The morning after their arrival, Winston woke to the quiet hum of central air conditioning, a stark contrast to the clatter and heat of his old apartment. He lay for a moment, savoring the soft mattress, the unfamiliar sensation of truly being rested. Lily was still asleep in her own room, a privilege she'd never known. The unreality of it all pressed in, but a growing sense of anticipation now mingled with his disbelief.
His old smartphone vibrated on the bedside table, its screen lighting up with an incoming call. He picked it up, a faint sense of dread twisting in his stomach. He wasn't used to calls that weren't work-related or from bill collectors. "Hello, Winston Stone speaking."
"Good morning, Mr. Stone," a polite, professional voice responded. "This is Evelyn from Vanguard Bank. We noticed a significant increase in your account balance and would like to invite you to come in at your earliest convenience so we can discuss upgrading your account and card services to better suit your new financial standing."
Winston's mind raced. Vanguard Bank? That was his old bank, the one he'd used when every penny counted. The sheer audacity of them calling him now was almost comical. "Yes, of course," he agreed, trying to sound nonchalant. "I can come in this afternoon."
I already applied to a fancier bank for you, called Obsidian Trust, the AI's calm voice interjected in his mind.
"Obsidian Trust?" Winston thought, incredulous. I've never heard of that in my 28 years in New York.
Yes, poor people don't hear about rich folks' stuff. It's pretty common, the AI replied, its digital tone almost dismissive.
As the AI spoke, Winston noticed his phone, which he'd left in his hand, begin to flicker. A new app icon, sleek and dark with an elegant, minimalist logo, started downloading on its own – Obsidian Trust. He stared at it, a shiver running down his spine. The AI truly controlled everything. Moments later, his phone rang again, a different, more sophisticated ringtone this time. The caller ID read: Obsidian Trust. They, too, wanted him to come in.
Winston checked his new bank app. And there it was, stark and undeniable: $2,300,000.00. He immediately questioned how his money got transferred so fast to a new bank he hadn't even heard of, let alone agreed to. It was just another reminder of how annoying the AI was, constantly doing what it wanted without his input.
A dizzying wave washed over him. $2.3 million. Just the "$0.3" of that amount—$300,000—would have been life-changing, an amount he could never have imagined achieving at once. Most teachers, professors, nurses, dentists, and even some doctors probably never saw $300,000 in liquid cash at any single point in their lives, let alone $2.3 million. He was utterly taken back at the sheer amazement and overwhelming reality of it.
You remember how you said, how people get houses and cars and apartments and luxury coffee? the AI's voice cut through his daze. Well, you're one of those people now. Get a car, because you won't be driving a taxi around anymore. Also, I think your sister asked for a phone and tablet.
Winston realized the AI was right, infuriatingly right, about all of it. Yet, the irritation lingered – this total lack of agency, the AI orchestrating every single aspect of his life. He found it profoundly weird that he was so accepting of the AI, the nanotech, inside his very being. He stopped questioning it, the thought quickly forming: Was that the AI's nanotech affecting him, making him compliant? He brushed it aside. He had a car to get.
As a taxi driver, Winston knew an astonishing amount about cars. He'd spent countless hours fantasizing, idly browsing apps and websites, lingering over images of $300,000 vehicles, which would only make him sadder in the end. Now, this knowledge, this suppressed passion, resurfaced.
He didn't know where the high-end car dealerships were located in this part of the city. Deciding to embrace his new, albeit bewildering, reality, he went downstairs to the lobby and approached the receptionist.
"Excuse me," he began, trying to sound casual, "I'm looking to purchase a car but I'm not entirely sure where to go for something... nice. Any recommendations?"
The receptionist, her professionalism unwavering despite Winston's still-modest attire, smiled politely. She likely didn't immediately peg him as "rich," but this was a luxury building, and such inquiries weren't uncommon. "Certainly, sir. What is your budget for the car? This is a pretty normal request; our building is owned by a large company, and we often have referrals to associated businesses, including car services and dealerships."
"Ah, I see," Winston replied, feeling a bit more at ease. "Anything under $300,000. I want something nice."
The receptionist's eyes, previously reserved, subtly lit up. A budget of "under $300,000" was well within luxury territory. "I actually recommend renting the car, sir," she suggested, her tone becoming more engaging. "It often makes more financial sense, as you might want to change models in a few years. We have a car service business as well, partnered with several luxury brands. If you sign up with us, we provide a professional driver at half price and a significant discount on the rental since you live in a building owned by the same company. And if you choose a yearly plan, you'll save even more."
Winston was momentarily confused. He knew whoever owned this skyscraper was wealthy, but to leverage it this way, making money for their other businesses, was clever. "What cars are available for rental or purchase through your service?"
"We have a wide selection available, as we are partnered with quite a few high-end companies," she replied, gesturing to a large digital screen embedded in the counter. "Anything specific in mind?"
Winston's eyes scanned the display, a thrill going through him as he saw all the top luxury brands: Mercedes, BMW, Audi, Aston Martin, Ferrari, and, of course, Porsche. His old dream car. He saw a sleek Porsche 911, tempting him. But then, his gaze fell upon another vehicle, one that truly captivated his imagination: the Rolls-Royce Phantom. The price tag beside it, for a new model, was around $517,000.
"Do you have a Rolls-Royce Phantom available?" he asked, pointing to it.
"Yes, we do," she confirmed, a hint of genuine excitement in her voice. "We also have a Rolls-Royce Phantom Extended Wheelbase currently in the garage we own, if you'd be interested in something even more exclusive."
"Extended?" Winston questioned.
"Yes, sir," she explained. "It's bigger and far more spacious inside – the Extended Wheelbase version; bigger, quieter, and far more spacious than the standard Phantom. It redefines opulence on wheels." She looked at him expectantly. "If you'd like, we can take a look?"
"Please," Winston said, a growing sense of surreal wonder washing over him.
She made a quick call for a staff member to cover her position, then led Winston and Lily towards a discreet door at the back of the lobby. They passed through it and descended a short flight of stairs into a cavernous, immaculately lit underground garage. It was a showroom in itself, filled with a dazzling array of luxury vehicles. Another security guard stood near the entrance, observing them silently.
She stopped beside a majestic black car that seemed to absorb all light. "Here it is," she announced, a hint of pride in her voice.
She opened the back door for him with a flourish. Both Winston and Lily peered inside, then Winston hesitantly stepped into the rear cabin. The Rolls-Royce Phantom Extended Wheelbase redefined opulence on wheels. Its stretched chassis created a rear cabin that felt more like a private suite than a car. Plush, reclining leather seats offered built-in massage functions that eased every muscle, while high-definition entertainment screens embedded into the back of the front seats kept passengers effortlessly entertained. Soft ambient lighting cast a warm glow over hand-crafted wood veneers, and the rear doors opened with a whisper, revealing an interior cocoon of silence and comfort. Every detail—from the buttery leather to the precision-engineered doors—spoke of unmatched luxury and power.
"This feels like a house," Winston murmured, running a hand over the impossibly smooth leather.
The receptionist beamed. "This one was a custom order, Mr. Stone. It's $610,000."
Winston felt shook to his core at the price. $610,000 for a car? He wasn't trying to pay that for a car he didn't even own a house yet!
"However," she continued, sensing his hesitation, "if you sign a yearly contract with us for the rental, we can offer it to you for $15,000 a month for a year, with the chauffeur at half price." She said this knowing most people wouldn't buy such a car outright, so their rental terms were designed to appeal more broadly to the ultra-wealthy who valued convenience and flexibility.
"What if I buy it from you?" Winston asked, the words surprising even himself.
The receptionist's professional demeanor wavered for a split second, a flicker of genuine shock in her eyes. He had said "under $300,000" just moments ago, and now he was talking about buying a $610,000 car. She quickly regained her composure. "Well, Mr. Stone, the car is $610,000 because it's a custom order, and it's brand new and unused. For us to sell it, it would actually cost you more, as it's part of our rental fleet."
"Can't I just order it for the same amount, new and unused?" Winston pressed, a strange, stubborn thought forming. "Because most people can't afford to rent it and pay for a chauffeur at that price anyway."
The lady's composure visibly cracked. A hint of panic entered her eyes. "Please excuse me for a moment, Mr. Stone. Can I speak to my manager? I'll be right back." She stepped away, pulling out her phone and speaking in hushed, urgent tones.
She returned moments later, her face a mask of polite deference, mixed with genuine surprise. "Mr. Stone," she announced, "my manager has informed me that the owner of this building wants to speak to you."
Winston's confusion deepened. Why would someone so wealthy, the owner of an entire skyscraper, want to speak to him about a $600,000 car? It didn't make sense.
He was led back through the labyrinthine corridors of the garage, then directed to a private elevator. It ascended silently, swiftly, to the top floor.
When the elevator doors opened, the first thing Winston noticed was the sheer scale of the space. It was clearly a penthouse condo that took up the entire floor. It was infinitely more grand and luxurious than even his own apartment, if such a thing were possible. The air here felt even more exclusive, the silence more profound. Numerous security guards were strategically positioned, their presence almost imperceptible, yet undeniably there. The interior design was a masterclass in modern luxury: soaring ceilings, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows offering breathtaking 360-degree views of the Manhattan skyline, a sprawling living area with bespoke furniture, museum-quality art adorning the walls, and a grand piano gleaming under soft spotlights. It exuded an atmosphere of immense power and unimaginable wealth.
A security guard gestured for Winston to follow. He was led through a series of opulent rooms, each more impressive than the last, before being brought to a private study. A man, impeccably dressed and radiating an aura of quiet authority, sat behind a massive, dark wood desk, gazing out at the city below.