The bank account balance on Leon's cracked phone screen read $12.37.
He stared at it, his knuckles white around the device, as the sound of expensive Italian leather shoes clicked to a halt beside his park bench. A shadow fell over him.
"Leon. Still sitting here, I see."
The voice was smooth, practiced in its condescension. Damien Vale. Heir to the Vale Pharma empire. Leon's former… everything. Classmate, friend, and the architect of his current state.
Leon didn't look up. He watched a pigeon peck at a discarded pretzel.
"The board meeting is in an hour," Damien continued, adjusting the cuff of his tailored suit. "Just wanted to see you one last time before the vote is finalized. To say goodbye to the company your grandfather built. It's a shame, really. But sentimentality doesn't pay the bills. Vision does."
A cold, clinical anger settled in Leon's gut, a familiar companion for the past year. He'd tried logic. He'd tried pleading. He'd watched his legacy, Gray Star Technologies, be systematically dismantled by Damien's hostile takeover, his father's old "friends" on the board smiling and nodding as they sold him out.
He had nothing left. No money. No leverage. No hope.
[System Interface Detected. Host's Humiliation Threshold: CRITICAL.]
The words appeared in the air before his eyes, glowing with a faint, ethereal blue light. Leon flinched, blinking rapidly. They remained.
[Initializing… The 'Face-Slap' Bank is online.]
[Core Principle: Status is the only true currency. Arrogance is the prime commodity.]
[Mission Generated: 'The First Withdrawal']
[Target: Damien Vale. Arrogance Level: 8/10 (Pitying Superiority).]
[Objective: Execute a legitimate, style-driven humiliation. Convert target's emotional deficit into capital.]
[Reward: Variable. Based on audience impact, style points, and resultant humiliation.]
A hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up in Leon's throat. A system? Now? When he was literally at rock bottom, staring at the twelve dollars that were supposed to last him the week?
Damien misread the tremble in his shoulders. "Don't take it so hard, Leon. There's always a place for someone with your… pedigree. Maybe as a junior analyst. Somewhere. I could put in a word."
The System flashed.
[Target Arrogance Spike: 8.2/10. Opportunity detected.]
The words ignited something in Leon. Not just anger. A cold, calculating fire. The System was talking about style. About legitimacy. He couldn't punch Damien. That would just get him arrested, a final footnote of pathetic violence.
But…
He remembered something. A tiny, forgotten detail from the mountain of legal documents Damien's lawyers had buried him under. A clause. An absurd, antiquated clause in the original Gray Star incorporation papers his grandfather had drafted.
He stood up, slowly. He was thinner than Damien, his clothes off-the-rack and worn. But he met the heir's eyes, and for the first time in a year, he didn't feel the crushing weight of defeat. He felt the sharp, clean edge of a weapon he didn't yet understand.
"You're right, Damien," Leon said, his voice calm, clear. It cut through the city noise. "The meeting is in an hour. And you should get going. You wouldn't want to be late for your own… restructuring."
Damien's smirk faltered for a microsecond. "My restructuring?"
"Of course." Leon pulled out his phone, not to look at his pathetic balance, but to pull up a specific document he'd saved in a cloud folder labeled 'Last Resort.' "Article 14, Section C of the Gray Star original bylaws. The 'Founder's Prerogative.' In the event of a hostile change of control initiated by a party who was a guest in the founder's home before the age of 18, a direct descendant of the founder may call for a 'Legacy Audit.'"
He held the screen up. The legal text was dense, but the heading was clear.
Damien's face went blank, then amused. "A what? Leon, that's a children's story. No court would—"
"The clause is valid," a new voice interjected.
An elderly man in an impeccable three-piece suit, carrying a leather briefcase that cost more than Leon's entire apartment, stepped from behind a nearby newsstand. Mr. Alistair Finch. The oldest, most feared corporate lawyer in the city. He'd been Leon's grandfather's personal counsel.
Leon had emailed him the clause thirty minutes ago, a desperate, final shot in the dark. He hadn't expected a reply, let alone a physical appearance.
Finch nodded curtly to Leon, then turned his hawk-like gaze to Damien. "Mr. Vale. The clause is ironclad. It was designed by your father's own former mentor, rest his soul, to prevent exactly this sort of… ungrateful acquisition. A Legacy Audit, once invoked, freezes all board voting power and transfers provisional executive authority to the founding descendant—Mr. Gray—for a period of 72 hours, pending a full forensic review of the takeover's propriety."
The air left Damien's lungs. "This is… you can't… the board…"
"Will be served notice as we speak," Finch said, checking his platinum wristwatch. "The audit will, of course, scrutinize every dinner conversation, every 'friendly advice' you received at the Gray family dinner table that you later used to orchestrate this. The court of public opinion is so harsh on perceived betrayals of hospitality."
The color drained from Damien's face. His arrogance, his cool superiority, cracked. It was replaced by something uglier: panic, and a dawning, humiliating realization. He hadn't just been outmaneuvered. He'd been outmaneuvered by the ghost of an old man's wisdom and the grandson he'd thought was already broken.
He'd been slapped with a piece of paper.
And it hurt more than any fist.
A small crowd had gathered, sensing drama. Phones were subtly raised.
Leon leaned in close, his voice dropping to a tone only Damien could hear. It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was devastatingly polite. "You should go, Damien. I have a company to temporarily run. And you… you should probably call your PR team."
He turned to Finch. "Mr. Finch, shall we? We have a board to address."
As Leon walked away, the fallen CEO of his own company standing shell-shocked on a public sidewalk, the blue text flashed triumphantly in his vision.
[Mission: 'The First Withdrawal' – COMPLETE.]
[Style Points: 92/100. Elegance under pressure. Utilized forgotten lore. Legal precision. Public setting.]
[Humiliation Conversion: SUCCESSFUL.]
[Processing Arrogance Deficit…]
[BANK BALANCE CREDIT: $2,850,000.]
[Humiliation Points Earned: 150.]
[New Skill Unlocked: 'Founder's Aura' (Passive – Tier 1). In business or formal settings, your presence carries a subtle, unshakeable weight of legacy and legitimacy.]
Leon didn't stumble. He didn't gasp. He kept walking beside the old lawyer, his face a mask of calm. Inside, a universe was being born. A universe where every sneer, every condescending remark, every ounce of unwarranted superiority was fuel. Was currency.
He had 72 hours of provisional control. He had two-point-eight million dollars he hadn't had ten minutes ago.
And he had a Bank that was very, very open for business.