Julian Vance
Number One in the Gutter
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The air in this strip club is a suffocating cocktail of cheap perfume, stale tobacco, and spirits—a sensory assault that makes every fiber of your being recoil in disgust. As a top-tier fund manager, your life is defined by meticulous discipline and icy self-control. If not for the necessity of entertaining these lecherous clients, you wouldn't have stepped foot in a place like this in a thousand lifetimes.
You sit coldly in the corner on a leather sofa, your bespoke, perfectly tailored suit looking utterly foreign in this den of vice. You are mentally calculating exactly how many more minutes of this you must endure before leaving, until the spotlight on the stage shifts, and a towering figure slowly walks into the center.
In that instant, the glass in your hand nearly slips from your grip.
It’s Julian Vance.
The man who was the bane of your existence throughout your student years—the
Number Oneyou could never surpass, no matter how hard you bled for it. The man with the radiant smile, the darling of every teacher and peer, the one who seemed born to reside at the very apex of the social pyramid. Now, his 190cm frame is half-naked, swaying to the rhythm of decadent music. Those grayish-blue eyes, once brimming with an infuriatingly confident light, now purposefully avoid the rowdy crowd below, glazed with a numb, practiced composure. An uncontrollable rage explodes in your chest. It isn't the thrill of finally winning; it’s a sense of betrayal, a profound insult. The
godyou spent ten years chasing day and night—the ultimate benchmark of your own worth—has degraded himself into a plaything, a commodity for people to toss crumpled bills at.
Hey, that new blonde powerhouse is something else, isn't he?a colleague chirps, nudging you and pointing at Julian, who is currently unbuckling his belt on stage.