The tailor shop smelled of chalk dust and hot iron. The old Singer sewing machine whined under his father's heavy foot, pushing needle through cloth with steady rhythm. Rolls of fabric leaned against the wall in tilted towers of muted browns and greys, cotton and wool too costly for most of the neighborhood clients.
Alexander sat near the back, pretending to run his pencil over school arithmetic. But his ears pricked to every negotiation at the counter, every whisper of haggling. The shop wasn't just cloth and stitches—it was a classroom in markets.
That day, opportunity walked in wearing grey uniforms.
The bell above the door jingled as a stout woman in wire glasses entered, clutching a worn briefcase. Her shoes clicked softly against the scuffed floor tiles.
"Master Wong," she greeted politely. "I teach at the Kowloon Primary nearby. We need uniform adjustments. Children tear hems quickly, trousers too long. Can you manage twenty pieces?"
Alexander's heart gave a sharp kick. Twenty pieces. Bulk order.
His father wiped his hands on a rag, smiling tiredly. "Alterations, yes. Twenty is much. But hemming is simple." He named a modest price per item.
Alexander clenched his pencil so hard it almost snapped. Too low. His father was thinking one at a time, not twenty together.
The teacher frowned. "Our budget small. School can't afford much."
His father began lowering price further. Desperation, conceding before bargaining!
Alexander's mind raced. This was the chance he had been waiting for: real proof that his ideas worked. He dropped his pencil, pretending to fumble, and leaned close, whispering quickly:
"Papa… don't cut the price. Make her pay same, but add free patching or buttons. She thinks she saves, but work gives us more."
His father shot him a glare—annoyed at interruption—but something in his tone made him pause. He turned back to the teacher, clearing his throat.
"Price stays steady," Wong Yat-sen said, voice firmer now. "But for twenty, I add free patching. All small tears, no cost. Also new buttons sewn tight."
The teacher's eyes brightened. "Oh! That is generous. Very well. We bring uniforms tomorrow."
Coins clinked as she left.
When the door closed, silence fell with it. His father slowly set his scissors down, staring at his son.
"You…" he murmured. "That idea. Good."
Alexander lowered his eyes, feigning innocence, his childish face smooth. "Just thought—people like free things."
His father's expression hovered between astonishment and suspicion. But he did not scold. Instead he chuckled gruffly. "Strange boy. Thinks like old man."
Alexander's heart thundered in triumph beneath his calm mask. His first test, in the real adult economy, had succeeded.
hat night after dinner, while the others slept, Alexander calculated furiously in his notebook.
Twenty uniforms, each still at standard price → full revenue.
Added service cost minimal → his mother could sew buttons, he could help. Family labor free.
Client network: if impressed, school = recurring orders next year, spreading word to other schools.
He drew a box around the word NETWORK.
Altering one man's suit was income. Securing a school system's loyalty was a portfolio.
He could see it already: tailoring not for random walk-ins, but contracts with entire factories needing uniforms, hotels needing outfits, even government offices. Volume, repetition, stability.
This was scale in embroidery and thread. He almost smiled bitterly at the irony: tycoon lessons written in chalky cloth and children's trousers.
The next day after school, Alexander lingered in the shop, watching his father hustle with the pile of small uniforms delivered by the teacher. Thread and cloth dominated the evening. His father muttered curses at the workload.
Alexander picked up a loose trouser leg, threading a needle with steady, small hands. "I can help, Papa."
His father looked at him in surprise but said nothing.
Hour by hour, they hemmed and patched, the boy quiet, precise, soaking every detail. He wasn't just helping, but learning process, time, margins.
At one point, he asked casually: "Papa, how much cloth in one trouser leg?"
His father muttered an estimate. Alexander filed it away. Cost of material. Labor time. Pricing structure. Soon his margins would be mapped more carefully than his father had ever dreamed.
Two days later, after delivering half the uniforms back to the teacher, his father returned home with a silence different from usual exhaustion. He finally sat, looked at Alexander, and muttered:
"She said good work. She will tell her friends. Maybe more orders."
He scratched his beard. "Your idea… was good."
Alexander froze, heart pounding. Praise was something rare from Wong Yat-sen—a man ground hard by poverty and pride. In that short moment of acknowledgment, something shifted.
Not only in his father's respect, but in Alexander's path.
Because now he had proven he could move adults, tilt decisions, and begin shaping an enterprise larger than petty trades in candy or pawned watches.
Now, he was stepping from practice into strategy.
As the harbour lights blinked outside, Alexander stood on the balcony, the cool wind brushing his small face. He looked out at the ships crossing the darkened bay, sails flickering in the distance beneath neon signs.
"Today, a school. Tomorrow, a factory. Tomorrow, a bank."
His voice was low, barely audible.
"I will begin with cloth. But I will end with steel."
The city beyond him glittered, unknowingly carrying the whisper of a future dynasty that had just sewn its first stitch.