The Barolo was velvet on Liam's tongue, a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of the tap water he'd been surviving on for months. As he finished the Lobster Fra Diavolo, the spice lingering pleasantly on his lips, he realized he wasn't just full—he was fueled.
For the first time since the FBI had raided his father's townhouse, the crushing weight in Liam's chest had lifted. It wasn't just the money; it was the certainty. The System wasn't a dream. The $24,500 rebate sitting in his account was the proof that the rules of the world had fundamentally shifted in his favor.
"Check, Mr. Whitmore?" Marco appeared at his elbow, his posture now so submissive he was practically folded in half.
"Keep the change," Liam said, standing up. He had tipped an extra fifty dollars on the machine.
[Ding! Expenditure Detected: $50.00 (Tip). Multiplier: 50x. Rebate: $2,500.00.]
Liam suppressed a smirk. Even his generosity was a profitable business venture. He walked out of Riccardo's into the afternoon sun, the October chill no longer feeling like a blade, but a refreshing breeze. He had ten million dollars, a system that printed money, and a master key to the most exclusive address in the city.
It was time to see his new home.
The Obsidian Tower was a needle of black glass and polished steel that pierced the sky over Downtown Brooklyn. It was the kind of building that didn't have a sign; if you didn't know what it was, you didn't belong there. It was famous for its biometric security, its private elevators, and a tenant list that included tech billionaires and reclusive A-list actors.
Liam took the subway—the last time he ever intended to do so. As he sat on the R train, surrounded by the smell of damp coats and exhaustion, he looked at his fellow passengers through the Eye of Insight.
[Commuter. Net Worth: $4,200. Mood: Stressed.] [Student. Net Worth: -$45,000 (Debt). Mood: Anxious.] [Pickpocket. Skill: Amateur. Target: Your back pocket.]
Liam shifted his weight, subtly moving his wallet as the "Amateur" reached out. He felt a strange sense of detachment. He was among them, but he was no longer of them. He was a predator in a sea of prey, a king in a commoner's rags.
When he emerged at Court Street and walked toward the Tower, the doorman—a man in a crisp uniform who looked like he'd been carved out of granite—stepped forward to block the entrance.
"Can I help you, sir?" The doorman's eyes scanned Liam's thrift-store jacket and scuffed shoes. His hand moved toward the radio on his belt. The message was clear: Move along, vagrant.
Liam didn't flinch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Master Key the system had provided. It wasn't a standard key; it was a heavy, matte-black card with a gold circuit board embedded in the center.
The doorman's eyes widened. He knew that card. There were only three in existence.
"The Penthouse?" the doorman whispered, his voice losing its edge.
"Floor 90," Liam said coolly.
The doorman snapped to attention, pulling the heavy glass door open. "My apologies, Mr...?"
"Whitmore," Liam said, his voice echoing in the marble lobby. "And don't let it happen again."
"Of course, Mr. Whitmore! Right this way!"
The private elevator moved so smoothly Liam only knew he was ascending because of the slight pressure in his ears. When the doors slid open, he stepped directly into a living room that spanned five thousand square feet.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a 360-degree view of New York City. To the West, the sun was beginning to set over the Hudson, painting the sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges. Below, the city looked like a circuit board, humming with a life that Liam now felt he owned.
The penthouse was fully furnished—minimalist Italian leather, white oak floors, and a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a professional laboratory.
[Ding! Property Acknowledged: The Obsidian Penthouse.] [Current Value: $45,000,000.] [Status: Owned (Tax & Fees pre-paid by System).]
Liam walked to the master bedroom. In the walk-in closet, he found rows of empty mahogany shelves and a safe. On the bed lay a sleek, black briefcase. He opened it.
Inside was a brand-new iPhone 15 Pro Max, a titanium credit card with no spending limit (linked to his system account), and a stack of legal documents confirming his ironclad ownership of the property.
He picked up the phone. It was already set up. One contact was saved: The System Concierge.
"I can't keep wearing these rags," Liam thought, catching his reflection in a mirrored wall. He looked like a beggar who had broken into a palace.
He tapped the screen. "Concierge? I need a personal shopper. Now. Send them to the Obsidian Tower, Penthouse A. And I need a barber. The best in the city."
"Right away, Mr. Whitmore," a professional female voice replied. "They will arrive in thirty minutes."
The next three hours were a whirlwind of activity.
A world-class barber arrived first, setting up a portable station in the massive bathroom. Liam sat in the chair, eyes closed, as the scent of sandalwood and expensive shaving cream filled the air. The long, unkempt hair was shorn away, replaced by a sharp, modern fade that emphasized his high cheekbones and the newfound hardness in his jaw.
Next came the clothes.
The personal shopper, a sharp-featured woman named Elena, arrived with three rolling racks of high-end fashion. Brioni suits, Loro Piana cashmeres, and handmade leather shoes from London.
"You have the frame of an athlete, Mr. Whitmore," Elena remarked, draped a charcoal-grey overcoat over his shoulders. "It's a shame to hide it under... whatever it was you were wearing."
Liam looked in the mirror. Gone was the "pauper" from the cafeteria. In his place stood a man who looked like he could buy and sell Julian Thorne's entire family for breakfast.
"I'll take everything on the racks," Liam said. "How much?"
Elena blinked, stunned. "Sir, the total for these collections is... $185,000."
Liam didn't even blink. He handed her the black titanium card.
[Ding! Expenditure Detected: $185,000.00.] [Multiplier: 10x.] [Rebate: $1,850,000.00.]
The notification on his phone was becoming addictive. He had just spent the cost of a luxury condo on clothes, and his bank balance had increased by nearly two million dollars.
"Is there anything else, sir?" Elena asked, her voice trembling slightly. She had never seen anyone drop nearly two hundred thousand dollars without looking at a single price tag.
"Actually, yes," Liam said, checking his new watch—a Patek Philippe he'd just pulled from one of Elena's accessory cases. "I have a university deadline. Tuition is due. And I believe I have some people to visit."
As the sun disappeared completely, leaving the city a glittering jewel box, Liam sat on his leather sofa and dialed a number he had memorized but hadn't dared to call in months.
It rang three times.
"Hello?" The voice was gruff, tired, and muffled by the sound of background noise.
"Mr. Henderson?" Liam said.
"Whitmore? Listen, I told you in the text. I don't care about your excuses. Your stuff is going to the curb tomorrow morning. I've already got a new tenant lined up for that dump."
Liam leaned back, staring at the Empire State Building through his window. "I'm calling to tell you I'm moving out tonight. Keep the security deposit. And the furniture. Consider it a tip for not calling the cops when I was a day late last month."
"You... moving out? To where? The shelter?" Henderson laughed.
"To somewhere you couldn't afford to look at, Henderson. Check your mail tomorrow. I'm buying your building. I think I might turn your apartment into a laundry room."
Liam hung up before the landlord could respond.
The rage he had felt in the cafeteria was still there, but it had cooled. It was no longer a wild fire; it was a focused laser. He thought of Julian's smug face and the way Sara had looked at him with that sickening pity.
They thought he was a ghost. They thought the Whitmore name was dead.
Liam stood up, his new silk shirt whispering against his skin. He grabbed the keys to the elevator. He didn't just want his old life back. He wanted to own the world that had tried to bury him.
"System," Liam whispered. "What's the Daily Sign-In for tomorrow?"
[Sign-In available in 14 hours, 22 minutes.]
"Fine," Liam smirked, walking toward the elevator. "I think I'll go buy a car. Something Julian can see from a mile away."