Kyota learned the truth at twenty-three.
Effort didn't scale.
Money did.
He had spent four years believing the opposite. Four years believing that if he studied harder, planned better, and stayed disciplined, the world would eventually correct itself.
It didn't.
The rejection email glowed on his laptop screen, polite and final.
We regret to inform you that after careful consideration—
Kyota closed the lid before the sentence finished loading. He didn't need to read it. He already knew the pattern.
Strong resume.
No connections.
No capital.
Rejected.
The café was full despite the rain hammering the city outside. Glass walls blurred with water reflected neon lights and moving headlights, turning everything into streaks of color. People sat in confident silence—keyboards clicking, espresso machines hissing, ambition pretending to be productivity.
Kyota sat among them with a black coffee he'd paid for once and refilled three times.
Forty minutes.
No progress.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his mother.
Did the interview go well?
He didn't reply.
Lying took energy. Silence was cheaper.
Kyota leaned back, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks like they were expenses he couldn't afford. He had done everything right. No trouble. No shortcuts. No reckless risks.
That, he was beginning to realize, was the mistake.
A shadow fell across his table.
"Excuse me."
Kyota opened his eyes.
The man standing there didn't look impressive. No suit. No watch that screamed status. Just a dark coat, clean shoes, and the unsettling stillness of someone who never rushed because nothing chased him.
"You dropped this," the man said.
He placed a thin black card on the table.
Kyota frowned. "That's not mine."
The man's eyes were calm. Assessing. Like Kyota was a balance sheet with a negative margin.
"It is now."
Before Kyota could respond, the card dissolved.
Not burned.
Not shattered.
It simply ceased to exist, breaking apart into fine particles of light that sank into the air like recalculating numbers.
Kyota froze.
The café didn't react.
No gasps. No screams. No one looked up.
The world kept moving.
"What the hell…?" Kyota whispered.
Pressure settled behind his eyes. Not pain—focus. Like invisible hands aligning his thoughts. The noise of the café faded, replaced by something colder. Cleaner.
Text appeared in front of him.
Not projected.
Not reflected.
Present.
THE LEDGER INITIALIZED
ASSETS:
Capital: 0
Influence: 0
Trust Equity: 0
STATUS: UNCONTRACTED
RECOMMENDATION:
ACQUIRE VALUE THROUGH BINDING AGREEMENT
Kyota's breath slowed instead of speeding up.
Shock didn't hit him. Panic didn't either.
His mind did what it always did when cornered.
It analyzed.
"Hallucination," he muttered. "Stress-induced. Sleep deprivation."
The words stayed.
They didn't flicker. They didn't distort.
They waited.
Kyota raised a hand. The text didn't move. He leaned left. It followed his gaze perfectly, locked to his perception.
His pulse ticked up.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Let's play along."
Another line appeared.
HIGHEST-YIELD CONTRACT AVAILABLE:
MARRIAGE (CROSS-BORDER)
RISK: EXTREME
RETURN: EMPIRE-LEVEL
Kyota laughed.
It came out sharp, almost angry.
"Marriage?" he said under his breath. "That's your recommendation?"
Marriage was inefficient. Emotional. Legally complex. Unstable over time. Every statistic he knew ranked it as a liability, not an asset.
The Ledger didn't react.
It added a final line.
WARNING:
ONCE SIGNED, OWNERSHIP IS MUTUAL.
Kyota stopped laughing.
That line changed the math.
Ownership wasn't metaphorical. The Ledger didn't speak in metaphors. Everything it showed was quantified, weighted, priced.
Mutual ownership meant risk went both ways.
His heart beat once—harder.
"…Show me the details."
The café lights flickered.
Kyota barely noticed.
CANDIDATE IDENTIFIED
NAME: ELENA WEISSFELD
NATIONALITY: GERMAN
STATUS: SOLE HEIR — WEISSFELD GLOBAL HOLDINGS
Kyota's fingers dug into the edge of the table.
Weissfeld.
Even people who knew nothing about business knew that name.
Energy. Infrastructure. Logistics. The kind of companies governments negotiated with instead of regulated.
This wasn't absurd.
It was insane.
"I'm broke," Kyota whispered. "Why would someone like that even—"
REASON:
CANDIDATE IS UNDER CONTRACTUAL PRESSURE
Kyota swallowed.
Pressure meant leverage.
Not emotional. Not moral.
Structural.
The Ledger expanded.
PRELIMINARY CONTRACT SUMMARY
• Equity Exchange: CONDITIONAL
• Decision Authority: SHARED
• Emotional Interference: RESTRICTED
• BREACH PENALTY: TOTAL ASSET COLLAPSE
There it was.
The real cost.
No half-measures. No recovery clause. If this broke, everything broke.
Kyota leaned back slowly, eyes locked on the text.
"This isn't a reward," he said. "It's a cage."
The Ledger didn't deny it.
Another note appeared.
NOTE:
REFUSAL RESULTS IN STATUS QUO MAINTENANCE
Status quo.
Rejection emails.
Polite smiles.
Invisible ceilings.
Kyota looked around the café. At the people pretending they weren't afraid of failing. At the city grinding forward, indifferent to effort.
He had spent his life avoiding risk.
And it had led him here.
"…Mutual consent required," Kyota murmured, reading deeper. "So she can refuse."
CORRECT.
"Which means," Kyota said slowly, "she has something to lose too."
The Ledger pulsed.
CONFIRMED.
Kyota exhaled.
This wasn't romance.
This wasn't fate.
This was a negotiation between trapped parties.
A hostile merger disguised as marriage.
For the first time that day, Kyota smiled—not out of hope, but out of clarity.
"If I'm going to sell myself," he said quietly, "I'm not doing it cheap."
The Ledger waited.
Rain streaked down the glass behind him, the city blurring into motion again.
Kyota opened his laptop.
Not to apply for another job.
But to prepare for the most expensive contract of his life.