Max grand exit
I'm being overdramatic, I know it, but it feels like life and death to me. I'd rather be a singer—even though my voice is, admittedly, a little pitchy—than subject myself to that. Seriously, I'd take on a life of bad karaoke before becoming another cog in the family business.
I slumped back onto the couch after my knees went numb from kneeling for who knows how long. But surrendering? Never!
This is a matter of life versus death, and I'm choosing FREEDOM! I didn't pick either because clearly, I'm smart, a genius, and out of this world. I always come up with the right answers, whether they're on the choices or not. That's how intelligent I am.
And don't even try to correct me. It's freedom over life and death. Period.
I grinned wildly, feeling victorious in my ridiculous self-debate. And then, as if the universe hadn't already thrown enough obstacles in my path, my father's voice cut through my mental celebration.
"Son, are you okay? Should I schedule you with a therapist? You look like a clueless, stupid little guy trying to execute a murder without a proper plan," He chuckled, but I could hear the concern buried under his amusement.
Stupid. That's all I heard. Forget the rest. Forget the concern or whatever. Just **stupid.**
"Dad! I'm not stupid~" I argued, though I knew he's right. Dad's relentless, but he doesn't lie—just tells pure facts.
Wait wait wait am. . am I really dumb?
Heh, thats definitely a false statement Maximus! So Whatever, I'm getting dizzy just thinking about it.
"Yes, you are~" Dad replied, his smile softening as he looked at me.
That's it. I'm done. He's not wrong, but hearing it out loud? Unbearable.
Maybe he even thinks I'm cute to the way he sees his magnificent son. Tch, I'm not cute! I'm handsome, sexy, and intelligent—smarter than Albert Einstein, if I do say so myself then it is! Hmph.
With my mind in a hazy whirl, coming up with a good counter-argument is tough.
I opened my mouth to argue, to come up with some sort of brilliant retort, but nothing came out. It's like my brain had finally betrayed me, leaving my tongue to trip over itself. Every possible comeback fell flat, and I just stood there, defeated. The internal debate had ended with one clear loser: me.
With a defeated sigh, I trudged out of his office and made my way to the **Frenzy Lime Hotel**—my home away from home since turning eighteen. Three years now, and I still couldn't wrap my head around why they'd picked such a ridiculously lame name for such an expensive place. **"The Handsomest Person Lives Here"** would've been much more fitting. Imagine all the idiots flocking to stay there. I'd join them too, obviously.
I stormed through the lobby, ignoring the stares from the front desk staff who were probably wondering why I looked like I'd just lost a world war. Let them wonder. My spirit had been crushed by one simple word. Not the business stuff, not the project deal, not me leading it without knowledge. But the simple one word dad said. **Stupid.**
The elevator doors slid open, and I hit the button for the 20th floor. The glass elevator gave a perfect view of the city, but I barely noticed. I was far too busy throwing myself a grand pity party.
"Why fight for freedom?" I muttered as the elevator ascended. "Why even bother?" I fake sobbed, clutching the handrail for dramatic effect.
One hand covered my mouth in mock horror, my lips trembling like I was about to burst into actual tears. My knees gave way, and I let myself slowly slide down, sinking to the floor as if I was truly overcome by the weight of my imaginary sorrow. I was putting on a show for an audience of one: myself. And I was nailing it.
"Anton," I called out softly, as if summoning a spirit from the ether.
No response.
"ANTON!" I shouted, louder this time, making sure he knew this was urgent.
And there he was, my butler and companion in melodrama. Anton materialized out of nowhere, saluting like a soldier in the middle of a war zone. His voice was high-pitched, nearly shattering my eardrums.
"AYE AYE, CAPTAIN!" he yelled with all the seriousness of a cartoon character.
Sometimes I really wonder why I hired him. He's as ridiculous as I am, maybe more so, and that's saying something. I sighed inwardly, rolling my eyes. The guy has his moments of normalcy, but most of the time? Pure chaos.
"I need my tear drop," I commanded, extending my hand toward him. Obviously, a great performance needs the proper props.
Anton blinked, clearly confused for a moment before switching to a professional tone that didn't suit him at all. "We don't have a tear drop, master."
Of course we didn't. Nothing in my life ever went the way I planned.
I sighed again, deeper this time, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. **Fine. No tear drop.** I'll just cry without it. Not real tears, obviously, but my dramatic talents had never failed me before.
"Then join me here, idiot," I muttered, gesturing for him to sit beside me.
ANTON
After the young master's order, I summoned every ounce of sorrowful emotion I could muster, diving deep into my reservoir of tragic memories. And then, a dramatic flashback erupted in my mind.
Picture this: I'm at home, belting out heartfelt ballads while preparing my ultimate comfort dish—pork sisig, generously spiced with red and green chilis. It's my culinary masterpiece, and I'm just about to enjoy it after a much-needed shower.
As I sang with abandon—"yeah cause im a rockstar~"—and dried my hair, a sudden, horrifying sight caught my eye. Chilis scattered on the floor. My heart sank.
"NoO NoOo NOOO~" I cried out in despair with some tone, realizing my beloved sisig had vanished. I had left it on the table, assuming that, since I live alone, no one would dare touch it. But there it was: an empty plate, mocking me with its chili remnants.
That day was the darkest of my life. I sulked for an entire week. Who could have predicted that my lover would drop by and gobble up my precious meal? He didn't even flinch at my melodramatic display. Instead, he had the nerve to say, "I was hungry. You should always cook for two." Like how would I know he was coming, and hungry on top of that? If he was hungry under different circumstances, I would have gladly satisfied him until he was full.
Anyway, that made me sad all week long, and he didn't even comfort me. Well, he did, but his words of comfort were more like scolding. Just thinking about it makes me tear up.
I've suffered enough. Dramatic sniffles.
MAXIMUS
Anton suddenly burst into tears. I am taken aback by how real his crying looked—seriously, the guy could have given a masterclass in emotional outbursts. His tears are pouring down like a leaky faucet.
Even though I couldn't cry like him, my competitive side told me I have to win this drama, and that's what I did. I decided to up my game. I started sobbing louder, adding some hiccups for extra drama. I wanted to make it clear that I am just as overwhelmed by this situation as Anton.
So here we are, both of us on our knees, crying like the world is ending. It is like a dramatic competition, and I am determined to prove that Im the reigning champion of over-the-top emotional performances. And Im totally acing it because I'm a pro.