The pitch-black darkness lasted only a second, but it was enough to shatter the illusion. When the emergency security lights finally flickered to life—a harsh, sterile white—the neon fantasy of the $40 million mansion was dead.
The red plastic cup slipped from the muscular host’s grip, bouncing hollowly on the wet concrete. His arrogant sneer dissolved into a frantic, panicked twitch. “What did you do?” he spat, his voice cracking, desperate to maintain his alpha status for the hundred glowing camera lenses still pointed at him. “You hacked my house?!”
Ethan didn’t flinch. He adjusted the frayed strap of his weathered backpack, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the man with the cold precision of a sniper.
“Your house?” Ethan’s laugh was a dry, hollow rasp. “You signed a 24-hour influencer lease, Chase. And your credit card just bounced the damage deposit.”
A collective gasp rippled through the sea of models and trust-fund heirs. Every smartphone camera instantly pivoted, zooming in on Chase’s rapidly paling face. The self-proclaimed king of the Hollywood Hills, exposed in 4K resolution.
“You’re lying! I own this!” Chase lunged forward, chest puffed, desperately trying to salvage his digital empire.
Ethan didn’t retreat. He simply raised his left wrist again. “AI,” he spoke into the smartwatch, his tone terrifyingly calm. “Protocol: Eviction. Target: The man in the unbuttoned black shirt.”
The mansion hummed like a waking beast. The high-pressure smart sprinklers erupted—but only in a perfectly calculated ten-foot radius around Chase, blasting him with freezing, heavy streams of water.
The crowd erupted into chaotic laughter, flashes going off like strobe lights as Chase scrambled backward, slipping hard on the wet deck. His silver chains clung pathetically to his drenched skin.
Ethan stepped to the edge of the puddle, looking down at the shivering fraud.
“My code. My house,” Ethan said, his voice dropping to a glacial whisper. “Security is at the gates. Walk.”