The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

The Meridian Design District sat on the edge of downtown Verano where the money stopped pretending to be modest. Glass storefronts with single chairs displayed on pedestals like museum pieces. Minimalist logos etched into concrete walls. The kind of place where you walked in wearing jeans and the salesperson’s smile became a tax assessment.

I found parking in a structure three blocks away because the Range Rover was too wide for the street-level spots that Diane kept pointing at. She disagreed. I told her that scraping a forty-thousand-dollar paint job against a concrete pillar was not on today’s agenda. She told me the paint job cost sixty-two thousand and that I should listen to her about spatial awareness. I told her my spatial awareness was what got me third place at Halloran. She told me to park the car.

I parked the car.

The three of us walked down Meridian Boulevard in a loose formation that Sloane would probably describe as tactical spacing if anyone asked. Diane in the center, half a step ahead, her heels clicking against the sidewalk with the rhythm of someone who owned every surface she touched. Sloane on my right, close enough that our arms brushed with every other step, her white sneakers nearly silent against the pavement. Me on the left, carrying nothing yet but already resigned to carrying everything later.

The Saturday morning crowd in the design district was exactly what you’d expect. Women in linen who looked like they spent their weekdays managing hedge funds. Men in Japanese selvedge denim who looked like they spent their weekdays managing the women. A few younger couples holding iced coffees and pointing at furniture through windows with the desperate energy of people who had just signed a mortgage and were trying to convince themselves that a four-thousand-dollar sectional was an investment.

"There." Diane pointed at a storefront three doors down. The sign read ATELIER HAVEN in thin gold letters against a matte charcoal wall. The window display featured a single bed frame in warm walnut with brass hardware, positioned on a concrete pedestal under soft directional lighting. No price tag visible.

If you had to look for the price, you couldn’t afford it. If you could afford it, you didn’t need to look.

"That bed frame is eleven thousand dollars," Sloane said flatly.

"It was nine last season." Diane pushed through the glass door without breaking stride. "Inflation."

The interior opened up into a space roughly the size of a basketball court, all polished concrete floors and exposed ductwork painted white. Furniture arranged in vignettes that looked like rooms ripped from magazines. Living room setups flowing into bedroom displays flowing into office configurations. Everything in earth tones, warm metals, textured fabrics. The air smelled like linen and cedar and the quiet desperation of commissioned salespeople.

A woman appeared from behind a floating shelf display. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, with dark hair pulled into a low bun, wearing all black in a way that communicated she worked here rather than shopped here. Her name tag said MARINA.

"Welcome to Atelier Haven. Are we looking for anything specific today?"

The we was aimed at Diane, who Marina had correctly identified as the person holding the credit card within approximately one point four seconds of our entry. Professional instinct. The kind of read that would get her hired at Fitzgerald Media Group if she ever got tired of selling couches.

"Two full bedroom sets. Full bathrooms. Desk configurations. Living space essentials." Diane rattled off the list without consulting anything, because she’d memorized it on the drive over while I thought she was texting. "We’re furnishing two student apartments at Halloran. Seven hundred fifty square feet each."

Marina’s posture changed. Her smile went from retail-warm to genuinely interested. "Halloran Academy? Congratulations. We’ve furnished several student residences there over the years. The apartments are generous but the layout can be tricky with the built-in study nooks."

"You know the floor plan?"

"We have it on file. I can pull it up if you’d like."

Diane’s smile was the one she wore when someone had just passed an audition they didn’t know they were taking. "Please."

Marina disappeared toward a back office, and Diane turned to me and Sloane with the expression of a general surveying a battlefield.

"Sloane, you’re looking at bed frames and mattresses first. Pick three options, I’ll narrow to one. Do not pick anything with a fabric headboard because you generate heat in your sleep and fabric headboards absorb sweat."

"Mom."

"It’s science, sugar. Lukas, you need a desk that can support actual work. Not the decorative kind with the thin legs that wobble when you lean on it. Something solid. Oak or walnut. Check the drawers. If they stick, keep walking."

"Yes ma’am."

"Don’t ma’am me. I’m not old enough for ma’am."

Sloane snorted. Diane ignored her.

We split. Sloane drifted toward the bedroom displays on the left side of the showroom, immediately gravitating toward a low-profile platform bed in dark charcoal with clean lines and a slatted headboard. I watched her run her hand along the edge of the frame, testing the finish, pressing down on the mattress with her palm to check the firmness. The girl approached furniture shopping the same way she approached sparring partners. Evaluate. Test. Decide.

I walked toward the office section near the back wall and found a row of desks ranging from sleek and minimal to something that looked like it belonged in a university library. Heavy. Deep drawers. Surfaces wide enough to spread blueprints or, in my case, textbooks and whatever classified material Halloran’s curriculum demanded.

A walnut desk caught my eye. Wide top with a slight live edge on the front, simple tapered legs, three drawers on the right side. I pulled the top drawer. It slid like it was on ball bearings. The construction underneath was solid joinery, no particle board, no shortcuts. The surface had a matte finish that would age well and hide scratches from Spectral Reach practice sessions, though I couldn’t exactly explain that particular requirement to the sales staff.

I checked the price tag dangling from a thin string tied to the back leg.

Twenty-eight hundred dollars.

For a desk.

Marcus Belmont’s education trust was about to take a significant hit.

"That’s a good one."

I turned. A kid about my age stood two desks over, running his fingers along the edge of a lighter oak model. Navy blue hair that fell just past his ears in a way that looked genetic rather than intentional. Brown eyes that were processing about six things simultaneously behind a slight frown of concentration. Lean build. Wore a soft grey t-shirt and jeans that suggested he’d dressed for comfort rather than impression. Small notebook sticking out of his back pocket with what looked like hand-drawn diagrams on the exposed page.

He noticed me looking and his hand went to the notebook instinctively. Protective.

"Sorry. Um. I didn’t mean to, like, I wasn’t hovering. I was looking at the desks and you walked over and I was already here, so."

He gestured vaguely at the space between us as if the physical layout of the showroom required explanation. "I’m Percy."

"Lukas."