The Five Million Dollar Scream.

  "Oh, no," Aryan muttered, his gaze transfixed on the empty space before him. "How did I ever entangle myself in this mess?"

  A blue translucent screen hovered before his eyes, suspended in mid-air like a ghostly apparition. Along with the text, a voice that sounded like a synthetic harmony of male and female spoke inside his skull.

  [Objective: Expose the Anchor Lie.

  Reward: Five million dollars.

  Failure Penalty: Death by Demon Consumption.]

  "Death by what?" Aryan whispered, his throat suddenly parched.

  The screen lingered, refusing to disappear.

  Thirteen Minutes Earlier.

  The Grand Hyatt ballroom glittered with wealth beyond Aryan's comprehension.

  Below the crystal chandeliers, the city's elite circulated like predators in designer suits, their laughter tinkling as brightly as their jewelry.

  Aryan tightened his grip on the silver serving tray, his knuckles white.

  "Keep the tray level, boy," the floor manager hissed into his earpiece. "And smile."

  Aryan nodded, forcing the corners of his mouth up as he navigated the sea of expensive perfume.

  A wave of loathing washed over him—not just for the demeaning job, but for the entitled guests who viewed him as furniture.

  Three dollars. That was his current bank balance.

  At home, his mother's medical bills lay on the kitchen table like death warrants. The landlord had slipped the final eviction notice under the door this morning.

  Tonight, Aryan wasn't just working for tips; he was fighting for survival. He needed to be a shadow—present enough to refill glasses, invisible enough to avoid the scorn of the powerful.

  DING.

  A sudden, excruciating pain crashed through Aryan's skull like a sledgehammer. He winced, nearly dropping the tray.

  This wasn't a migraine. It was a digital chime resonating directly within his cerebral cortex.

  [System Integration... Complete.]

  [Welcome, User Aryan.

  Scan Initiated.]

  Aryan stumbled, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the flutes.

  "What's happening to me?" he whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  Before he could process the intrusion, luminous blue text began floating above the guests' heads. He looked at a famous actress by the buffet table.

  [Subject: Meera J.

  Hidden Truth: Currently cheating on husband with the Producer standing to her left.]

  The revelation hovered there, undeniable and stark.

  Aryan felt a chill. The invisible barrier between truth and deception had shattered. Was this a hallucination? Stress-induced psychosis? He was twenty-one. Nobody awakened a System at twenty-one.

  He was destined to remain invisible.

  His panic was cut short when the double doors swung open. The room fell into a reverent silence.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer boomed. "Please welcome the Savior of the Slums. The Philanthropist of the Year... Mister. Anay!

  Thunderous applause erupted. Through the crowd strode a distinguished man in a charcoal suit. His face radiated warmth, and his smile—that disarming, trustworthy smile—could charm a cobra.

  But as Aryan looked at him, the blue text turned a violent, dripping crimson.

  [WARNING! DEMON DETECTED.

  Target: Anay.

  Species: Gluttony Demon Rank three.

  Mask Integrity: 100%.

  Anchor's Lie: "I built five orphanages to save children.]

  Real Truth: He built them to harvest the children.]

  Aryan's blood turned to ice. The tray in his hands trembled like a leaf in a storm.

  Twenty feet away, leaning against a marble pillar, Amara adjusted the strap of her crimson evening gown. The fabric was tight, but it perfectly concealed the obsidian daggers strapped to her thighs.

  She sipped her water, her eyes scanning the room. Center. Flank. Exits.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "Any readings, Control?" she murmured, barely moving her lips.

  "Negative, Captain Amara," a voice crackled in her hidden earpiece. "Scanners are clean. But thermal variance suggests a Rank three is in the building. Be careful. You strike a civilian, and you're done."

  Amara gritted her teeth behind her practiced smile. Demons had evolved. They wore "Human Skins" that fooled even the best tech. Unless she caught one feeding, her hands were tied.

  Her gaze landed on Anay. He fit the profile. Rapid rise to wealth.

  Unexplained disappearances in his district. But she needed proof. If she cut him and he bled red, she would be in prison by midnight.

  She continued her sweep until her eyes stopped on a waiter near the entrance.

  Unlike the other staff, who kept their heads down, this boy was staring directly at Anay with undisguised horror.

  Aryan felt his lungs constrict.

  [Mission Issued: Expose the Anchor Lie.]

  [Reward: Five million dollars.]

  Five million. The number blazed in his mind. It was surgery. It was rent. It was a life.

  But he is a rank three Demon, Aryan thought, terror gripping his chest. I'm just a waiter. If I speak, security will crush me.

  "And so," Anay began, his voice booming over the microphone, "when I look into the eyes of those hungry children, I don't see strangers. I see family."

  The crowd released a collective "Awww."

  [Crowd Belief: 98%]

  "Hint: The tax records are in his inner jacket pocket. The date of the 'Orphanage Opening' aligns with the 'Old City Fire'."

  Is he insane? Aryan wondered. Why carry the evidence on him?

  ["He believes himself untouchable," a voice echoed in his head. It wasn't the robotic System voice. It was sarcastic. "Demons thrive on arrogance. They keep their trophies close."]

  Aryan jumped. "Who is that?"

  ["Call me Sam," the voice replied dryly. "Now focus. Choose, kid. Remain a coward and let your mother die, or embrace the madness."]

  "Is the money real?" Aryan asked desperately.

  "The money is the most real thing here," Sam promised.

  Anay raised his glass, the light catching the crystal. "To the children!" he proclaimed.

  Aryan looked at the exit. Then he looked at Anay's smiling face. The image of his mother's medical bills flashed in his mind.

  He took a breath.

  "TO THE DEAD ONES?" Aryan bellowed.

  The sound shattered the polite atmosphere like a gunshot. The applause died instantly. Three hundred faces turned to look at the trembling waiter clutching a champagne tray.

  Amara straightened up from the pillar, her hand drifting toward the slit in her dress. What is this fool doing?

  "Excuse me?" Anay chuckled, looking at Aryan with manufactured pity. "I believe the staff has had too much to drink."

  "You never built those orphanages!" Aryan screamed, stepping forward. The blue text guided his words.

  "You constructed larders! Check his jacket pocket! The tax dates align with the Old City Fire! He started the fire to create the orphans!"

  The silence was suffocating.

  [Crowd Belief: 85%... Dropping.]

  Anay's smile remained fixed, but Aryan saw it—a momentary glitch. For a microsecond, Anay's eyes turned into bottomless pools of obsidian.

  "Security," Anay said. His voice dropped an octave, sounding like grinding stones. "Remove this trash."

  Two massive guards advanced toward Aryan.

  Amara tapped her earpiece. She had seen the glitch. "Control, maintain positions. Target confirmed as Anay."

  Aryan stumbled back as a guard reached for him. "Show them the papers! It's all there!"

  Inside his head, Sam's laughter resonated like thunder.

  [Strike One: Initiated.]

  The security guard, a behemoth built like a vending machine, clamped a meaty hand onto Aryan's shoulder.

  "That's enough, kid," he grunted.

  Terror surged through Aryan. The System window flashed crimson.

  [Time until Demon Retaliation: 40 seconds]

  [Crowd Belief: 80%]

  His mind raced. If they dragged him out, he was dead. Anay would eat him in the parking lot, and no one would even file a missing persons report.

  "He has the blueprints in his pocket!" Aryan screamed, thrashing against the iron grip.

  "The architect warned him! He burned the Old City to claim the insurance! Check the date! November Twelfth!"

  "Shut him up," Anay sneered, his voice still silken, but his grip on his champagne glass was so tight the stem began to bend. "He's wasting our time."

  Whispers rippled through the crowd like venom.

  "Acting like a Seer?" a woman in emerald silk scoffed, looking at Aryan as if he were a cockroach on a wedding cake. "That tiresome old scam? The Seers vanished ten years ago."

  "Look at his shoes," a man in a velvet tuxedo laughed, pointing at Aryan's scuffed, worn-out soles. "He probably smells like desperation and old dishwater."

  The laughter wasn't just dismissive; it was a physical weight, pressing Aryan down. They didn't just want him gone; they wanted him erased so their perfect evening could resume.

  The guard raised a massive fist, poised to silence Aryan permanently.

  Thwack.

  Amara flicked her wrist. It was a movement so subtle it looked like she was brushing away a stray hair. In reality, a heavy silver coin sailed from her fingers, striking the guard precisely in the nerve cluster behind his knee.

  The guard yelped, his leg buckling. His grip loosened just enough.

  Run, you shouldn't be here, Amara thought, her amber eyes locked on Anay. She sipped her drink, perfectly composed. Or make him panic. Make him reveal himself.

  Seizing the moment, Aryan wrenched free. He scrambled onto the small stage, putting the podium between himself and the security team. He looked out at the sea of wealthy, confused faces.

  He needed to sow doubt. He needed to shatter the Anchor.

  "Mister Anay," a commanding voice sliced through the tension.

  Monarch Markus stepped forward. The man was a legend, celebrated for slaying the Rank Five Demon Dylan. Now, he looked annoyed that his dinner was being interrupted.

  "Anay, this young man is plainly unhinged," Markus declared, gesturing dismissively.

  "Simply reveal your jacket pocket so the authorities can remove him. Why allow a server to tarnish our gathering?"

  Aryan glanced at the Monarch. Thank you, you pompous jerk.

  [Crowd Belief: 50%... Wavering.]

  "Monarch Markus," Anay responded, his voice tight. "You may have slain Dylan, but equating me with such evil is preposterous."

  He turned abruptly toward the exit. "This accusation desecrates my reputation."

  Aryan grabbed the microphone.

  His lungs burned.

  He wasn't just shouting words; he was vomiting up a lifetime of silence.

  Every "Yes, sir," every "Right away, ma'am" he had ever forced past his lips was now fuel for this one, singular accusation. His hands gripped the microphone so hard the plastic creaked.

  "Or is it because the ash from the fire still clings to those papers?" Aryan thundered, his voice echoing through the speakers.

  "You preserved them as trophies of your cruelty, didn't you?"

  [Strike Two: Critical Hit.]

  Sam's voice chimed with glee inside Aryan's head. "He's cracking!"

  Anay froze mid-stride. He pivoted with an unnatural fluidity that sent shivers down Aryan's spine.

  Through his enhanced vision, Aryan saw it—the "Human Skin" stretching like wet latex over something ancient.

  [WARNING: Mask Integrity at 30%]

  [Demon Aggression: CRITICAL]

  "You little rat," Anay hissed.

  His pupils had elongated into horizontal slits.

  A woman in the front row gasped. "Anay? Your eyes... they're changing!"

  "It is an illusion!" Anay roared. But as the words erupted, black smoke curled from his lips instead of breath.

  The stench of burning flesh filled the ballroom. Guests recoiled, covering their noses.

  [Mask Integrity: UNSTABLE.]

  "Show us!" someone shouted from the back.

  "Show us the papers!" The chant grew, fueled by primal fear.

  Anay hunched over. The control he wielded minutes ago vanished. He growled, a sound that rattled the wine glasses. His fingers, now elongated and pale, reached for his lapels.

  He didn't remove the jacket. He ripped his chest open.

  RIP.

  It sounded like wet canvas tearing. Anay's skin split down the middle, peeling back to reveal glistening, slate-grey muscle and a maw of jagged, sulfur-yellow teeth.

  The ballroom erupted in chaos.

  People scrambled over tables, screaming, trampling one another to get to the exits. The pretense of civility evaporated instantly.

  DING.

  [Objective Complete: Lie Exposed.]

  [Payment Processing...]

  [+$5,000,000 Credited.]

  Aryan stood paralyzed on the stage. He was rich. He was wealthier than he had ever dreamed.

  The numbers on the blue screen ticked up furiously. Zero... One Million... Three Million... Five. It was enough to buy the entire hotel. Enough to buy a new life.

  And yet, as he looked at the monster's drooling jaw, he realized the cruelest joke of all: The System had made him a King in the same second it decided to make him a corpse.

  He was five feet away from an eight-foot-tall Gluttony Demon.

  The creature unleashed a roar that shattered eardrums and swept a claw the size of a shovel across the stage.

  CRACK.

  The podium disintegrated. Aryan sailed backward, crashing violently against the wall. He slid down, gasping for air, ribs screaming in agony.

  I'm going to die rich, Aryan thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat.

  The Demon loomed over him, raising its claw to deliver the fatal strike.

  SHING.

  A blur of crimson silk dropped from the balcony.

  Amara landed in a perfect crouch between Aryan and the monster. She didn't look at him. She held two obsidian daggers in a reverse grip, the blades humming with purple energy.

  "Target Identified," she stated, her voice devoid of fear. "Shield down. Kill authorized."

  The Demon lunged. Amara stepped into the attack, sliding beneath the claw like a dancer.

  Slash.

  Black blood sprayed across the stage.

  Aryan wiped the grit from his eyes, transfixed. She moved like death incarnate. Sparks cascaded as she deflected a massive blow with her daggers.

  "Stay down, Aryan!" she shouted without looking back. "Unless you want to die!"

  Aryan blinked, his mind reeling. Aryan? How does she know me?

  Before he could process it, a stray kick from the beast connected with his chest, sending him skidding across the floor into darkness.