The Strivers - 34. Chapter 34 - The Podium Test

“Let’s hit the food,” Yuri said, cutting through the heavy silence.

Alexeï hesitated, but Yuri was already moving, weaving through the room with purpose. Misha trailed behind, all chill, like none of this was his problem.

By a velvet-draped wall, a buffet table stood out in weird contrast: plastic plates piled with chips, mini sandwiches, cold pizza slices, and cheap candy. It was a tacky flex, meant to dazzle but screaming calculated neglect.

Nearby, rows of bottles lined up with no shame: sodas, juices, but mostly a loud spread of booze—beers, vodkas, whiskeys. Their presence fed the room’s sketchy vibe, like they were part of the setup.

“They don’t hold back,” Alexeï muttered, eyeing the bottles, torn between curiosity and suspicion.

Yuri let out a low chuckle, barely audible, like he didn’t want to draw eyes. “No shit. They know what they’re doing. Want people to loosen up? This is the move.”

The blunt truth hit hard, making Alexeï’s brows knit.
“The drunker you are, the easier you bend,” Yuri added, voice flat. “And they love that here.”

A chill ran through Alexeï, not just a shiver but a jolt, dragging up memories he’d rather bury.

Misha, quiet till now, sauntered up, a cheese canapé in hand. He slung an arm around Alexeï’s shoulder, a move too familiar, too deliberate.

“So, what’s your excuse for being here?” Misha asked, flashing a charming smile with a hint of shade.

Alexeï’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His head spun, fear and confusion tangling. He mumbled something incoherent.
“Shy, huh?” Misha laughed softly, not pushing. “No stress, everyone’s like that at first. Me? I’m here for the cash.”

Alexeï’s eyes flicked up, hooked despite himself. “Cash?”

Misha raised a brow, biting into his canapé like it was no big deal. “Duh. What’d you think? I ain’t into dudes. My thing’s girls. But when your fridge is empty, and your mom’s at home with your little bro and sis to feed, you do what you gotta do, yeah?”

A cold unease slid under Alexeï’s skin. His own memories surged, blending with Misha’s raw truth about survival.

Misha kept going, tone almost light. “It’s simple. Get picked, you score. Just gotta know how to catch their eye.”

“How do you get picked?” Alexeï blurted, desperate to shove his thoughts away.

Yuri, silent till now, shot them an amused look. “See that spot?” He nodded toward a corner between the lounge and couches. “They’ll set up a podium there later.”

“A podium?” Alexeï echoed, thrown.

Yuri nodded, grinning. “Yup. Wanna climb up? That’s the way. But just standing there ain’t enough. You gotta make him notice.”

“Him? Who?”

Yuri’s grin faded, his eyes turning serious. “Volkov. The big boss. Catch his eye on that podium, and you might get an invite to his place upstairs.” He pointed at the ceiling for emphasis.

The words slapped Alexeï. Volkov. The target. The man he had to hack. It clicked: the podium, the attention, the access. That was the key.

His heart raced as he glanced at the ceiling, picturing it. The mission suddenly felt bigger, trickier. Getting up there, grabbing Volkov’s attention—it wasn’t just a game. It was a test he had to pass.

A deeper shiver hit him. The mission had just kicked off.

A Harsh Light, a Heavy Shadow

The three stood near the buffet, soft music and hushed whispers giving the room a surreal vibe, like reality had glitched. Alexeï was still processing Yuri’s intel when Misha strolled up, munching a cheese canapé with that maddening chill. His moves, his vibe—everything screamed natural confidence, almost magnetic. For a split second, Alexeï caught a warm, inexplicable look from him. He shook it off, trying to focus on their convo.

“So, what’s your deal? Girls or guys?” Misha dropped, tone light but loaded, that kingpin smile ruling every word.

The question, simple yet heavy, hit Alexeï like a shockwave. Was it a subtle dig—or straight-up bait? He turned to Yuri, eyes begging for clarity.

“Why’s he saying that?” he muttered, half-scared someone might overhear. “This about the podium?”

Yuri locked eyes with him, suddenly intense.

“You joking, right?” he asked, brows furrowed, like the question itself threw him.

Alexeï hesitated, totally out of his depth. Clueless, awkward, he doubled down.

“Why’s he saying that? And earlier, when he said he’s not… you know…” He fumbled, voice shaky. “Does it tie to the podium?”

The words hung heavy, thickening the air. Yuri stared, a mix of surprise and irritation flashing across his face.

“You’re telling me you don’t know?” he whispered, impatience creeping in. “You roll up here and have no clue how it works?”

Alexeï shook his head, confusion cracking his confidence. Yuri sighed, leaning closer, voice dropping lower.

“Getting on the podium means catching Volkov’s eye. You put on a show. Dance, flex, make him drool—whatever.”

Alexeï squinted, lost.

“Show? Sh-show… what?”

Yuri’s lips curled into a sharp, half-annoyed, half-sly grin.

“Guess,” he shot back, grabbing his crotch through his track pants, his provocative stare doubling down on the crude gesture.

Alexeï’s eyes darted away, face burning red, shame and unease hitting hard. Yuri’s casual vibe felt like a deliberate jab to throw him off. “You gotta show you’re down for him. That’s how you score the cash.”

The blunt hint and bold move slammed Alexeï with brutal clarity. It clicked, but it was a truth he wished he could unsee. His heart raced, throat dry. He opened his mouth, words stumbling out.

“But… I’m not doing that!”

His denial was raw, almost feral. His legs shook at the thought.

Misha, watching with a smirk, sidled closer. His chill, teasing vibe clashed hard with Alexeï’s obvious panic.

“For real? You didn’t know that’s the gig?” he said, laughing softly, eyes glinting with playful shade.

Alexeï’s face flushed deeper, shame and humiliation wrapping him tight. Every look, every word dialed up his rawness.

“Yo, chill,” Misha added, tone softer, trying to ease him. “It’s not that deep. Do what you can, that’s it. Nobody’s forcing you.”

But Alexeï was gone, lost in his head. He felt trapped in a web, its rules and edges a mystery. Beyond “showing off,” he realized it’d be in front of everyone, bared to their stares and judgments. The thought cranked the tension to unbearable.

Misha, for once, looked thrown by his own words, his eyes flicking to Yuri, like he was gauging his reaction. Yuri’s brows stayed knit, his face unreadable. A thick vibe settled between them.

“You sure now’s the time for him to play hero?” Yuri asked Misha, voice colder than usual, leaning into the situation’s real stakes.

Misha shrugged, but stayed quiet. His gaze drifted, a rare flicker of doubt breaking through. For once, he seemed unsure what to think.

Alexeï, catching their silent exchange, felt a chill crawl up his spine. The heavy quiet froze time, each boy lost in his own head. The background music faded, like the world had checked out. Alexeï stepped back slightly, eyes darting for an escape neither Yuri nor Misha seemed ready to give. No one spoke, like saying it out loud would cross a line they couldn’t uncross. They stood, locked in a tense, suffocating standoff, waiting for something—or someone—to break the unbearable strain.