Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

'I still have 13002 Pop-star Points to spend,' Tristan thought.

He knew where to already.

The first 5000 went to the Acting skill, raising it to the Ascendant rank—the limit.

He felt like he would need it for the meeting ahead. To pretend to be in control despite everything.

As for the rest of his points, Tristan saved them for now. He was going to ascend his charisma eventually—but first he needed a stash of Criminal Points to balance this ascension out.

He wasn't sure which skill correlated with the fearsomeness attribute, but Tristan would find out, eventually.

For now, he just enjoyed the rush of the new knowledge in his head and thought about what he was going to do and say when he met his parents next.

There was a lot to think about.

Tristan needed ammunition—good ammunition.

In the past, he thought his successes would be such ammunition, but he had become smarter since then.

He needed blackmail, and he knew how and from where to get it quickly. Some of these things he knew already, just from previous remote observation, just from operating in the same area.

Like how many enemies his mother made by being a vain bitch, or how many illegal things his father (probably) did to earn more money with his horse-betting business.

***

Next morning.

They stayed at the same hotel, the address of which they told the police. It was a fancy five-star place, with the receptionist, who refused to let Tristan in without an invitation from the people staying.

Thankfully for them, Tristan's parents gave him one after the receptionist called them up. Otherwise, Tristan would've gone up anyway, but much angrier.

He was angry already. It was a simmering feeling without a direct target.

The door opened when Tristan knocked. His mother was standing on the other side.

Norah Hayes looked impeccable, as if yesterday's fire never happened. The slight red marks on her skin were the only trace of yesterday's events, and they were carefully covered by her long-sleeved dress and the style of her hair.

Some of them didn't hide from Tristan's observant gaze, and neither did the trace of redness in his mother's eyes.

Right now, she was meeting his anger with anger and indignation. She looked at him like he was a complete stranger.

Tristan wasn't sure what to make of it yet, but he was positive that by now, Michael's conditioning had fully worn off from her.

"You! You dared to show your face, after all," Tristan's mother said accusingly, and stepped aside from the entrance. "Come in, then. Let's settle it in private."

Tristan raised his eyebrow, but followed inside and closed the door behind him.

"So this is how you greet me after everything, mother?" Tristan spat the last word like an insult.

His father, Harry Hayes, was waiting in the sitting room of the suite, right past the entrance. At Tristan's appearance, he shot to his feet and glared at him.

"Don't you call my wife this, impostor! What are you trying to achieve with this? Do you expect us to give you money?"

Tristan blinked.

It was all the reaction he was showing. That Ascendant rank of his acting skill was doing a lot of work to let Tristan act the way he needed, not the way he wanted.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Inwardly, Tristan was stunned with disbelief—and outrage. Outwardly, he was just very sarcastic.

"An impostor? Do I need to show you an ID so that you would believe I am your son? Did you forget how my face looks already? After calling me by name yesterday?"

"As if anyone could ever forget this sight!" Tristan's mother exclaimed. "I consulted the best plastic surgeons—they all said there was no hope of fixing my son's face. Do you expect us to believe you when you just claim to be him? Even IDs can be forged, but his face can never be fixed!"

"Yesterday we were blind and half-dead with smoke–we imagined things!" Tristan's father added.

Find exclusive stories on empire

For all his imagination, Tristan never imagined this. He didn't want to.

Even now, this incident was stabbing him like a knife.

Tristan's hand shot to his mother's face faster than his thoughts. His grip was strong enough to hurt, and his nails dug into her skin. Despite the violent gesture, his voice was absolutely even.

"Is this what you tell yourself? You should've tried harder to help. I think you've never been the best mother, but at least when I was a child, you always told me that you love me whenever I asked."

Tristan's mother gasped, grabbing his wrist, but he barely felt her pathetic attempts to get free.

"Unhand her at once!" Tristan's father shouted.

He ran up to Tristan, seemingly with an intent to pull him away from Norah, but Tristan stopped him in his tracks with a single glare.

Norah stared at Tristan with wide, terrified eyes.

"You are just saying things! Stop talking like you are him, impostor!"

She tried to hide it, but Tristan saw through her act. He saw that his voice, mannerisms, and looks were slowly burrowing through his mother's defenses. She was coming to believe him, despite desperately not wanting to.

"When I was eight, I became sick with tonsillitis, and you hovered in my room in a mask, because you were afraid to get sick as well—but you were just as afraid that my singing voice would be irreparably damaged. You wanted me to become a singer even then. Your little star."

Tristan's father recovered from the freezing glare he was given, but now he was as taken aback as Tristan's mother. The personal details Tristan had shared echoed with them, and Tristan's tone of voice, emotionless with all the emotion he was restraining, made it impossible to ignore.

These were things one couldn't know from anyone but Tristan or his immediate family. Even the servants didn't know all of it.

"This can't be!" Harry shouted, charging at Tristan in mindless fury. "Let Norah go, you bastard!"

Before his father could strike him, Tristan pushed Norah away and gracefully stepped aside, letting Harry run past him. Norah stumbled on her feet and almost fell, but caught herself by the edge of the coffee table.

Tristan continued to talk like nothing of that happened.

"But where was that love when I needed it the most? As soon as it became clear I will never be what you want me to be, you let me rot in my room. When I left, you never even bothered to put on a 'missing' notice. When the press asked, you told them that your youngest had a change of heart and left the public eye. Is that what you told yourself, too?"

Tristan's mother put her face in her hands. Tears were falling from her eyes, and she was shaking.

At this moment, Harry's worry—or his fear—won over his anger and he rushed to support Norah by her shoulder.

"But you blocked all my cards, anyway. I withdrew money once… And this was what I had to live with, mother. It only was enough for a few months. I could've stretched it for longer, but nobody taught me to live frugally, you know. Were you really so greedy to not care about what I was going to live on? People weren't eager to offer me a decent job."

"You wanted to leave, so we let you!" Norah cried out between sobs. "You wanted to cut the ties, so we cut ties! Stop blaming us for it!"

Tristan's father froze in his spot.

"Norah, you can't in your right mind believe that this bastard is really—"

"But he must be. He must be, or…" Norah let out a sob. "I don't know how it happened, but somehow!"

Tristan sneered, showing a flash of the rage that was boiling inside of him.

He knew that at this point, the words of disbelief from his father were just spoken because of his fear. Harry wanted to deny everything so he could come out of this clean.

It made Tristan even more furious. Just like the excuses of his mother.

"So you believe me now? Mother. Father," he glared at the man. "If yes, then why aren't you falling to your knees to apologize? Roll like dogs and pray to God and me to be merciful!"

"Don't talk to us like that! We should've called security on you long ago! We shouldn't have never invited you here, but we thought you would be a reasonable man!" Tristan's father exclaimed with an angry shake of his fist.

"I saved your pathetic lives just yesterday, even though I really didn't have to. I can still end them, and no security will stop me—or can do even worse and end your lives as you know them."

With these words, Tristan walked to a nearby chair and sat on it like a throne. He crossed his legs, showing a polished black shoe.

"When I finish talking, you will be kissing my feet. And if chose not to, you will be ten times as sorry as you would've been otherwise."