Chapter 2: A Taste of Greed

Chapter 2: A Taste of Greed

The roar of the unseen audience washed over him, a physical wave of sound that was deeper and more distinct than the night before. This time, Aaron didn’t hesitate in the doorway. He took a deliberate step onto the polished obsidian floor, the oppressive heat of his kitchen replaced by the cool, conditioned air of the stage. The theme music was a brassy, triumphant fanfare that vibrated in his bones.

“Welcome back, Aaron,” the Hostess purred. She used his name. He hadn’t told her his name. A cold knot formed in his stomach, but it was quickly overshadowed by the dazzling spectacle. The gold arches overhead pulsed with a brighter, more urgent rhythm, and the green sequins of her pantsuit seemed to shimmer with a life of their own.

“We’re so glad you decided to rejoin the fun,” she continued, her voice a silken ribbon of sound. “But I must warn you. Last night was a free sample. A little taste to whet your appetite. Tonight, the training wheels are off.”

Her smile didn't waver, but the predatory hunger in her emerald eyes intensified. “We don’t deal in trivialities anymore, Aaron. We deal in truth. Your truth. A far more valuable currency, wouldn't you agree?”

The audience roared its approval.

“So, tonight’s question is a simple one,” she said, gliding closer. A scent like ozone and expensive perfume wafted from her. “What are you willing to pay for your REWARD?” She gestured grandly to her side.

A column of golden light swirled into existence, brighter than before. It wasn’t a candy bar this time. The light solidified into a sleek, black briefcase. With a sharp click, it snapped open. Aaron’s breath caught in his throat. It was filled with stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly bound in paper bands.

“Ten thousand dollars,” the Hostess announced, her voice resonating with the weight of the sum. “Enough to silence those pesky credit card bills, perhaps? A security deposit on a better life? It’s yours, Aaron. All you have to do is give us something in return.”

Aaron stared at the money, his mind racing. Ten thousand dollars was more than a lifeline; it was a resurrection. It would wipe out the debt that followed him like a shadow, pay his rent for almost a year. It was freedom, packaged in a black briefcase.

“What… what do you want?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Her smile was beatific, terrifying. “Oh, nothing you’ll miss too much. A trifle. We want a memory, darling. A happy one. Give us the memory of your seventh birthday.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I don’t just mean the facts. Anyone can list facts. We want the feeling. The genuine, unfiltered joy of it all. The warmth of the sun on your face, the taste of cheap, sugary frosting, the dizzying thrill of seeing that brand-new bicycle. Give us that… and the cash is yours.”

A memory? The concept was so alien, so impossible, it felt like a trick. How could you give a feeling away? He tried to summon the memory. His seventh birthday… a sunny day in his parents’ backyard. A blue Schwinn bicycle with streamers on the handlebars. His mom’s chocolate cake, the one with the lopsided frosting. He remembered the facts, but the Hostess was right. The true prize was the feeling—that pure, unadulterated childhood euphoria. A warmth spread through his chest as he recalled it.

Could he really sell that?

He looked from the Hostess’s expectant face to the briefcase full of money. He thought of the threatening red letters on his last credit card statement. He thought of the instant noodles waiting for him in the silent, lonely kitchen on the other side of the pantry door. He thought of how that ten thousand dollars could make the suffocating weight on his chest disappear.

It was just one day. One happy memory out of thousands. A small price to pay.

“Okay,” he said, the word feeling heavy and final. “I’ll do it.”

The Hostess clapped her hands together, a sharp, delighted sound. “Wonderful! Now, just close your eyes, Aaron. Picture it all, and tell us. Tell us everything you felt.”

He did as he was told. He closed his eyes, the stage lights leaving glowing spots on the inside of his eyelids. He forced himself back, back to that grassy yard. “It was… warm,” he began, his voice shaky. “The sun. I remember the smell of cut grass. My dad had just mowed the lawn.”

As he spoke, a strange lightness bloomed behind his eyes.

“My friends were there… Mark and Kevin. We were chasing each other. And then… then my parents brought out the bike. It was so blue. The shiniest thing I’d ever seen.” He described the feel of the rubber grips, the thrill that shot through him, a jolt of pure possession and freedom. He described the cake, the way the frosting was too sweet but perfect, melting on his tongue.

The Hostess had moved closer. He could feel her presence, a predatory stillness in the air. He felt a faint, tickling sensation at his temple, like a single strand of a spider’s web. He kept talking, describing the joy, the laughter, the feeling that this one, perfect day would last forever.

He felt the warmth of the memory flare brightly in his mind, and then… it was gone. Siphoned away. A sudden, hollow coolness replaced it. He opened his eyes.

The Hostess was standing before him, her eyes closed and her head tilted back. She took a long, slow, deep breath, as if inhaling the world’s most intoxicating perfume. When her eyes opened, the emerald green was glowing with a faint inner light. Her smile was no longer a performance; it was a look of deep, primal satisfaction.

“Exquisite,” she breathed. “A beautiful little vintage. So much… flavor.”

The words made Aaron’s skin crawl. The briefcase snapped shut and floated toward him. He took it with numb hands. It was heavy, real. The audience was in a frenzy, their cheers a roaring tide.

“Thank you for your generous donation, Aaron!” the Hostess boomed, her professional persona snapping back into place. “Join us next time for another exciting round of RISK! OR! REWARD!”

The world dissolved. He was back in his pantry, the weak bulb flickering overhead. He stumbled out into his kitchen, clutching the briefcase like a shield. The silence of the apartment crashed down on him.

He set the case on his rickety kitchen table and opened it. The money was there. Crisp, real, smelling of ink and paper and possibility. He pulled out a stack and fanned the bills. It was all there. A wave of giddy relief washed over him, so potent it made him dizzy. He had done it.

Then, to calm his racing heart, he tried to think of that happy day again. His seventh birthday.

He could remember the facts. There was a party. He got a blue bike. His mom made a cake. The information was there, like a list of bullet points in a file. But the feeling—the warmth of the sun, the scent of the grass, the taste of the frosting, the sheer, explosive joy—was gone. There was just a blank space where the emotion should have been. It was like looking at a photograph of a meal he knew he’d eaten but could no longer taste. A hollow echo.

He looked from the cash on his table to the pantry door. He had traded a piece of his past for a solution to his present. It was a violation, a quiet theft that left an invisible wound.

And yet, as he stood there in the profound, crushing silence of his empty apartment, a cold and terrifying thought took root in the hollow space the memory had left behind.

Ten thousand dollars for one happy day.

He wondered what the next REWARD would be. And what else he was willing to sell to get it.