Next Up

Track 14

Zoe stared at Mitani's phone, watching a rap music video. "Uh," Zoe looked to Mitani. He sat beside her on the Park's privately owned aircraft, with it too, having their golden name on the side. He held out his phone in front of both of them, showing her the music video. "Who is this?"

"They're all in a rap group or gang. But this song specifically is by Zheanni and her brother Conor."

She listened for a while, hearing Zheanni rap, "It's a .38 special, you feel that it's metal. You know that it's mental. I'm cold; it's my violent temper. Slide on your block in early December. On top for as long as I can remember. Firin' bullets that fly at your melanin pride. I'll silence BTB and all they members. Nine shots to the body, he got fifty cents, yuh..."

"Yeah," Mitani said, "within the last year, they really blew up because of a feature on a song with Lil Durk," Mitani smiled eagerly.

"Little...I don't know who that is."

"Wha- really? He's like one of the biggest rappers right now. I dunno what it's like over in Crater, so maybe you guys don't listen to that stuff."

"I guess not. We aren't really allowed to listen to or watch stuff like this," she gestured at the phone, an uncomfortable expression crossing her face watching the strippers in the music video.

"That must be awful." There was a long pause. Conor rapped the lyrics, "Then I got 'da offer. Jerry Springer told the world that Conor ain't the father. Real estate mogul, got five trap houses, made 'em all modern. Check the account. Racks on racks on racks. Fleet of whips like the crime rate. Black on black on black..." played loudly through the speakers. Mitani looked around the cabin of the personal airship. The mother, Olivia Park, sat by one of the windows; her daughter Ayla Park stood nearby, taking pictures of her posing mother. She lifted her hand, and below her fresh manicure shined a massive rock. The father, Alder Park, wasn't far, as he had passed out in a nearby chair, a never-lit cigar in his mouth.

"Was that supposed to be good?" Zoe asked.

Mitani chuckled and shrugged, "I like it?"

"Fair enough," Zoe said, looking down at the table in front of them—A wooden oval with glass in its center. Black cards with gold lettering and trim spread out in front of her.

"How long have you been into those?"

Zoe paused, "I was seven years, four months, and twenty-three days old when I found this special interest."

'Oddly specific,' Mitani thought. "Are you like a gambler? Or do you do magic tricks or something like that?"

"Mostly magic, but I know some card games. No one else seems to have ever heard of them but me, it seems, but for one reason or another, I know them."

"Alright, show me a trick, then."

The Festival of Wealth in Apris, and Stygian Tower's significance: The annual late fall event at the Stygian Tower keeps this country from becoming insolvent. People from all walks of life ready to part with millions in the pursuit of unparalleled extravagance—bankers, politicians, crime families, cartels, really, anyone who's willing to pay. For the participants, the Festival of Wealth is more than a gathering; it's a theatre of ambition, a stage where influence is measured in the weight of currency. Against the backdrop of this exclusive event, the Stygian Tower becomes a microcosm of societal intricacies, where money speaks louder than words, and the annual ritual ensures the economic pulse of the nation.

The event is funded by four of the five strongest crime families in the world. The Moretti's, The Silvio's, The Elara's, The Falcone's, and the Velenzano Syndicate. However, the Silvio Family isn't welcome.