She tilted her head, clearly enjoying my reaction.

"Surprised? Do you even know me at all?"

I stared at her, deadpan. At her age, she owned an entire restaurant.

At my age, I owned… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a working pen half the time.

Congratulations, Ryan. You lose.

"We're here," Yara interrupted my inner self-loathing as she opened a door.

The door itself looked normal, but the second it swung open, I felt like I had stepped into a different world.

The private room was pristine. The walls were polished wood, warm golden light spilling from elegant fixtures overhead.

A thick, patterned rug covered the floor, and at the center stood a table set for two, crystal glasses, folded napkins, and silverware so shiny I could see my reflection.

I froze again. Not because of the luxury, but because a terrible realization struck me.

If she owned the restaurant… wouldn't it be ten times easier for her to kill me here?

I could already picture it, poison slipped into my food, the entire staff covering it up, my death chalked up to "mysterious illness."

My brain went into overdrive, quietly running escape scenarios.

Window? Too far. Door? She'd block me before I even turned the handle. Attack her first? Stupid idea.

I forced myself to sit at the table anyway. Yara sat across from me, perfectly composed, like this was just another Tuesday for her.

"So," she asked calmly, "what do you want to order?"

The words hit me like salvation. My mouth almost moved on its own to list every single food I had ever dreamed of eating.

But then I stopped myself. Something more important needed to be asked first.

I leaned forward on the table, locking eyes with her.

"... Why?"

She tilted her head, confused.

"What?"

"Why are you doing this?" I asked again, slower, clearer.

Yara paused at my question. For a moment, she leaned back in her chair, folding her arms like someone who'd already decided the conversation was over.

"You can leave that question for later," she said.

I frowned.

"I'd need an answer now."

Her eyes narrowed, as if she couldn't believe I was pressing the issue.

"Why are you so persistent? It's not important right now."

"Maybe not for you," I countered, leaning forward across the table, "but it is for me."

There was no way I was going to let this slide.

The sudden change in her behavior, her grip on me earlier, her insistence that I sit with her, dragging me all the way here, and now buying me a meal?

That wasn't normal. Not for Yara. Not for someone like her.

She was supposed to hate me not favour me.

I had no clue why she was doing all this, but I wasn't stupid enough to just enjoy it without asking questions.

If I let her keep stacking favors on me, I'd end up owing her, and owing Yara would probably feel like signing my own death certificate.

"People don't just change overnight without a reason," I said firmly. "No one does something unexpected without wanting something in return."

She stared at me. Her eyes didn't blink, didn't waver, just drilled into mine like she was waiting for me to give up.

I didn't.

Finally, she exhaled and muttered.

"…Fine."

Her voice dropped lower, steadier.

"Yes. I am doing this, for a reason."

My grip tightened on the table's edge.

"What reason?"

She hesitated, her expression shifting like she was choosing between two masks.

At first, her voice was calm, almost defensive.

"It's not like I'm trying to buy your likeness—"

But then she stopped herself. Her lips pressed together, her brows knitting tighter, her jaw sharp with tension.

For a moment, she almost looked… frustrated. At herself.

"Tsk. What's the point of pretending?" she muttered under her breath.

Her eyes lifted back to me, no longer soft, no longer veiled.

They were sharp now, predatory, the way she looked at everyone else.

Only this time, her words didn't match the predator's gaze.

"Yes," she said bluntly. "I am trying to buy your likeness."

The silence after that was heavy. Her lips tightened like she already regretted saying it out loud, like she realized she'd exposed more than she wanted.

To anyone else, maybe it would've been shocking, maybe even insulting. But to me?

"You're… quite a straightforward person," I said slowly. Then, without thinking, I let a faint smile slip. "Well… I kinda like that."

Yara's face twitched. A faint flush colored her cheeks, so faint you'd miss it if you blinked.

Her eyes flickered, and for the first time since I'd met her, she looked unsure of herself.

She definitely misinterpreted my words.

"I mean," I added quickly, "I like the fact you're buying my likeness. At least it's better than trying to earn it."

Her brows furrowed, confusion flashing briefly across her face.

There's a big difference between buying and earning.

Right now, I need 'buy.' 'Earn' is worthless to me.

If someone tries to buy my likeness, I don't lose anything. I gain. They gain. It's fair.

But if someone tries to earn it, only one person benefits, and it sure as hell won't be me.

The tension in the room shifted. Yara blinked at me, processing my words.

Then, to my surprise, her lips curved faintly, not into a smirk, but into something closer to a satisfied smile.

"…I'm glad you understand," she said softly.

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A/N: My beloved readers, it is I, your humble author, reaching out from the brink of despair. The journey is quite long, and the path is fraught with... well, a distinct lack of notifications. My only sustenance is the dopamine hit I get when I see your engagement. Without your Power Stones, this story will remain a hidden gem, an underrated peak, lost in the shadowy depths. It deserves to shine! It deserves to be seen! ONE OR TWO STONES A DAY KEEP THE MOMENTUM AT LEAST. Without your Golden Tickets... I may have to resort to drinking... A villain potion (you wouldn't want me to actually become a villain right?). And without your Reviews... I am writing into a void. Is anyone out there? Do they have something to say? Does the system actually make sense? Any suggestions or corrections? YOUR WORDS FUEL ME. Your praise gives me strength. Your critiques give me... slightly less strength, but then a stubborn determination to improve.

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