Alex Thompson woke up at 7:00 AM in his One Chicago penthouse, the Chicago skyline glowing gold through the massive windows. After splashing water on his face in a bathroom that screamed Hollywood luxury, he dug through his duffel for workout gear. He pulled out a black Nike tracksuit—probably a knockoff he'd snagged online for $30, but it looked legit enough. His Air Max sneakers, though? Real deal, $120 from a Chicago sneaker shop. Good enough for his first session with Coach Jackson at the One Chicago fitness center.
He took the elevator down, the smart-home system dimming the penthouse lights behind him like a scene from Iron Man. In the lobby, Marcus Reed, the butler, was holding the elevator for a woman in her forties, decked out in designer athleisure—probably another One Chicago resident. She gave Alex a quick glance, her eyes lingering on his hoodie like she was sizing up his net worth. He nodded politely and brushed past, catching Marcus's eye. "Heading to the gym, Mr. Thompson?" Marcus asked, all smiles.
"Yup," Alex said, flashing a grin. Marcus led him out of the gleaming glass tower and across the street to the One Chicago Club, a swanky spot for residents. The Gold Coast air was crisp, with L trains rattling in the distance and a street busker spitting bars over a Bluetooth speaker. Inside the club, the lobby was all marble and modern art, with two receptionists in sleek uniforms greeting him. "Welcome, sir!" said the one on the left, a bright-eyed woman with a name tag reading "Kayla." "How can we assist you?"
"Name's Thompson," Alex said, keeping it chill. "Got an appointment with Coach Jackson." Kayla's eyes lit up, like she'd just clocked him as one of the penthouse owners Marcus had tipped her about. Before she could respond, a woman in tight black sportswear stepped up. "Mr. Thompson? I'm Jada Jackson," she said, extending a hand. "Sorry if I missed you earlier—got distracted." Her tone was professional but warm, like she was used to dealing with rich folks but kept it real.
Alex hadn't expected a female trainer, but he rolled with it. "No worries," he said, shaking her hand. Jada was in her late twenties, with a sharp jawline, deep brown eyes, and a physique that screamed discipline—lean, strong, with curves that popped under her Under Armour gear. Damn, she's a vibe, he thought, but kept his eyes respectful. Growing up in Montana, he'd learned to focus on the job, whether it was shooting targets or coding apps. No need to make it weird.
"Follow me," Jada said, leading him into the gym. The space was massive—treadmills, free weights, and machines that looked like they belonged in a sci-fi flick, all with a killer view of Lake Michigan. Only a dozen or so people were working out, a mix of toned women in leggings and guys in tank tops, probably other One Chicago residents. Jada glanced at him as they walked. "You got any gym experience, Mr. Thompson?"
"Nah, not really," Alex admitted, scratching his neck. "Coded all day, no time for weights." Jada raised an eyebrow, surprised, but nodded. "Alright, we'll start with the basics. Foundation's key."
He nodded, curious. "Don't I need a membership or something?" Jada laughed, a low, easy sound. "You're an owner, right? The club's gym is free for you—part of the property package. Only guests and friends need memberships, and even then, it's just a formality for residents like you."
Bet, Alex thought, impressed. The system's $20 million penthouse came with perks he was still wrapping his head around. Jada led him to a seated chest press machine, explaining how it'd target his pecs. "Let's start light," she said, adjusting the weight to 50 pounds. Alex sat, gripped the handles, and pushed through a set of 15 reps, feeling the burn but keeping it smooth. Jada watched, her gaze sharp but encouraging. "Not bad for a newbie. You're stronger than you look."
Alex grinned, catching his breath. Jada's vibe was cool—not stuck-up like some of the rich folks he'd seen in the Gold Coast. She treated him like a regular dude, not some penthouse mogul, which he vibed with. Still, he caught her sneaking a glance, maybe clocking his low-key fit. System's charm boost kicking in? he wondered, thinking of the One-Handed Ferrari Driving skill's 50% charisma perk. He shook it off, focusing on the workout.
Mid-set, he remembered he hadn't signed in yet. Let's see what the system's got today. He finished the reps, leaned back, and thought, "Sign in." The interface flared in his mind. Ding! "Sign-in successful! Congrats, host, you just scored a BMW HP4 RACE motorcycle!" A 3D image of a sleek, black-and-red bike popped up, stats scrolling like a video game: Lightest four-cylinder engine, 193 horsepower, 112 Nm torque, Dynamic Damping Control (DDC), Dynamic Traction Control (DTC), multiple modes (Rain, Sport, Competition, Slick). Price: $78,000 USD. Limited production, pure performance.
Alex's jaw dropped. A motorcycle? He'd been expecting another million bucks or maybe that Ferrari to match yesterday's skill. He knew how to drive—Ranger training had him handling trucks under fire—but bikes? He'd only messed with dirt bikes as a kid in Montana, and Chicago's streets weren't exactly screaming for two-wheelers. Plus, no motorcycle license. System's trolling me, he thought, picturing himself wiping out on Lake Shore Drive. Still, $78K for a limited-edition BMW HP4 RACE? That was a flex. The bike's tech—automatic damping, traction control—was some Mission: Impossible shit. Maybe I'll learn.
He shook it off, not wanting to trip out in front of Jada. "You good?" she asked, noticing his pause. "Yeah, just zoned out," he said, flashing a grin. She nodded, guiding him to a lat pulldown machine. As he worked through another set, his mind raced. The system was wild—penthouse, millions, now a high-end bike. Back in his South Side days, he'd been scraping by, coding apps in a shoebox apartment. Now? He was living like a rap star, with a crib fit for a Kanye video and a bank account that laughed at $78K.
After the session, Jada gave him a rundown: three days a week, mix of strength and cardio, plus diet tips. "You're starting strong," she said. "Keep at it, and you'll be shredded." Alex nodded, hyped. "Bet, I'm in." He headed back to the penthouse, the Gold Coast buzzing with morning traffic and coffee shop lines. His phone pinged—Jake, his Ranger buddy, pushing a rooftop bar meetup. Maybe tomorrow, Alex texted, still buzzing from the workout and the bike reward.
Back in the penthouse, he fired up his beast PC, launching Ghost Recon: Wildlands. The sniper shots in-game hit different after yesterday's range trip, where he'd dropped $3,000 on a Glock 19 and AR-15. His new BMW HP4 RACE was probably parked in some system-controlled garage, waiting for him to figure out how to ride it. Gonna need that Ferrari skill to come with a car next, he thought, chuckling. Hollywood was still the dream—code a viral app, bankroll a war flick, walk the red carpet like Vin Diesel. For now, he cranked up some Travis Scott, the bass shaking the windows, and leaned back. "Yo, system, what's tomorrow's drop?" The interface flickered, silent. Keep it 100, huh? Chicago's skyline glowed, and Alex was ready for whatever came next.