Ding! Tycoon System successfully installed. Initial sign-in complete.
Ding! Congratulations, Host. You now own Titan Global Enterprises — a Fortune 50 conglomerate with a market value exceeding one hundred billion dollars.
Ding! Acquired asset: Central Park South Penthouse — 4 bedrooms, private elevator, rooftop terrace, concierge valet.
Ding! Acquired vehicles: two Rolls-Royce Wraiths, one Bugatti Veyron Black Bess, one Pagani Zonda R.
Ding! Attribute rewards: +100 Luck, +100 Strength, +100 Charm, +180 Intelligence.
System installation complete. Have a pleasant life of wealth and power.
The voice inside Ethan's skull faded, leaving the city's noise to rush back in—horns, crosswalk beeps, a food cart hiss. Sunlight flashed off glass towers like a thousand camera bulbs going off at once. He sat frozen on the curb outside the building he'd just stormed out of, the words echoing: You own Titan Global Enterprises.
He'd read stories like this at three in the morning, bleary-eyed in bed, scrolling with a numb thumb. Systems, sign-ins, instant wealth. He used to laugh, used to wish. Now his phone buzzed in his pocket.
A new app icon glowed that hadn't been there a second ago—sleek black, a thin gold ring, the letters TGE in austere serif.
Ethan's pulse spiked. He tapped it.
A holographic panel bloomed above the screen—no one else seemed to notice—like a tinted AR overlay only he could see:
HOST: Ethan WalkerLUCK: 100STRENGTH: 100CHARM: 100INTELLIGENCE: 180NET WORTH: $100,000,010,035
(For every additional $1B added to Net Worth, Host receives +10 attribute points and an additional hidden reward.)
His throat went dry. The number had commas in places he'd only ever seen in magazine profiles of tech moguls. He flicked through tabs:
Assets:— Titan Global Enterprises (majority stake)— Central Park South Penthouse (title in transfer)— Vehicles (logistics en route to Host access)
Directives:— Claim Ownership (legal execution package)— Initialize Executive Support (security + administrative)— Lifestyle Setup (housing, wardrobe, banking)
He swallowed and hit Claim Ownership. A loading glyph spun for a heartbeat, then a green check appeared, and a packet of documents populated the screen—electronic signatures, board acknowledgements, a sealed will reading… He skimmed. The previous Titan president had died that morning, leaving the entirety of his personal holdings to "Ethan Walker (ID verified by the System)." There were words about trusts and executors and transfer agents, all neatly pre-cleared, like a highway with every traffic light glowing green.
He let out a breath that trembled into a laugh. "This is insane."
"Walker?"
The voice—shrill, self-satisfied—punched through the bubble. Ethan looked up. Gary Doyle stood with a knot of middle managers beside him, the same guys who pretended not to notice when he stayed till 1 a.m. to finish their PowerPoints.
Gary's smirk was movie-villain perfect. "Well, well. The prodigal intern—or whatever it is you were—still loitering out front? Let me guess: having second thoughts? You can always crawl back."
Laughter trickled from the group. A few passersby glanced over, uninterested, moved on. Manhattan had seen worse.
"You know what?" one of the managers chimed in, voice faux-fatherly. "World doesn't care about your little meltdown. You should've kept your head down, learned something."
"Eight grand a month," Gary added, the way a man might dangle a stale crust of bread in front of a beggar. "On your knees, apologize in front of everyone, and maybe—maybe—I'll find room for you again."
Ethan looked at him and discovered, with a kind of detached awe, that he felt nothing. No fury, no embarrassment, no trembling adrenaline. It was as if the numbers he'd just seen had a gravitational field; within it, Gary's bluster was dust floating in sunbeams.
"Eight grand," Ethan repeated, as if tasting a word from a dead language. He almost smiled. "Gary, in the last two years I made you half a million in profits you took credit for. Keep your charity."
Gary's face twitched. "Watch your mouth—"
The rest of the sentence didn't land, because the square's soundtrack changed. It started as a vibration in the concrete—deep, expensive, unmistakable. Heads turned. Phones came up. A black Rolls-Royce Wraith slid out of traffic and ghosted to the curb like it owned the lane.
The door opened. Four men in black suits stepped out, crisp as if they'd been ironed into existence. They scanned the sidewalk and parted.
She stepped through them.
Tall, raven hair in a low knot, tailored skirt suit the color of steel, heels that wrote the word authority on the pavement: Samantha Reed. Ethan recognized her face from finance media thumbnails—"Gatekeeper of Titan," they called her. He'd once listened to a podcast where an analyst claimed CEOs with weaker spines feared her more than the board.
Gary's entire body language changed, oily in an instant. He and his cronies loped forward like eager spaniels.
"Miss Reed! What an honor," he gushed. "If there's anything we can—"
"Miss Reed," another bleated, "I have quarterly summaries if you—"
Samantha Reed didn't so much as angle her chin. Her gaze was a searchlight, trained on a single target. She walked straight to Ethan, and the air pressure seemed to shift with her.
Up close, the details sharpened—the faint lavender at her throat, the impossible economy of her gestures, the way her eyes—cool, watchful—softened by a single degree when they met his.
"Mr. Walker," she said, and the syllables were more confirmation than address. "From this moment, you are the President and majority owner of Titan Global Enterprises. The board's emergency session has executed the transfer directives. Please sign here to complete asset handover."
One of the suits passed her a thin leather folder. Inside were paper copies, embossed seals flashing in the sun. Ethan glanced at the floating System panel; it mirrored the packet, a green check hovering over each page like a helpful ghost.
Behind Samantha, the middle managers had gone very quiet. Gary's mouth opened and shut like a fish trying to drink air.
Ethan took the pen. His hand didn't shake. Sign. Initial. Sign. Done. The suit slid the folder back, and Samantha's phone pinged; somewhere in a cloud fortress, a ledger ticked over from "pending" to "complete."
"Congratulations, Mr. Walker," Samantha said, and for a heartbeat her voice warmed. "Do you want to address… them?"
He followed her glance. Gary and the others looked like statues carved from the same expression: terror with a gloss of disbelief.
"President—Mr. Walker," Gary began, voice collapsing in on itself, "I—listen, I was just—We had our differences, sure, but—"
"You called me a nobody last week," Ethan said, conversational, as if recalling weather. "Told me I'd never amount to anything. You dumped your workload on me and clocked out at six like the world was your private golf course."
Gary managed an injured flinch. "I was testing you. Building character. That's management—"
"Fire him," Ethan said to Samantha.
Three syllables. No shout, no drama. Just gravity.
Samantha's eyes flicked. One of the suits stepped toward Gary with a neatly folded envelope—security escort and severance packet in tasteful cream. Another suit peeled away toward the building with a list in hand, already compiling names.
Panic erupted in Gary's little court. "Please, Mr. Walker!" one manager yelped. "I have two kids—tuition—my mother—she—"
A chorus rose: mortgages, weddings, medical bills, the American litany. The same soundtrack Ethan had grown up with, plated with suits and dental insurance.
He listened for a moment. He didn't gloat like he'd imagined he might. The System numbers glowed steady, indifferent. Gary took a staggering half-step closer and did something a Wall Street man in an expensive shirt should never do in public. He dropped to his knees. The square inhaled; a half-dozen phones zeroed in.
"Ethan—I mean, President Walker—don't do this," he begged. "I was wrong. I was petty. I was jealous. I'll admit that. Please don't take my job—I'll lose my condo; the bank will—"
Ethan studied him. He remembered the smirks, the offhand "small-town nobody," the promotions that had sailed past. He thought of his mom warming her hands over the oven in winter because the heat bill didn't clear. He thought of Emily's voice, cold as a closing door.
"This is the part," he said softly, "where you learn what it feels like."
He didn't slap him—there were cameras, there was a brand now, and he could feel the System nudging him toward moves that generated leverage instead of headlines. But he didn't offer a hand up, either. Samantha nodded once, and the suits guided Gary to his feet with professional absence of sympathy.
"HR will process terminations by end of day," Samantha said to Ethan, brisk again. "We'll freeze their access immediately. I've already placed interim managers over their departments."
"Good," he said. "Samantha—can I call you Samantha?"
Her mouth moved, almost a smile. "You may."
"I want a full audit of any team that reported to them, last two years. If they stole work from junior analysts, I want the real originators promoted and compensated retroactively."
Her pen scratched once against a pocket notebook. "Understood."
He glanced at the System panel. New sub-menus had unfurled: Executive Appointments, Media Strategy, Mergers & Acquisitions, Philanthropy. A blinking dot danced over Lifestyle Setup. He tapped it.
Lifestyle Setup → Housing: Penthouse title transfer in progress. Keys available 6:00 p.m. Do you wish to tour now?Wardrobe: Personal stylist on standby. Schedule fitting?Banking: Accounts consolidating. Black-tier cards couriering.Security: Protective detail assigned: Reed Team. Vehicle ready.
He looked up at Samantha. "Tour the penthouse?"
"I took the liberty of arranging it," she said. "If you'd like to ride with me."
He glanced toward the Wraith. Its paint was the kind of black that devoured daylight. "Yeah," he said. "Let's go."
They slid into the back; the cabin smelled faintly of leather and a vanilla note expensive enough to have a last name. Manhattan blurred past—avenues stitched with cabs, steam curling up from manholes, tourists lifting phones toward buildings that seemed to float. Ethan's own phone buzzed with messages: unknown numbers calling him "sir," PR firms sniffing like sharks, a terse text from Emily—We need to talk. He typed back, paused, deleted. What did you say? I just became your favorite billionaire? Not yet. Not over text.
Samantha watched him without staring. "You're taking this well."
"What does 'not well' look like?" he asked.
"People cry," she said simply. "Or faint. Or ask me if it's a prank show."
"Tempting," he said. "But… I think I've been waiting for something to break in my favor for twenty-five years. If I let go, I don't know if I stop falling."
She nodded once, as if cataloging a datapoint. "Titan's portfolio is broad. Tech, real estate, media, logistics, renewable energy. There will be sharks. There will be tribute."
"Tribute?"
"Every parasite in a four-block radius will come congratulate you with a bill attached," she said dryly. "I'll filter them. We'll set your first board appearance for tomorrow morning. You can introduce an agenda. Pick three directives you want to push in the first ninety days."
He looked at the city streaming by, the reflections rippling in the Wraith's windows. Ninety days. Three directives. The words tasted like an algorithm hooking into his ribs.
"I want the audit," he said. "Talent bubbles to the top. No more promoting bullies because they're loud."
"Done."
"Second—launch a Titan Scholars fund. Full rides for kids from places like where I grew up. No essays about 'leadership.' Just need and grit."
Her pen moved again; if she had an opinion, it stayed behind her eyes.
"Third," he said, and thought of slimy hands on humble work, of Gary's fake concern and real contempt, "we make it very expensive to exploit people under our name. If managers steal credit, we claw back bonuses. If they retaliate, we fire them. Loudly."
"I'll draft policy."
The car purred to a stop. Central Park South spilled out: horse carriages, runners, tourists biting into pretzels the size of steering wheels. The doorman at a limestone facade straightened when he saw the Wraith. Two concierges met them at the curb, door already opened.
Inside, the lobby was all quiet money—marble that had never known scuff, art that looked like silence framed. An elevator swallowed them and sighed upward. Samantha watched floor numbers climb but said nothing; beside her, Ethan's reflection looked like a stranger in better lighting.
The elevator opened onto a private vestibule. A second door, matte black, approved his presence with a soft click. They stepped into sun.
The penthouse was glass and sky. Central Park stretched beneath them, a living painting—greens, paths, a boat like a little comma on the lake. The city rimmed it like a crown. The kitchen gleamed like a spaceship; the living room's windows ran from floor to an upper gallery where a library waited. A terrace wrapped the whole thing like a ribbon, and on the far side a private little world—planters, a cedar bench, a grill that could probably file taxes.
Ethan walked to the glass and put his palm against it. The city leaned back, unblinking.
"Keys at six," Samantha said quietly. "If you want them now, I can accelerate."
He turned. The System panel hovered, offering a button: CLAIM RESIDENCE NOW.
He pressed it.
Ding!Penthouse title transfer complete. Keys authorized. Concierge notified.
A chime sounded from the vestibule; a discreet keypad glowed green. Somewhere below, a desk phone rang and a nameplate reassigned itself.
Samantha's mouth tipped, the ghost of a smile. "Welcome home, Mr. Walker."
He exhaled, and something unclenched that had been tight since childhood.
His phone buzzed again. Emily: What time are you coming over? We need to talk. In person.
He typed: Seven. I'll pick you up. He looked around the sunlit expanse. Got something to show you.
He hit send, then slid the phone into his pocket. "Samantha," he said, "I want to stop by one more place before the day ends."
"Which?" she asked.
He thought of a squat one-story house in a town where winter bit through coats, of a kitchen where his mother warmed her hands over the oven. Of his father's voice, gruff with pride hammered into obedience by life.
"The bank," he said. "Then a florist. Then Ohio."
Samantha blinked once—the only indication that last word had surprised her. "I'll have the jet ready."
"Jet," he repeated, as if the syllable might melt. He tasted it and didn't spit it out. "Okay."
As they headed back toward the elevator, the System glowed in the corner of his vision, polite and inexorable, offering buttons that changed reality. A line at the bottom pulsed, subtle:
Host Advisory:Every billion added changes the board, the press, the world around you. Choose the kind of gravity you want to become.
Ethan smiled to himself.
"Let's make it heavy."