During the final month of the residency, a crisis hit the Institute. A major investor for their showcase gala pulled out, jeopardizing the funding for all the residents' future projects. Panic spread. The residents, Chloe included, faced the collapse of their dreams yet again, this time due to capricious capital.
Marcus watched as Chloe worked tirelessly, not on her own project, but with the other residents, trying to brainstorm alternative solutions—crowdfunding, local sponsors, scaled-down events. She was leading, not for personal gain, but for the community. He felt the old itch, the power to solve it with a call. His phone, with the ability to summon millions, was in his locker.
He found her late at night in a planning room, surrounded by spreadsheets, exhausted. "I can fix this," he said quietly.
She didn't look up. "I know you can."
"Do you want me to?"
That made her stop. She looked at him, really looked, seeing the struggle in his eyes. This was the crucible. If he wrote the check, he'd be the billionaire again, the fixer. If he didn't, he'd let her dream potentially die.
"No," she said finally. "This is our problem. Our community. If you fix it, it's not ours anymore. It's yours. Again." The truth was agonizing, but it was shared.
He nodded, a profound surrender. "Okay." Then he rolled up his sleeves. "Then tell me what to do. How do I help, as just a guy in this room?"
She smiled, a small, real smile. "The coffee here is terrible. You're on caffeine duty. And start calling every local business in this notebook. Not as Marcus Thorne. As an intern from the Institute. See if they'll donate fifty dollars."
He picked up the phone, a new kind of weight in his hands—the weight of honest, humble work.