of film in a matter of seconds. "I have it. I have the cover. I have the entire spread! It’s incredible!"

"We are finished," Elias announced smoothly.

It had taken exactly ten seconds.

Elias didn’t wait for the agency director to review the film. He turned his back on the camera and walked straight off the set, shedding the neon yellow nightmare before he even reached the hallway. He pulled his simple white t-shirt and his scuffed vintage leather jacket back on, his aura of untouchable wealth instantly restoring itself.

He walked back into the dressing room, picked up the silver briefcase containing twenty-five thousand dollars, and walked back out.

Paul and Owen were leaning against the wall near the exit, both of them wheezing, having completely lost their battle with laughter the moment Elias had started delivering mafia threats while wearing corduroy.

"Elias," Paul gasped, wiping tears from his eyes, his face red. "You looked like a giant, angry canary threatening to murder a photographer. I am going to hold onto that mental image for the rest of my life. It is the only thing that will get me through the stress of working for you."

Elias did not smile. He hefted the briefcase of cash, the sheer, beautiful weight of the liquid capital silencing the digital loan shark in his mind.

"Laughter is cheap, Paul," Elias murmured, pushing the heavy glass doors of the agency open and stepping back out into the freezing Amsterdam wind. "But the First-Class tickets I am about to purchase to Los Angeles, and the heavily marbled wagyu steaks we are going to consume for dinner tonight, are incredibly expensive. Try not to choke on your amusement."

Paul stopped laughing instantly. His eyes went wide. "Wait. Did you just say First-Class tickets? We aren’t taking the cargo hold back?!"

"My spine requires a restorative re-alignment," Elias conceded with a faint, aristocratic sigh. "And we require immediate, heavily padded logistical transit. The European excursion is concluded. Call KLM. Book the premium cabins."

Deep within his neural pathways, the system erupted in a golden symphony of applause, rewarding his absolute refusal to feel human embarrassment.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: AESTHETIC SURVIVAL HACK EXECUTED WITH FLAWLESS, HUMILIATING PROFITABILITY!][EVALUATION: YOU SACRIFICED YOUR GOD-TIER AESTHETIC TO EXTORT A DESPERATE AD AGENCY, LEVERAGING YOUR FACE TO PROCURE INSTANT LIQUIDITY IN A NEON SWEATER, AND THEN TERRIFIED A PHOTOGRAPHER INTO THINKING CORDUROY WAS HIGH FASHION. YOU ARE A TRUE CAPITALIST PARASITE. THE SYSTEM IS DEEPLY IMPRESSED.][REWARD: +20 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP) DEPOSITED.]

Elias felt his CP balance stabilize. His war chest was full. The physical pain of the impending capital expenditure for the flights hit him, and he mentally logged the transaction as the loan shark collected its daily rent.

[DEDUCTING -$3,000.00 USD FOR FIRST-CLASS TRANSATLANTIC LOGISTICS.][SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias ignored the phantom pain. His liquid cash dropped to a functional $132,455.00, but his infrastructure was secured.

"Come along, gentlemen," Elias commanded, striding down the cobblestone street. "We have a Hollywood production to hijack."