The next morning, sunlight filtered through the blinds in dusty stripes, painting golden lines across the walls of Ethan's cramped bedroom. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the muffled clatter of his sister washing dishes before school.
Then it hit him.
The System. The charger. The sneakers sitting in the corner.
Ethan sat up so fast his head spun. He rubbed his eyes, half expecting to find it had all been a dream. But no—the sneakers were still there, gleaming in the corner like something out of a store window. They looked so new, so pristine, that they almost seemed out of place in his peeling, cluttered apartment.
He slid out of bed, picked them up carefully, and held them in his hands. The stitching was flawless, the fabric soft yet durable, the soles thick with a kind of cushioning that screamed high-end. His old, beat-up sneakers had been nothing more than scraps of rubber and fabric. These? These were premium.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, heart thumping. "Let's see if you're real."
He slipped them onto his feet. They fit like they were molded just for him. The weight was perfect, the bounce under his step made him feel like he was walking on clouds. He took a few experimental strides across the room, then broke into a small jog in place. For the first time in years, shoes didn't pinch his toes or rub his heels raw.
"Damn," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is insane."
But it wasn't just about comfort. It was about opportunity.
Ethan pulled his old laptop onto the desk. The hinges creaked as he opened it, the fan wheezing loudly like it was on its last breath. He navigated to a resale site he'd browsed countless times, mostly window shopping, wishing he had the money to buy.
Now, he wasn't here to browse. He snapped a few photos of the sneakers using his phone, angling them to catch the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Then he uploaded them to the site, typing out a short, simple caption:
"Brand new premium sneakers. Never worn. $120, negotiable."
He hovered over the "Post" button for a long moment. His palms were sweaty. What if no one bought them? What if the System made shoes that looked fake? Or worse—what if the sneakers vanished, disintegrating into thin air the moment money changed hands?
But hesitation had never put food on the table. He hit "Post."
The listing went live. Now came the waiting.
Minutes dragged like hours. Ethan's knee bounced under the desk, his stomach twisting. He checked the listing again and again, as though refreshing the page might make a buyer appear.
Then, ten minutes later, his phone buzzed.
New message: Hey, still available? Can meet today. Cash.
Ethan froze, staring at the screen. His pulse spiked. Someone actually wanted them.
He typed back quickly, setting a meeting for that afternoon at a coffee shop two blocks away. When the buyer confirmed, Ethan exhaled hard, running a hand through his messy hair.
"This is it," he whispered.
The hours until the meeting crawled by. Ethan tried to distract himself—tidying up the living room, helping his sister pack her schoolbag, checking on his mom—but his mind kept circling back to the sneakers. Every time he glanced at the box sitting on his desk, his chest tightened.
What if the buyer noticed something was off? What if the sneakers dissolved right in front of them? What if this was all some cruel joke?
By the time afternoon rolled around, Ethan's nerves were strung tight. He boxed the sneakers neatly and slipped the package under his arm.
"Heading out for a bit," he called toward his mom's room.
Her weak voice floated back, "Don't be too long, Ethan."
"I won't."
The walk to the coffee shop felt longer than it should have. Every step seemed heavier, his mind conjuring scenarios of failure. But when he arrived, the shop's warm smell of roasted coffee beans and pastries hit him, calming his nerves just a little.
A college-aged guy in a hoodie waved him over from a corner table. He looked relaxed, sipping an iced latte, scrolling through his phone. Ethan swallowed hard and approached.
"You the one selling the sneakers?" the guy asked, glancing up.
"Yeah. Got 'em right here." Ethan set the box on the table and slid it across.
The guy flipped the lid open. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then the buyer let out a low whistle.
"Damn, these are clean. You sure you only want $120?"
Ethan forced a casual shrug. "Yeah, man. Didn't fit me right. Just trying to get rid of 'em."
The buyer pulled a folded stack of bills from his pocket and set it on the table. Ethan picked it up, his fingers brushing the crisp edges. His chest tightened as he realized it wasn't a dream. It was real money.
"Pleasure doing business," the buyer said, grinning as he tried the sneakers on.
"Yeah… same," Ethan managed, his voice shaky.
He left the coffee shop with the cash tucked securely into his pocket. The world looked sharper, brighter. The traffic sounds outside didn't grate on his nerves the way they usually did. For the first time in months, maybe years, he felt hope.
$120. It wasn't a fortune. It wasn't even a month's rent. But it was something he'd made not by slogging through a shift, not by begging for overtime, but by using the System.
It was proof.
Proof that this crazy, impossible thing actually worked.
Proof that maybe—just maybe—he could change his life.
Ethan walked home with a spring in his step, replaying the scene in his mind again and again. The buyer's awe, the feel of the bills in his hand, the thrill of success.
When he stepped into the apartment, his sister popped her head out from the kitchen.
"You look… happy," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," Ethan replied, trying to keep the grin off his face. "Just… good day."
She tilted her head suspiciously but didn't press.
Ethan slipped into his mom's room, where she lay propped up on thin pillows, a blanket pulled over her frail frame. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him.
"You're smiling," she said softly.
"Guess I am," Ethan admitted, sitting on the edge of her bed. He wanted to tell her everything—that a strange blue panel had changed his life, that he'd just made more money in an afternoon than in days at his job. But he couldn't. Not yet.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. He pressed it into her hand. "For medicine."
Her brows furrowed. "Ethan, where did this—"
"Don't worry about it. Just… let me take care of things."
She stared at him for a long moment, then gave a faint smile. "You've always tried so hard for us."
Her words hit him like a punch to the chest. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stood. "Get some rest, Ma. I'll handle the rest."
That night, lying in bed, Ethan stared at the ceiling long after his sister and mother had fallen asleep. His mind spun with possibilities. If sneakers could sell for $120, what about electronics? What about jewelry? What about bigger items?
He clenched his fists, determination burning in his chest.
Today had been proof. Tomorrow would be bigger.
This was the start.
The start of becoming more than just another broke guy in the city.
The start of becoming rich. Ultra rich.