December 31st, 1999 | 11:49 PM
The city hissed beneath a thin sheet of snow.
Julian Crest kept walking. Collar up. Hands buried deep in the torn lining of his snow suit. Every step through the back alley made a sick, wet sound — slush mixing with cold runoff, soaking into the edges of his boots. The kind of cold that clung to bones. The kind of silence that wasn't really silence, just... empty.
From the rooftops above, faint cheers leaked through cracked windows. Fireworks hadn't started yet, but people were already shouting, laughing, kissing. Midtown was only four blocks away, but here — 12th Street's back end — it felt like a different world.
Julian stopped near a dumpster coated in old snow and peeling paint. One of the graffiti tags read "NO ONE'S COMING." The letters were pink.
He leaned his back against the metal. Took out a bent cigarette. Lit it with the last flicker of a half-dead lighter. The flame danced, weak and stubborn against the wind. He cupped his hands around it. Inhaled.
The breath fogged up in front of him, thick and white. The taste was bitter. Cheap tobacco and something metallic.
From his inside pocket, Julian pulled out a folded eviction notice — the kind printed on aggressive red paper. He didn't read it. Just looked through it. Then fold it and stuffed it into a crack in the wall beside him.
"New year," he muttered. His voice scratched against the quiet. "New failure."
The cigarette slipped from his fingers. It hit the slush of snow and hissed out.
He didn't step on it.
He just walked.
His legs moved on their own. Like they didn't need him anymore. The wind blew hard down the alley, catching the bottom of his coat. His fingers twitched as he shoved them deeper into his pockets.
As Julian turned the corner past the deli loading dock, something made him pause.
A shadow.
Not standing on the street. Not leaning on a rail.
settled on top of it.
A man. Alone. Balanced on the outer side of the pedestrian bridge that overlooked the train yard. One foot planted. The moving back and forth.
He wasn't looking around. He was looking down. At the tracks.
At nothing.
Julian stared for a second.
Then blinked hard.
The man was still there.
And he wasn't moving.
Julian blinked hard.
Perched on the other side of the railing like gravity meant nothing. One step from vanishing into the darkness below. Trains hissed somewhere in the distance, metal groaning under weight, but up here it was quiet. Empty. Like the world had paused just for them.
Julian didn't think. His boots moved.
Slush crunched beneath him as he stepped onto the bridge walkway, slow, steady, every movement careful. The wind roared through the girders. His voice barely made it out.
"Hey... you good?"
The man didn't flinch. Just kept staring down.
"You ever feel like everything you try turns to dust?" the man asked.
His voice wasn't broken or afraid. It was tired. Flat. Like it had been emptied out too many times.
Julian stopped just a few feet away, arms raised a little — not enough to grab, just to say I'm not here to push. His breath fogged the air between them.
"I've got exactly a hundred bucks in my pocket," Julian said, voice raw, "and a death wish. That count?"
The man turned.
Slowly. As if the motion took effort. His eyes met Julian's. Empty and knowing. The corner of his mouth twitched — somewhere between a smile and a flinch.
"So why aren't you jumping?" he asked.
Julian looked past him, down at the tracks. Then up at the sky.
Fireworks would start soon.
He swallowed.
"Because..." A shiver ran down his spine. "If I'm gonna die, I want someone to know I was trying. Even at the end."
The man studied him. Not judging. Just... seeing.
Then came the silence.
Not awkward. Not long.
Just still.
The man tilted his head. "Tell me, Julian Crest. What's the one thing you've always wanted?"
Julian's stomach dropped.
He blinked. "How do you—?"
No answer.
Just that same almost-smile. Too calm. Too knowing.
The church bell ringed once in the distance. A clean, lonely sound.
11:59 PM.
Julian's shoulders dropped. His lips parted. The words came without effort.
"I've always wanted to be rich. Like... really rich. Not just money. Power. Respect. All of it."
The man's eyes shined.
"That's good."
And then he stepped down.
Off the ledge. Onto the walkway. Boots clicking against the concrete.
He faced Julian. No grin. No theatrics. Just words.
"Wish granted."
A blinding white light ripped the night open.
Julian gasped — stumbled forward. His boots hit pavement that didn't match the bridge. The air was warmer here, the cold not as sharp, and the sky above exploded in color.
He spun in place.
Gone were the train tracks. The rusted railing. The silence.
He was standing in a plaza.
Wide open. Lit by streetlamps and surrounded by strangers — strangers who were laughing, kissing, clinking glass bottles, shouting things like "Twenty-oh-oh, baby!" and "Y2K my ass!" as fireworks burst red and gold across the skyline.
Julian's breath caught in his throat.
His heart pounded like it was trying to punch out of his ribs. He looked down.
Same coat. Same boots. Still soaked.
Still him.
"What the hell... was that?" he whispered.
His head turned left. Then right. Searching for the bridge. The man. Anything that made sense.
Nothing.
Just fountains, benches, party horns, a guy puking in a trash can. Midtown noise swallowed the world around him, but none of it reached his ears.
Not really.
Then—
Flick.
A glowing rectangle appeared in the air, floating just inches in front of his face. Clear as glass, tinted blue, pulsing faintly at the edges like a living thing.
Julian's eyes widened. He stepped back.
[SYSTEM INITIATED: WEALTHBOUND]
You wished to be rich. Now earn it.
His lips parted. "Am I in a manhwa right now?"
He spun again.
No one else seemed to notice.
A woman in a gold scarf walked straight past him, bumping his shoulder. "Watch it," she muttered.
A kid pointed up at the fireworks, then at Julian. "Mom, that man's talking to himself."
A man with a paper crown whispered, "Freak."
Julian backed up, hand out, nearly tripping. His shoulder slammed into the side of a metal payphone, shocking him into stillness. His breath fogged the cold air again.
The screen pulsed.
Then flickered.
[MISSION #001 – ACTIVE]
Give $100 to the man sitting outside 12th Street Deli.
Time Limit: 10 Minutes
Complete the task and receive a special reward.
Fail and lose this opportunity forever.
Julian's hand moved on instinct, reaching into his pocket. His wallet was already halfway out — how?
He opened it.
One bill.
One hundred-dollar note, folded once down the center. Damp from the alley. Still warm from his body.
"No..." His voice shook. "This is a trick. A game. Right?"
The screen ticked.
[00:09:42]
[00:06:19]
[00:03:00]
Each number felt like a heartbeat. A countdown he couldn't look away from.
Julian turned.
Across the plaza, past a row of bushes strung with blinking Christmas lights, down the sidewalk under a buzzing streetlamp—
There he was.
A man. Sitting cross-legged outside the flickering sign of 12th Street Deli. Wrapped in a gray blanket. Shivering. A paper cup in front of him, half-crushed, with a few coins at the bottom.
The wind shifted.
Julian Crest stepped off the curb.
His feet moved on their own. Slow. One at a time. His heart thumped with each step, louder than the fireworks, heavier than the hundred dollars burning in his hand.
[00:01:08...]
He didn't look back.