The Twitch PK battle had ended in a blaze of glory, with Avery Brooks crushing Vanessa Steele's comeback dreams under a $3M gift barrage from Ethan Black's MoneyAintThang account. Vanessa's score of 20,029,998 was chump change against Avery's 30,000,000, thanks to Ethan's 10x Cashback Card and a last-second Super Emperor subscription—Twitch's priciest tier at $180K to unlock, $120K monthly to renew. Ethan, chilling in his Westfield villa, had maxed out the card's $300K limit, pocketing $3M cashback and a $26M Koenigsegg Agera hypercar. The game pinged:
[Challenge Complete: Avery Brooks Wins PK. Reward: Koenigsegg Agera (Parked in Your Garage). Cashback: $3M Credited.]
Vanessa's stream imploded. Her 4M viewers plummeted to 600K as fans ditched her, humiliated by Avery's god-tier flex. "This is rigged!" Vanessa wailed, slamming her desk before cutting her feed. Her Vortex handler, Greg Thornton, got an earful from Monica Vance, who screamed into her phone: "$1.5M down the drain! Black's laughing at us!" Greg, sweating, took the worst of it: "You said $2M was their cap, Vanessa! Now we're screwed!" Vortex's board was livid—their rep was toast, and Greg faced a demotion. Vanessa, dodging her own punishment, sulked, plotting her smear videos to hit Ethan harder.
Avery's stream, meanwhile, was a digital Coachella. Her 5M viewers—now 10M—chanted MoneyAintThang! and AveryRules!, pushing #AveryOwnsVanessa to 200K likes on X. "Money King, you're unreal!" fans spammed, nicknaming Ethan the "Money King" for his Super Emperor flex. Avery, voice trembling, sang a victory cover of Taylor Swift's "Anti-Hero," racking up 300K new followers in 20 minutes. StarPulse's COO, Claire Hudson, texted Ethan: Avery's a superstar. Homepage banners locked for her all week. Vortex is fuming. Ethan grinned, replying: Good. Keep her trending. Watch for Syndicate moves.
Ethan checked his bank: $33.87M balance, up $27M after the $3M spend. The Koenigsegg was the real prize, though—a $26M hypercar, black as midnight, parked in his villa's garage. He jogged down, heart racing, and there it was: sleek, angular, like a Batmobile on steroids. "Holy crap," he muttered, running a hand over its carbon-fiber curves. Ferraris were cool, but this was next-level—$30M landed with taxes and mods. Most billionaires couldn't snag one without a year's wait. Ethan, a college freshman, had it courtesy of the Monthly Pay $3,000, I'm the World's Richest game. "Worth every penny," he said, snapping a pic for his encrypted X burner.
Back upstairs, Avery's stream had calmed, her 4M viewers vibing to her acoustic set. Her debut had smashed StarPulse's goals—Claire's team met at midnight, greenlighting a full push: Twitch primes, collabs with Ninja, and a single drop by summer. Ethan smiled, seeing the $15B NovaVibe challenge in reach. Avery's rise was his ticket to billions, but Vanessa's smear campaign loomed, and the Syndicate's black SUV was still out there.
Then, his phone rang—an unexpected call. "Yo, Ethan, it's Nate Carter!" a hyped voice said. "Remember me? Met at that dive bar, you flashed that black card, blew my mind?" Ethan chuckled, recalling Nate, a Westfield trust-fund kid who'd nearly fainted over Ethan's Amex Centurion. "What's up, Nate?"
"Big party tomorrow night, man!" Nate said. "Private estate, A-list crowd. Told my boys about you—'Money King' vibes. They're dying to meet you. You in?" Ethan checked his calendar—clear. "Sure, why not? Send the deets." Nate whooped, "Sick! You're the man. Tomorrow, 8 p.m., Crestwood Manor. Don't ghost us!" Ethan hung up, smirking. A night out could recharge him for the Syndicate fight.
The next evening, Ethan fired up his Koenigsegg Agera, its V8 growl shaking the villa's windows. Crestwood Manor, a sprawling estate in Westfield's suburbs, was packed with Westfield's elite—trust-fund bros, influencer queens, and crypto whales. Nate Carter, in a Gucci tracksuit, hyped Ethan's arrival to his crew: "Guys, Ethan Black's legit. Lives in Skyview Heights' Villa 8—$50M pad. Dude's a mystery mogul."
"No way," said Jake, a tech bro with a Rolex. "Villa 8? That's, like, Bezos-tier. Never heard of this guy."
"Bet he's bluffing," chimed Mia, an Instagram model sipping a mojito. "Nate, you sure he's not some crypto scammer?"
Nate scoffed, "Scammer? He's got a black card thicker than my trust fund. He's coming, and you'll eat your words."
As they chatted, a low, feral roar cut through the night. Heads turned as a white Lamborghini Aventador—$9M of Italian muscle—rolled into the manor's drive. "Holy crap, that's a big boy!" Jake gasped. "Who's driving that?" The Lambo's scissor doors lifted, and out stepped Dylan Reed, Westfield's resident bad-boy heir, worth $2B via his dad's real estate empire.
"Dylan freakin' Reed?" Nate muttered, jaw dropping. Dylan, in a tailored blazer, strutted over, smirking. "Like my new toy?" he said, patting the Lambo. "$9.2M, fully loaded. Best in Westfield." The crowd swarmed, snapping pics, X posts hitting 10K likes: #DylanSlaysLambo.
"Yo, that's insane!" Jake said, eyes wide. "Dylan, you're untouchable."
Mia batted her lashes. "Can I get a ride, Dylan?"
Dylan grinned, eating it up. Then he spotted Nate, his longtime rival. "Nate, still rocking that $4M Porsche? Cute. Step up, bro." Nate's face reddened—his 911 Turbo was no slouch, but Dylan's Aventador was a flex on another level.
"Oh, and what's this about your 'Money King' friend?" Dylan taunted. "Some big shot named Ethan? Never heard of him. Sounds like you're hyping a nobody." The crowd snickered, and Nate bristled. "He's real, Dylan. Villa 8, Skyview Heights. He's coming, and you'll choke on that smirk."
Before Dylan could clap back, a deeper, earth-shaking roar echoed. The crowd froze as a black Koenigsegg Agera—$26M of Swedish insanity—glided into the drive, its sleek lines glowing under the manor's lights. "What… the… hell?" Jake stammered. "Is that a Koenigsegg?!" X blew up: #HypercarKing at 20K likes in seconds.
The Agera's door swung up, and Ethan Black stepped out, casual in a black hoodie and jeans, his $500M aura undeniable. Nate whooped, "That's my guy!" Dylan's smirk vanished, his Lambo suddenly looking like a Hot Wheels toy. The crowd surged, phones out, as Ethan strolled over, tossing his keys to a stunned valet.
"Ethan, you made it!" Nate said, fist-bumping him. "Told 'em you're the real deal."
Ethan grinned. "Nice spot, Nate. Hope I'm not late for the flex-off." The crowd laughed, but Dylan's eyes narrowed, sizing up Ethan's Agera. "Nice car," Dylan said, voice tight. "Koenigsegg, huh? Didn't know Westfield had those. Who're you again?"
"Ethan Black," he said, unfazed. "Just a guy who likes fast cars and good parties."
Jake whispered to Mia, "Villa 8 and a Koenigsegg? Dude's worth billions."
Mia's eyes sparkled. "Forget Dylan. I'm Team Ethan now."
Dylan, fuming, forced a laugh. "Cool story, Ethan. But a car doesn't make you a player. Let's see if you can hang with Westfield's real elite." He gestured to the manor, where champagne flowed and a DJ spun. Ethan's phone buzzed—a Syndicate alert: Target Spotted at Crestwood Manor. Monitor Dylan Reed. Ethan's jaw tightened. Dylan wasn't just a poser—he was a Syndicate pawn, and this party was about to get messy.