The moment Lanz crossed into the gear store's first aisle, he felt every single credit on that payout chit start whimpering for mercy.
Bright lights bounced off brushed metal racks, glass display cases, and price tags that looked more like ransom notes than numbers.
"God," he hissed under his breath, eyeing a kid about his age trying on an entire gleaming combat vest with a sales clerk fussing over him like he was royalty. "Bet his dad's paying for that just so he'll shut up about wanting a monster bike."
He made a beeline for the gloves section. It looked harmless enough: neat rows of gloves in every size, shape, and color.
Some with fancy carbon fiber knuckles, others with runic threads woven into the palms, overpriced but maybe practical.
He grabbed the cheapest black pair that didn't look like it would fall apart after a single punch.
