The city looked different that morning.
Not louder or busier—just… clearer.
Maybe it was because I'd finally slept without worrying about bills for the first time in months. Or maybe it was because I could still feel the faint glow of the system's last notification lingering in my mind like the aftertaste of a sweet drink.
Either way, I left my small apartment early, phone in my pocket and thoughts half-scattered, half-focused.
[System Status: Dormant. No active transactions.]
[User Funds: $14,650. Remaining Bonus Multiplier: ×10]
The numbers still didn't feel real.
A few small "investments" yesterday—coffee, a lunch treat, and a handbag—had somehow turned into more money than I'd earned in the past three months.
I walked along the downtown street, the kind lined with boutique cafés and low chatter, where even the air smelled like roasted beans and subtle ambition.
I ended up in a quiet café near the financial district.
Wooden tables, minimal décor, and a steady rhythm of quiet conversation filled the space.
As I placed my order, a voice caught my attention.
"Excuse me… You dropped this."
The tone was soft, controlled—like someone who didn't need to raise her voice to be heard.
I turned.
A woman in a crisp white blouse and pencil skirt stood beside me, holding a small business card between her fingers. She had shoulder-length dark brown hair, slightly curled at the ends, and eyes that carried the calm weight of someone used to making decisions.
My missing card—apparently mine—rested delicately between her fingertips.
"Ah, thank you," I said, accepting it with an awkward smile. "Guess I wasn't paying attention."
"You looked deep in thought," she replied, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. "Coffee and numbers don't always mix."
Her gaze briefly shifted toward the card reader, then back to me. It wasn't flirtatious, just… observant.
When she stepped up to pay for her own order, I noticed her phone case embossed with the name of a local investment firm. The logo looked familiar—one I'd seen in passing on a building nearby.
An idea formed before I could think it through.
If the system responded to spending on women, would it respond differently to her?
"Wait," I said before she could tap her card. "Let me get that for you."
Her brow arched slightly. "You don't have to."
"I know," I said simply. "Consider it a small thank-you—for catching my card before it disappeared into the wind."
Her lips curved, just slightly. "That's quite the thank-you for a business card, Mr…?"
"Alex," I replied.
"Alex," she repeated, as if testing the sound. Then, after a small pause: "All right. I'll allow it—just this once."
She said it with that effortless grace some people have when they're used to being in control but are curious enough to step aside.
The payment processed.
Her drink—an iced espresso—came up first.
She accepted it with a nod and a polite, "Thank you, Alex."
I gave a small wave in return, pretending it was no big deal, even though my pulse quickened slightly.
As soon as she walked toward the exit, a faint shimmer flickered before my eyes—soft blue light forming digital text in midair.
[Transaction Complete.]
[Investment Detected: $9.25 → Female Target Identified.]
[Calculating Return…]
[Processing delay detected. Target classification: High potential.]
[Return pending. Awaiting further interaction.]
"…Huh?"
The usual instant deposit didn't appear. No ping, no notification sound, nothing tangible in my account.
Instead, the panel hovered for a moment longer, glowing faintly, before fading into faint golden motes that dissolved into the air.
I blinked, staring at the empty space in front of me like an idiot.
That was new.
Every other time, the system had been immediate—money in, money multiplied, and everything perfectly logical in its own bizarre way.
But this time… it was waiting?
I looked toward the café window. The woman—business attire, espresso in hand—was already crossing the street, sunlight catching on her hair.
Something about her stood out in a way I couldn't define.
It wasn't attraction, exactly. More like curiosity with an undercurrent of significance, the kind you only feel when you know something small might turn into something big.
The system's last line replayed in my head:
[Target classification: High potential.]
For the first time since this whole "Tenfold Return System" started, I wasn't just wondering how much I'd earn.
I was wondering who she was.