[Vanguard Ledger: ¥87,450] [Active Quests: "The 9-to-5 Grind"] [Party Member Status: Isabella (Engaged in Crowd Control)]
The "Neon Lotus" was one of the highest-grossing nightclubs in the Inner City. It catered to corporate middle-management, minor celebrities, and trust-fund kids.
Isabella hated it.
She stood outside the entrance behind a velvet rope, wearing a tight, black security suit that severely restricted her deltoids. She was used to the roar of a bloodthirsty arena, the scent of ozone and iron, and fighting chimeras that breathed acid. Here, she had to endure the smell of cheap cologne and the whining of intoxicated mortals.
"I told you, sweetheart, my name is on the list!" a red-faced man in a designer jacket slurred, jabbing a finger at Isabella's chest. "Let me in, or I'll have your job! Do you know who my father is?!"
Isabella's red eyes narrowed. In the Tower, she would have simply separated his head from his shoulders and parried his father's inevitable revenge squad. But she could practically hear Yuto's voice echoing in her head:
"Civil lawsuits are a massive drain on our capital. Do not dismember the customers. Do not break the velvet rope; it costs ¥15,000 to replace."
Isabella let out a long, measured breath, channeling her Level 85 Gladiator discipline.
"Sir," Isabella said, her voice a low, terrifying purr that vibrated the glass of the club's entrance. "You are not on the ledger. If you do not step back, I will be forced to apply a non-lethal debuff."
"A what? Are you mocking me?!" The man stepped forward, raising his hand to shove her.
Isabella didn't draw her water-blades. She didn't even throw a punch. She simply tapped into her innate [Intimidation Aura], dialing it down from "Apex Predator" to "Mildly Displeased Demigod."
The air around the man suddenly dropped twenty degrees. The neon lights seemed to dim. The heavy, crushing weight of a woman who had killed thousands of digital monsters settled directly onto the drunk man's central nervous system. His survival instincts, dormant for his entire pampered life, violently woke up and screamed at him to flee.
He froze, his raised hand trembling. He looked into Isabella's crimson eyes and saw the promise of a very painful, statistically unavoidable death.
"I... I think I left the stove on," the man squeaked. He turned around and sprinted down the street, abandoning his designer shoes in his haste.
The club manager, a nervous man named Kenji, peeked out the door. "Isabella! What did you do? He didn't even touch you!"
"I utilized a zero-cost psychological deterrent," Isabella reported proudly, adjusting her earpiece. "No physical contact. No property damage. Asset preservation is at one hundred percent. Does this warrant a bonus to my hourly wage?"
Kenji stared at the abandoned shoes, then at the line of suddenly very quiet, perfectly well-behaved patrons waiting to get in.
"Uh. Yes," Kenji swallowed hard. "I'll authorize an extra five hundred yen an hour. Just... please don't look at me like that."