Ethan Voss lingered for a moment longer on the panoramic balcony of his new penthouse, the Azure River sparkling far below like a ribbon of molten sapphire under the midday sun. Nova Prime's central districts bustled with energy—hover-vehicles weaving in precise patterns high above the water, pedestrian skywalks connecting towering commercial spires, and luxury yachts gliding lazily along the river's surface. The air up here was cleaner, filtered through the building's advanced systems, carrying faint hints of blooming flowers from the sky garden behind him. It was a world apart from the gritty outer fringes where he'd spent the last years grinding away in obscurity.
His old clothes—a simple shirt and pants from discount chains—now felt like relics from another life. The shirt strained ridiculously across his enhanced chest and shoulders, sleeves tight around biceps that hadn't existed yesterday. Pants that once hung loose now clung awkwardly. Looking down at himself, Ethan chuckled softly. The Apex Genome Elixir had sculpted him into perfection, but it also rendered his wardrobe obsolete. Practicality demanded action: new clothes, befitting his new reality.
"Time to upgrade," he murmured, a spark of anticipation igniting. Half a billion credits in the bank, controlling shares in Celestial Fiction Hub, a Vortex Thunderbolt parked below, and this penthouse as home—shopping wasn't a chore anymore. It was an opportunity to embrace the tycoon life.
He headed back inside, activating the penthouse AI with a voice command. "House system, prepare a casual outfit from any available defaults—something neutral for going out."
"Affirmative, Master Voss," the smooth AI responded. Drawers in the master wardrobe hummed open, revealing a selection of high-end basics stocked for new owners: tailored shirts, slacks, jackets in neutral tones. Ethan selected a simple black button-up and dark pants—still luxury fabric, fitting his new physique far better than his old rags. A quick shower in the palatial en-suite—rainfall heads cascading hot water infused with subtle aromatics—and he felt refreshed, invigorated.
Key fob in pocket, he took the private elevator down to the underground garage. The Vortex Thunderbolt waited like a loyal predator, gleaming under soft lighting. Doors lifted dramatically as he approached, engine purring to life at his touch.
Destination: Nova Prime's premier luxury district—the Golden Crescent Boulevard. A curving stretch along the riverfront, lined with flagship stores of Auroria's elite brands. Elysian Couture, Vanguard Attire, Celestial Gems—names synonymous with wealth and status. Holographic displays beckoned from storefronts, models strutting virtual runways, advertisements promising exclusivity.
The drive was exhilarating. God-level mastery made navigating the dense traffic effortless—slipping through gaps with precision, acceleration surges sending thrills through his core. Heads turned as the Thunderbolt roared past: pedestrians pausing mid-stride, other drivers glancing enviously. In Nova Prime, supercars were common among the rich, but a limited Vortex model drew whispers.
Parking in a VIP valet zone—scanners recognizing the vehicle and granting priority—Ethan stepped out. Valets in crisp uniforms rushed forward, eyes widening at the car before bowing respectfully. "Welcome, sir. We'll handle it with utmost care."
He nodded, striding toward the boulevard. The area was a sensory feast: polished marble walkways reflecting sunlight, fountains with synchronized water dances, live musicians performing on elevated platforms—string quartets blending classical Aurorian melodies with modern synth. Scents wafted from high-end cafes: rich espresso, artisanal pastries, subtle perfumes from passersby. Shoppers here were the elite—designer bags dangling from arms, personal drones hovering with purchases, security details discreetly trailing.
Ethan's first stop: Elysian Couture, the flagship for men's luxury fashion. Equivalent to Auroria's top haute couture houses—custom suits, ready-to-wear collections that cost more than most annual salaries. The storefront was imposing: massive glass facade with holographic mannequins shifting outfits seamlessly, entrance flanked by doormen in tailored uniforms.
Pushing through the revolving doors, cool conditioned air greeted him, laced with a signature fragrance—woody notes with hints of citrus and spice. The interior sprawled elegantly: polished obsidian floors, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light, display racks with garments arranged like art pieces. Soft ambient music played, upscale without overwhelming.
A few customers browsed— affluent men with companions, trying on jackets or consulting stylists. Sales associates in impeccable attire glided between sections, attentive but not pushy.
Ethan wandered in casually, hands in pockets, drawing subtle glances. His temporary outfit was high-quality but understated—no flashy logos, hair neatly styled but not overly groomed. To the trained eye of luxury staff, he appeared... out of place. Not destitute, but not screaming wealth.
Two female associates near the entrance exchanged quick looks. One, a brunette with sharp features, whispered to her colleague before approaching with a polite but measured smile.
"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Elysian Couture. How may I assist you today?"
Her tone was professional, but Ethan caught the underlying assessment—browsing, perhaps, but unlikely to buy big.
He smiled back, unfazed. "I'm looking for a full wardrobe overhaul. Suits, casual wear, shoes, accessories—everything. Top lines only."
The associate—name tag reading "Aria"—nodded, though her eyes flickered doubt. "Of course, sir. We have excellent selections. Perhaps start with our ready-to-wear section? Prices begin at 50,000 credits for entry pieces."
Subtle probe: gauging budget.
Ethan chuckled inwardly. In his old life, 50,000 was a month's grind. Now? Pocket change.
"Lead the way. And I'll need custom tailoring too—multiple suits."
Aria's smile tightened slightly, guiding him deeper. Another associate joined—a blonde named "Mira," more senior perhaps—overhearing.
As they walked, Ethan browsed racks: fabrics exquisite—cashmere blends, rare silks imported from southern continents, leathers tanned with advanced processes for suppleness. He pulled a few items: a navy suit jacket, crisp white shirts, slim trousers.
In the fitting lounge—private pods with 360-degree mirrors, adjustable lighting, complimentary beverages—Mira took over measurements while Aria fetched options.
"Impressive physique, sir," Mira commented professionally as she scanned with a holographic device. "Athlete? Model?"
"Something like that," Ethan replied vaguely, standing poised. The elixir's gifts made him fill garments perfectly—broad shoulders tapering to narrow waist, proportions ideal.
Suggestions piled up: dozens of shirts, pants, jackets, overcoats. Shoes from handcrafted loafers to formal oxfords. Accessories—watches from partner brands (though he'd upgrade later), belts with subtle buckles, ties in patterns evoking power.
The total mounted quickly: hundreds of thousands, then millions as custom orders added—bespoke suits requiring master tailors, premium materials.
At checkout—elegant counter with holographic displays—Aria rang items. "Your total comes to 8,720,000 credits, sir. Including customs and priority delivery to your residence."
A few other customers nearby glanced over curiously. 8.7 million in one go? Impressive, but not unheard in this district.
"Add more," Ethan said calmly. "Full seasonal sets—summer, winter. Extra accessories. And outfits for family: women's luxury for my mother and sister, sized approximately." He provided estimates from memory.
Aria blinked, consulting Mira. Totals climbed past 15 million.
Payment time. Aria swiped the terminal. "Card or transfer, sir?"
Ethan pulled a sleek black card from his wallet—materialized overnight by the system, unlimited Supreme Tycoon backing from Imperial Vault Bank's elite tier.
The terminal scanned. Beep—approved instantly, no limit query.
Aria's eyes widened fractionally. Mira leaned in, seeing the card's emblem: Infinite Prestige Black, issued only to ultra-high-net-worth clients. Rumored unlimited, backed by global consortia.
"Approved, sir. Thank you for your patronage."
Tone shifted—deference now genuine. Staff who had hovered distantly rushed over: store manager emerging, offering complimentary alterations on-site, VIP membership perks, future private viewings.
Nearby customers whispered: "Who is he? That card..."
One snide voice from a corner— a young man in flashy attire, accompanied by a glamorous woman, browsing watches. He'd eyed Ethan earlier with disdain for the "basic" entry outfit.
"Tch, probably rented the car outside. Flashy spenders like that burn out fast—daddy's money or debt."
His companion giggled.
Ethan overheard effortlessly—enhanced senses. Amusement flickered. Classic face-slap setup.
He turned casually. "Excuse me?"
The young man—early twenties, designer overload, arrogant smirk—straightened. "Nothing. Just saying, some people pretend in places like this."
Manager paled, sensing tension.
Ethan smiled coolly. "Pretend? Fair point. But let's check."
He addressed Aria: "Add that watch display—the full Vanguard Chronos collection. And those limited cufflinks."
Another 5 million.
Paid seamlessly.
Young man's face reddened. Companion's eyes lingered on Ethan now—appreciative of the physique, power.
"Anything else, sir?" Manager asked eagerly.
"That's all for now. Deliver to Apex Pinnacle Towers top duplex."
Gasps. That address? Ultimate status.
Young man deflated, muttering excuses as he dragged his date out.
Ethan exited to applause-subtle from staff—packages drone-delivered later.
Back in the Thunderbolt, he laughed fully. First taste of tycoon prestige—envy silenced by wealth.
But shopping wasn't done. Next: more brands, perhaps jewelry, tech upgrades.
The day stretched gloriously.
Nova Prime bowed to the rising tycoon.
(Word count: approximately ----)