(young Scrooge)

At 27, his life revolved around extravagant drug-fueled parties and fleeting encounters, where the haze of smoke mingled with the chatter of his wealthy socialite friends. The air was thick with a counterfeit sense of excitement as they delved deep into discussions about stocks, financial schemes, and the number of women they could seduce within a year. Did Scrooge derive any true enjoyment from it all? Not really. But there was an intoxicating thrill in feeling like he belonged to the elite upper class.

He watched ministers, slick in their tailored suits, exploit the uneducated masses—those who skimmed through life armed only with private school diplomas and the comforting blanket of generational wealth. It sparked a confusing mix of admiration and disdain within him. Did he idolize their cutthroat lifestyle? Yes and no. Beneath the veneer of envy, a gnawing emptiness festered. The glamour and excess, although captivating, were slowly consuming his soul and he did not fancy the idea of regressing back into a dog-whimpering beggar.

As he continued to daydream on past events, the socialites interrupted him. “Did the opium fuck his brain already?” one of them laughed

“Its only a opium laced cig, how can he not handle it?”