"Son, our family is broke. You need to tough it out and stop talking about quitting just because the boss yelled at you. He's only pushing you to grow."
Ethan Walker held his phone against his ear, listening to his mother's weary voice. His father was chiming in too, the two of them taking turns like they'd rehearsed it for years.
He smiled bitterly. The same line. Again.
Our family is broke.
It had been drilled into him since he was old enough to count. A mantra, a curse, a constant reminder that no matter how hard he studied, no matter how many hours he worked, poverty would always sit on his shoulder like a vulture.
He remembered winters back home in Ohio when the heater barely worked, and his parents told him to sleep in his coat because the power bill was overdue. Summers when dinner meant canned soup and stale bread. He'd grown up with the weight of debt in every conversation, every decision.
Now, at twenty-five, living in Manhattan, he was still hearing it.
"Dad, Mom…" Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stay calm. "I can't keep doing this. That job—it's killing me."
"Don't be dramatic," his father's voice barked from the other end. "Back when I was your age, I worked in a steel mill twelve hours a day. You've just got to swallow your pride and keep at it."
"Yeah," his mom added softly. "We're still paying off the medical bills from Grandma's surgery. You know we're barely getting by. If you quit now, how will you help us?"
Ethan's chest tightened. They didn't understand. They never had.
It wasn't about the money anymore. It was about respect. About being treated like a human being instead of a disposable cog in the machine.
He looked at the clock in the corner of his monitor. 11:47 a.m. He had a half-finished report on his screen, spreadsheets glaring back at him like iron bars.
"I'll call you later," he muttered.
"Ethan—"
Click.
He ended the call before he said something he couldn't take back.
The office was quiet except for the hum of computers and the clicking of keyboards. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air. Ethan rubbed his eyes; dark circles had taken up permanent residence beneath them. Three weeks straight without a single day off. His body was running on caffeine and stubbornness.
And still, no matter how much he gave, it was never enough.
The door to the office banged open.
Gary Doyle waddled in, Starbucks in hand, his shirt buttons straining against a gut that had never known a day of overtime. His voice was as smug as ever.
"Walker. Overtime tonight. Get this proposal done for me."
Thud.
A stack of folders slammed onto Ethan's desk.
Ethan's stomach turned. Those weren't his projects. They were Gary's. But this was the game—the boss dumped everything on him, then strutted out to fancy dinners while Ethan worked until midnight. And when the project succeeded? Gary pocketed the bonus and called it leadership.
Ethan forced himself to breathe. "Gary, I already told you. Tonight's Emily's birthday. I asked for the night off weeks ago."
Gary sipped his coffee, lips twisting into a smirk. "And I'm telling you the company comes first. Do you want to be successful, or do you want to be a failure?"
Ethan's patience cracked.
"Gary, I've worked twenty-one straight days. No weekends, no breaks. Just once, I want to leave early for something important. Is that really too much to ask?"
Gary leaned in, his beady eyes glinting with contempt. "You're incompetent. That's why you're still at the bottom. You should be grateful I even give you work to do."
Something inside Ethan snapped.
He rose from his chair, standing a full head taller than Gary. The man actually stumbled back, sloshing coffee onto his khakis.
"What the hell are you doing?" Gary barked, but his voice trembled.
The office froze. Heads turned. Fingers stopped typing.
Ethan pointed a finger at him, voice ringing with a fury he'd buried for two years. "You've exploited us long enough. You steal our work, take the credit, and blame us when it goes wrong. You don't lead—you leech. You're a parasite, Gary."
Gasps echoed across the room.
Gary's face turned scarlet. "Are you saying you don't want this job anymore?"
Ethan laughed—a sharp, hollow sound. "This job? This prison? I quit."
He grabbed his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and shoved past Gary.
For once, he didn't see pity in his coworkers' eyes. He saw something else—admiration. Maybe even envy. He was doing what they all wanted to do.
Gary's voice chased after him down the hallway. "You'll regret this, Walker! Nobody will hire you again! You'll crawl back begging!"
Ethan didn't even look back. "Even if you begged me, Gary, I wouldn't come back."
The revolving doors spun, and suddenly he was outside.
Manhattan stretched before him, loud and alive—yellow cabs honking, vendors shouting, skyscrapers gleaming in the sunlight. He inhaled deeply, the air sharp with city grit and freedom.
For the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe.
But the relief was short-lived.
He pulled out his phone, opened his bank app. Balance: $1,923.46. Rent was $2,400 due next week. Groceries, bills, subway fare—it all added up to doom.
He thought of Emily. His girlfriend since college. She'd stood by him through late nights and cheap takeout dinners. She deserved more. She deserved a man who could give her the world.
Maybe she'd understand.
He hit call.
"Hello?" Her voice came through, rushed, distracted.
"Emily. I quit. I couldn't take it anymore."
Silence. Then, sharp as a whip: "You did what?"
"I'll find something better. I have experience now. I can land a real job—"
"Ethan!" Her voice was cold. "What about rent? What about groceries? You expect me to carry both of us? Do you even think before you act?"
"I…" He faltered.
"I can't talk about this right now. I'm busy. We'll talk later."
Click.
She hung up.
Ethan stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by a tide of strangers rushing past him, and felt more alone than ever.
The glass towers around him gleamed with promise, but none of it was his. Without money, you were invisible. Without money, even the people closest to you turned away.
He sank onto a curb, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
"How great would it be," he muttered, "if I were rich?"
And then it happened.
A voice rang clear inside his skull, mechanical and absolute.
Ding! The God-Tier Tycoon System has been activated.