Maluck walked into the hotel gym like a man on a mission. Because he was. And that mission? To level up his stats. He didn’t need a trainer, a workout app, or some overpriced influencer program—he knew what he was doing. After all, he was the one who designed Chloe’s training program, and she was already seeing results. His own regimen? It wasn’t about bodybuilding or getting massive. It was about functionality—strength, endurance, agility, and enough dexterity to keep him quick on his feet. Plus pure stats gains! Mustn’t forget about those gains.
If the System ever decided to throw him into a chase, a fight, or some absurd obstacle course (which, let’s be real, wasn’t impossible), he needed to be ready.
Maluck didn’t lift like some bodybuilder trying to inflate his ego. His strength program was all about practical power—explosive movements, core stability, and making sure he could lift, push, or throw something (or someone) if needed. No wasted effort. No posing in the mirror. Just real, functional strength.
He dropped into a squat, keeping his form tight as he powered back up. Then deadlifts—smooth, controlled, no ugly hitching. Strong legs meant strong movement, and Maluck needed to move.
Next came pull-ups. No machines, no nonsense—just gravity and grit. He knocked out a set, then dropped to do dips. Real upper-body strength tests. No fancy equipment, just raw effort.
Then, farmer’s carries. Simple, brutal, effective. Pick something heavy up and walk around with it until his grip screamed for mercy. If he couldn’t carry his own weight—and then some—what was the point?
Core work was next. Hanging leg raises, ab rollouts, Russian twists with a weighted ball. A strong core meant better balance, stronger punches, and not getting folded in half when things got rough.
Once he finished, he moved to the part that actually required speed. Box jumps. Explosive power, balance, and landing control. It felt damn good to stick a perfect landing, even better when he went higher than before.
Ladder drills followed—footwork training, quick steps, sharp cuts, no wasted motion. No matter how strong he got, if his movement was slow and sloppy, it wouldn’t matter.
Then came reaction training. The randomized lights flashed on the wall, and Maluck smacked them as fast as possible. It looked ridiculous, but it worked. Fast hands, fast eyes, fast thinking.
And then there was running. He used to hate it, but now it was different. Not just for endurance—it was survival. If a fight went south, if he needed to chase—or escape—he wanted to be the one still standing while everyone else gasped for breath.
So he ran. Intervals. Sprints. Long-distance. A mix of everything.
No skipping the cooldown. He stretched out everything he had just worked, making sure his muscles wouldn’t hate him tomorrow. Some people saw it as extra. He saw it as necessary.
By the time he finished, it had been 2 hours, his shirt was drenched, his muscles burned just right, and he felt good.
He grabbed his towel, took a swig of water, and smiled at his reflection.
Definitely better than yesterday. He didn’t check his stats—he knew it wouldn’t be good for his mental health. It was like stepping on the scale every five minutes; no matter what the number said, it would mess with his head. Up? Panic. Down? Panic. No change? Somehow still panic.
Besides, he was going to check it in the morning anyway. No need to ruin his day over it.
He knew himself. If he started checking his stats constantly, he’d end up staring at them like some loot-obsessed MMO player, hoping for tiny decimal increases. Strength up by 0.01? ‘Oh wow, what a life-changing difference.’
Nah. That wasn’t the move.
Besides, constantly watching numbers shift wouldn’t actually make him stronger—it would just turn him into one of those guys who refresh their bank account ten times a day, hoping for extra zeroes to magically appear.So he let it be.
He’d check it tomorrow.
…Definitely.
***
He went back to his room, showered, and changed. The rainfall shower was amazing—easily one of his favorite luxuries. The Emerald even provided a citrus-scented shower gel that somehow felt like it was rejuvenating his very soul.
After his shower, he quickly changed and faced the daily struggle—picking an outfit. He didn’t want to wear a fancy suit, but he also wasn’t thrilled with his current wardrobe options. Clearly, a shopping trip was in order.
He rubbed his lucky bracelet and the probability charm, focusing on the thought of finding a place with good clothes at a great price. Just as he was about to head out, he glanced at his watch.
DON’T GO.
Crap. The lucky watch didn’t always give direct advice, but when it did, he knew better than to ignore it. Sighing, he abandoned the shopping trip and threw on the cleanest casual outfit he still had.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Since his shopping plans had been unceremoniously canceled by his meddling lucky watch, Maluck decided to make himself a protein shake. At least he had his super fancy blender—the one he’d scored at a pawn shop for an absolute steal.
And when he said super fancy, he meant it. This thing wasn’t just a blender; it was practically a small-scale industrial machine. The base was heavy, with a sleek, brushed metal finish that made it look like it belonged in a high-end restaurant, not a bachelor’s kitchen. The buttons weren’t just labeled low, medium, high—no, this blender had settings like pulverize, incinerate, and obliterate. There was even one called smooth, which felt unnecessary after all that.
Maluck dumped in a scoop of protein powder, some milk, a banana, and a handful of ice. He considered adding peanut butter but quickly dismissed the idea—last time, he’d spent way too long scraping it off the blades. He secured the lid, pressed obliterate (because why wouldn’t he?), and braced himself.
The blender roared to life with the force of a jet engine. The counter vibrated. The lights flickered. Somewhere in the walls, he was pretty sure the plumbing rattled in protest.
After about thirty seconds of what sounded like an exorcism happening inside the pitcher, the jet engine -like sound settled. He cautiously lifted the lid, peering inside. The shake was flawlessly smooth—almost too smooth, like the blender had rewritten the laws of matter to achieve peak consistency.
Pouring it into a glass, he took a sip.
Not bad. Not great either. But at least he wasn’t hungry anymore.
He patted the blender appreciatively. “Best couple of bucks I ever spent.”
Best of all, the blender lid didn’t mysteriously pop open, spraying protein shake all over the hotel room like some cursed kitchen disaster. Maluck took a victorious sip and smirked. ‘Finally, a win.’ It seemed like his bad luck wasn’t too bad right now—no impromptu protein explosions, no short-circuiting appliances, no sudden fires.
Still, he’d just used his probability charm. That meant the cosmic balance probably needed adjusting. Time to tinker with his bad luck.
He set his glass down, stretched his fingers, and cracked his neck like he was about to hack into a high-security system. Instead, he was about to willingly invite misfortune.
With a deep breath, he toggled on bad luck accumulation.
Stepping out of his hotel room, he made a quick detour to a vending machine, buying two Koala Kolas. Cracking them open, he checked the inside of the caps.
SORRY. TRY AGAIN.
A grin tugged at his lips. ‘Perfect’. That balanced out the losses from the probability charm.
He had made a tentative appointment to meet Cass, so he called her to confirm she was still able to make it. She was, and they met at the hotel restaurant, where he ordered a coffee. The last challenge had forced him to go without coffee, and it had turned him into a very grumpy Maluck.
“So, Cass,” he said as she sat down. “We need to figure this out. Who’s the real boss behind Cars 4 a Better Future?”
Cass took a sip of her own coffee before pulling out a folder and flipping it open. “I’ve been digging, and it’s exactly what we thought—Dennis was just a cog in the machine. The real players? They’re high up in the food chain.”
Maluck leaned back, sipping his coffee. “Alright, lay it on me.”
Cass slid a document across the table. “Meet Harrison Lowell. Officially, he’s a philanthropist. Runs a bunch of charities, gets his name on plaques, shakes hands with politicians. Unofficially? He’s running half a dozen ‘nonprofits’ that look a lot like Cars 4 a Better Future—all with the same pattern. Money comes in, a fraction goes to actual charity, the rest disappears into ‘administrative fees.’”
Maluck whistled. “A professional scammer. Love it.”
“It gets better,” Cass continued. “Lowell doesn’t get his hands dirty. He’s got layers of protection—middlemen, fake board members, and at least two shell companies routing the money before it hits his accounts. If we go after him directly, we’re gonna need more than just Dennis’s help.”
Maluck drummed his fingers on the table. “So, what’s our move? We blackmail him? Flip someone higher up? Or are we thinking a more hostile takeover?”
Cass smirked. “You’re catching on. We need leverage. Dennis is useful, but he’s just one piece. We need bank records, proof of kickbacks, and—if possible—an insider who actually deals with Lowell directly.”
Maluck grinned. “So we find someone who works close to him and… apply pressure.”
“Exactly.” Cass leaned back. “The question is, do we want to take this slow and methodical, or do we just kick the hornet’s nest?”
Maluck laughed. “Cass, come on. You know I love kicking hornet’s nests.”
Cass sighed, but there was amusement in her eyes. “Alright, then. Step one? We find someone in Lowell’s operation who’s just as shady as Dennis—someone with something to lose. Step two? We make them talk.”
Maluck grinned. “Sounds like fun. So where do we start?”
Cass tapped her folder. “I’ve got a few names. One of them stands out—Alan Trask. He’s an accountant for more than one of Lowell’s ‘charities.’ If anyone knows where the bodies are buried, it’s him.”
Maluck leaned in, his grin widening. “Then let’s go make a new friend. What’s his details?”
Cass brought out another folder. “Alan Trask. Senior accountant for Lowell’s charity network. He’s been handling their books for about six years, and from what I can see, he’s either complicit in the fraud or too dumb to realize what he’s signing off on.”
Maluck smirked. “So, either he’s a crook, or he’s an idiot?”
“Bingo,” Cass said, flipping a page. “And based on his spending habits, I’d bet on both. Officially, he’s making a mid-tier charity salary. Unofficially, he’s living like a guy who found a bottomless ATM. He’s got a house way above his pay grade, private school tuition for his kids, and he just bought himself a brand-new luxury SUV. Paid in full.”
Maluck leaned back. “So he’s bad at staying low key. That makes this easy.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard the best part,” Cass said, tapping another page. “He’s also been moving money through a secondary shell company, one that’s supposedly for ‘consulting.’ And guess who owns it?”
Maluck raised an eyebrow. “Not him?”
Cass grinned. “Nope. His wife.”
Maluck let out a low whistle. “Ah. The classic ‘my spouse runs a completely legitimate business that just happens to receive huge sums of money for no reason’ move. Subtle.”
“Right?” Cass shook her head. “They even tried to make it look real. The company technically exists—it’s registered, has an office address, even has a website. But the office is just a rented mailbox, and the website is… tragic. I mean, I respect a good scam, but at least hire someone to make a proper front.”
Maluck laughed. “Okay, so we’ve got a greedy corrupt accountant skimming money and funneling it through his wife. How do we use this?”
Cass smirked. “Well, first, we need to know how much trouble he’s really in.”
Maluck tapped the table. “Alright, let’s figure out where the pressure points are.”
Cass leaned forward. “And once we do?”
Maluck grinned. “Then we squeeze him like the rotten orange he is. This whole deal could be juicy.”
Cass let out a long, suffering groan. “That was painful.”
***
