The morning air downtown was brisk, carrying the mingled scents of roasted chestnuts from street vendors and exhaust from yellow cabs. Michael adjusted his worn coat and tightened his grip on the slim envelope tucked inside—his entire savings.
Three hundred and fifty dollars.
A pittance in the eyes of the world, but to him it was both a lifeline and a spark.
He craned his neck at the skyscrapers towering above, glass and steel monuments to ambition. His pulse quickened. This is where it begins.
The brokerage firm wasn't the marble-clad palace he had imagined. It was a narrow office on Wall Street's edge, the kind of place that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and carpet cleaner. Phones rang off the hook as brokers barked into headsets, papers stacked haphazardly on desks.
Michael stepped up to the reception counter.
The clerk, a young man with slicked-back hair, looked him over. His eyes lingered on Michael's secondhand coat, the scuffed shoes. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Yes? Can I help you?"
"I want to open an account," Michael said evenly.
The clerk's smirk widened. "Minimum's five hundred."
Michael slid the envelope across the counter. "Three hundred and fifty. That's what I've got."
The clerk chuckled, shaking his head. "Kid, this isn't a piggy bank. Come back when you've got real money."
Michael's jaw tightened. He leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make the clerk pause. "Do I need to find a different brokerage that actually wants future millionaires as clients?"
The clerk blinked, thrown off by the confidence.
Before he could reply, a middle-aged broker walking past glanced at them. "What's going on here?"
The clerk straightened. "This guy wants to open an account with—" He sneered. "—three-fifty."
The broker eyed Michael, then the envelope. His expression was hard, but there was a flicker of curiosity. "Name?"
"Michael Chen."
The broker grunted. "Fine. We'll take your money. But don't expect miracles." He jerked his head toward a desk. "Come with me."
The desk was cluttered with ledgers and a half-eaten bagel. The broker—Ralph, according to the nameplate—sat down and tapped his pen impatiently. "All right, Mr. Chen. What are you looking to buy?"
Michael inhaled slowly. Here it was. The moment that split futures.
"AOL," he said firmly. "And Microsoft."
Ralph raised an eyebrow. "AOL? The dial-up service? That toy for nerds? And Microsoft's already priced high—you'll barely get a share."
Michael smiled faintly. "That's fine. Put two hundred into AOL, the rest into Microsoft."
Ralph leaned back, studying him as though waiting for the punchline. "You sure? You could buy safe stocks. GE. Ford. Something that'll actually last."
Michael's eyes didn't waver. "AOL and Microsoft."
Ralph shrugged, scribbling notes. "Your funeral, kid."
As the paperwork was processed, Michael felt the weight of his decision settle. His stomach fluttered with nerves, but beneath it burned certainty. He knew where this road led. He had seen the future.
Still, the irony wasn't lost on him. In his past life, he had wasted years chasing jobs, waiting for opportunity to knock. Now, with less than four hundred dollars to his name, he was betting everything on a vision no one else believed.
The pen scratched across the final line. Ralph handed him the receipt.
"There. You're now the proud owner of a handful of shares no one gives a damn about."
Michael pocketed the paper carefully, as though it were treasure. "One day, Ralph," he said lightly, "you'll wish you had bought some yourself."
Ralph snorted. "Kid, I've seen a hundred dreamers. Ninety-nine of them end up broke. Don't be the hundredth."
Michael stood, straightening his coat. "I'll be the one who doesn't."
The city felt different when he stepped back onto the street. The same traffic, the same honking horns, the same chaotic energy. But to Michael, the world had shifted on its axis.
He looked at the thin slip of paper in his pocket again. Not much now. But in a few years…
This is the first brick of the empire.
A grin tugged at his lips. He wanted to shout, to laugh at the absurdity of it. Here he was, a broke twenty-three-year-old in a secondhand coat, daring to believe he would become a tycoon.
And yet, deep in his bones, he knew it wasn't just belief. It was certainty.
By the time he returned to the Bronx, the apartment was alive with chaos. Mei was on the phone with a friend, laughing loudly. Lily was ironing her work clothes. Anna's toddler was throwing toys across the living room while she scolded half-heartedly.
Michael slipped inside, trying to look casual.
Mei spotted him instantly. "Well? Did you gamble our rent money yet?"
Michael grinned. "Investment, not gambling."
Lily eyed him skeptically. "And what exactly did you invest in? Please don't say lottery tickets."
Michael flopped onto the couch, kicking his shoes off. "AOL and Microsoft."
Mei blinked. "What the hell is AOL?"
"A company that's going to change the world," he said with a grin.
Anna groaned, rubbing her temples. "Michael, please. Just… don't drag us down with your crazy ideas."
He leaned back, hands behind his head. "Trust me. This is the start of something big."
Mei snorted. "You sound like you're about to sell us miracle hair tonic."
Michael laughed, the sound bubbling up unrestrained. For once, he didn't care if they believed him. They would see soon enough.
That night, as the apartment settled into quiet, Michael sat by the window, staring out at the city skyline.
He thought of Ralph's dismissive smirk. Of Vivian Wu's curious eyes. Of the fortune he knew was coming if he just held his nerve.
The road ahead was long. There would be failures, challenges, betrayals. But tonight, he had taken the first real step.
He whispered into the night air:
"Let the future come. I'm ready."