PK arrived at Royal Leaf, the undisputed number one hotel in Z City.
The building itself radiated authority—glass, gold accents, and an entrance that silently warned: only the elite belong here. Royal Leaf operated on a strict tier system: Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Diamond. Each tier demanded not just money, but influence. Obtaining a Diamond-level card was notoriously difficult, even for the wealthy.
PK walked in without hesitation.
"I want the best private dining room," he said calmly.
The receptionist greeted him politely and began explaining the tiers, their privileges, and the exclusivity attached to each. Private chefs, private halls, live performances, curated menus—each level escalating in luxury.
PK listened patiently.
Then he said, "Diamond tier."
A flicker of surprise crossed the receptionist's face, quickly masked by professionalism. Formalities were completed, and PK was escorted to a Diamond-tier dining hall.
The experience was flawless.
Lavish interiors.
Impeccable service.
Private instrumental music followed by live singing from trained professionals.
The food alone justified the reputation.
PK leaned back, fully satisfied—not just with the taste, but with the system. Efficient. Profitable. Built for dominance, he noted internally.
After the meal, he gestured to the server.
"Call your manager. I'd like to speak with him."
Given Diamond-tier protocol, refusal wasn't an option. Anyone dining at this level was either born powerful or backed by something far greater.
The manager arrived soon after—a well-dressed man with practiced confidence.
PK didn't waste time.
"I want to buy this hotel. What's the price? And arrange a meeting with the owner."
For a moment, the manager froze.
Then a mocking smile crept onto his face.
"Sir," he said arrogantly, "even if you were a billionaire, you wouldn't be able to buy Royal Leaf. Do you even know who owns this place?"
PK raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"That's exactly what I asked you," he replied coldly. "If I already knew, why would I ask? Are you stupid, or just slow?"
The room temperature seemed to drop.
The manager's face flushed red with anger.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" he snapped. "This hotel belongs to Mr. Root."
The name hung in the air.
PK's lips curved—just slightly.
Not in fear.
Not in surprise.
In interest.