Rain blurred the neon signs into soft, expensive colors—colors Lin Ze had never felt belonged to him.
He stood under the convenience store awning, thumb hovering over a banking app that had become a daily humiliation. The number on the screen was small, stubborn, and honest. Honest in the way poverty always was.
A vibration.
Unknown number.
: "Mr. Lin Ze. Harbor Tower. 38th floor. Bring your ID." : "Who is this?" : "Your mother's outstanding hospital balance was cleared at 15:12."
Lin Ze's breathing stopped.
He re-read the line, then immediately called the hospital. The nurse checked the system twice, then sounded almost apologetic.
"Yes, sir. The arrears are settled. The payer is… listed as a corporate account. We don't have more details."
Corporate account.
That meant invoices. Paper trails. Someone who knew how money moved without making noise.
Lin Ze didn't feel grateful.
He felt targeted.
He took the subway anyway, because whatever this was, it had already crossed the one boundary he couldn't protect—his family.
Harbor Tower rose from the city like a decision made in glass.
The lobby was silent, clean, and guarded by men who looked like they had never waited for anything in their lives. Lin Ze's wet sleeves and cheap shoes didn't belong here, and everyone could tell.
At the reception desk, he said his name.
The receptionist's eyes flicked to a screen. Her posture changed slightly.
A man in a fitted suit appeared as if summoned by code.
"Mr. Lin Ze," the man said. "I'm Zhang Yu, legal liaison. Please follow me."
Legal.
That single word made Lin Ze's skin tighten.
The elevator lifted them past floors Lin Ze had only seen in real estate ads. When it opened at 38, the hallway smelled like faint citrus and money that never touched cash.
They entered a conference room.
There was one person at the table.
A woman.
Late twenties. Hair tied back, no jewelry that screamed, only the kind that whispered. Her eyes were calm, but not kind—calm like a blade placed carefully on a desk.
A tablet, a coffee, and two folders.
She didn't stand to greet him.
She simply looked up and measured him without pretending it was polite.
"You're two minutes late," she said.
Lin Ze held her gaze. "The subway—"
"I know," she interrupted, flat and precise. "Sit."
Zhang Yu remained by the door. Not a bodyguard. A witness.
The woman slid the first folder toward him.
On the cover, a logo: HARBOR PRIVATE TRUST.
Beneath it, bold text:
: TEMPORARY AUTHORIZED REPRESENTATIVE AGREEMENT : WITH LIMITED POWER OF ATTORNEY
Lin Ze didn't touch it yet. "You paid my mother's bills."
"Yes," she said.
"Why?"
"Because you came," she answered, as if cause and effect were already settled.
Lin Ze's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
She finally offered a name like it was a statement, not an introduction.
"Su Yanli."
That name carried weight. Not celebrity weight—corporate weight. The kind that could alter a person's life with a phone call.
Lin Ze forced himself to stay still. "What do you want me to do?"
Su Yanli tapped the contract lightly.
"You will become the temporary authorized representative of a private trust," she said. "Legally. Not emotionally."
Lin Ze frowned. "Why not use your own people?"
"I am using my people," she said, eyes not blinking. "You're just not one of them yet."
She slid the second folder closer. It contained stamped documents, notarization blocks, and a summary sheet with structured numbers.
Not "unlimited money."
A portfolio.
Assets. Cash reserves. Holdings. Commitments. Liability ceilings.
Everything had a boundary—exactly the kind of boundary that made this real.
Lin Ze's heartbeat slowed, not from relief, but from clarity. This wasn't a fantasy.
This was a machine.
"And the purpose?" he asked.
Su Yanli leaned back slightly.
"Control," she said. "Quiet control."
Zhang Yu spoke for the first time, voice professional.
"The trust requires an external representative for specific transactions," he said. "A clean profile. Minimal connections. Someone whose name won't trigger attention before the assets move."
So that was it.
Lin Ze wasn't special.
He was useful.
Lin Ze lifted his eyes to Su Yanli. "If this is legal, why do I feel like I'm being set up?"
Su Yanli's gaze sharpened—approval, almost.
"Because you're not stupid," she said. "Good."
She turned her tablet toward him.
A live camera feed showed the building's private parking bay. A black sedan waited near the exit. Beside it, a security officer held a sealed envelope.
Su Yanli spoke like she was assigning homework.
"Your first step is outside," she said. "Take the car. Take the envelope."
"What's inside?" Lin Ze asked.
"Your access credentials," Zhang Yu answered. "And your first schedule."
Lin Ze looked back to Su Yanli. "You said this is a test."
"It is," she said. "People will notice. They'll probe your background. They'll bait you with favors. They'll threaten you when favors don't work."
"And if I refuse?"
Su Yanli's expression didn't change.
"Then you walk out," she said. "And your mother's bills will be paid this time only. You'll go back to your life. But you'll always know someone could rewrite it whenever they wanted."
That was the hook.
Not money.
Power.
Power without consent.
Lin Ze's jaw tightened. "So I don't really have a choice."
"You do," Su Yanli said calmly. "But your choices have prices. That's adulthood."
She slid a pen forward.
Lin Ze stared at the signature line.
The document wasn't romantic. It wasn't mystical. It was deliberate, ugly in how clean it was.
He signed.
Ink met paper.
Zhang Yu immediately stamped a page, then scanned it with a handheld device. Fast. Efficient. Like this had been rehearsed a hundred times.
Su Yanli stood.
She walked around the table and stopped close enough that Lin Ze could feel her presence without her touching him. She didn't flirt.
She claimed space.
"You're going to learn something today," she said quietly.
"What?" Lin Ze asked.
"In this city," she said, "money doesn't attract love first."
Her eyes held his, unblinking.
"It attracts ownership."
Lin Ze didn't look away. "Ownership from who?"
Su Yanli's lips curved just slightly, the faintest sign of satisfaction.
"From everyone," she said. "Starting with the person who made the first investment."
She looked at the signed paper.
"Me."
For a moment, the room felt smaller.
Zhang Yu opened the door.
Outside, the hallway was silent again, as if nothing had happened.
But Lin Ze's life had already shifted.
He walked toward the elevator with the sealed envelope in his hand, the weight of it more psychological than physical.
Downstairs, the black sedan waited.
And as Lin Ze approached it, he felt it—eyes.
Not friendly eyes.
Interested eyes.
The kind of eyes that measured what a man was worth.
Behind the glass of Harbor Tower, Su Yanli watched him go, expression controlled, and spoke one last line—soft, to herself, but absolute.
"Don't waste what I bought."