Chereads / Fortunes for the Fallen / Chapter 7 - Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Chapter 7

I wake up feeling deliciously gross, and let me tell you, that's a new one. A thick hangover made of grease, sugar, and MSG is hanging over my head like a cloud. The remains of last night's food fest are scattered around me—half-eaten pizza, takeout cartons, sushi I didn't even remember ordering. I feel like a crime scene of my own indulgence.

I roll out of bed, groaning as I peel my face off a chicken nugget I apparently fell asleep on. Good to know I'm still making excellent life choices. Sitting up, I clap my face a few times to wake myself up and slap the stupid out of me. "Alright, so it's real," I mutter. "It's all real. Not some fever dream or drug trip from that old weirdo in the alley. I actually have money. Like, for real. Five hundred thousand dollars, give or take."

For the first time, it actually sinks in that this is happening. The System—or whatever this thing is—dumped a ridiculous amount of cash on me, and I've been treating it like it's Monopoly money. Which, to be fair, I'm starting to suspect it actually might be. But just because I suddenly have the budget of a mid-tier action movie doesn't mean I can keep living like a big dumb kid who found his mom's purse.

I've had a game plan for my life since I was twelve. Okay, it was more like "survive until adulthood," but still. Point is, I've always needed an end goal, a direction. And now that I have a few hundred thousand in the bank, I'm not just gonna let it all slip through my fingers because I suddenly have caviar tastes. So, first things first—I've gotta actually think this through.

I sigh, looking around the room. It's trashed. Like, serious aftermath-of-a-party level trashed. And yeah, sure, I could just leave it for the poor hotel staff to clean up, but… nah. Mom taught me better than that. Just because I have a fat bank account now doesn't mean I get to act like I'm too good to pick up after myself.

After some half-hearted tidying, I take a shower that feels like it's washing off more than just last night's grime. It's like I'm scrubbing off the old Arthur who was just floating by on ramen noodles and resentment. And when I'm done, I actually feel kind of… refreshed. Or as refreshed as a guy with no clue what he's doing can be.

Once I'm packed up, I head down to check out, and as I'm leaving the hotel lobby, I finally realize something important: I need somewhere to stay that isn't a hotel. Like, sure, five-star room service and those little mints on the pillow have their charms, but I can't live out of hotel rooms and takeout boxes forever.

I make a mental list as I walk out the door, half-whispering to myself. "Alright, Arthur. Time to get a proper place. One with a fridge, a stove, maybe even a closet that's mine." I pause, realizing just how long it's been since I thought of any place as "mine." Not some temporary space to crash, not someone else's floor—just… my own place.

I scroll through listings online and start making calls, trying not to sound like a total idiot as I ask about properties that, until a few days ago, I could only dream about. It's bizarre, really—house-hunting. I always figured it'd be something I'd do way down the line, maybe after I'd clawed my way up from whatever my latest minimum-wage job was. I'd imagined a future where, if everything went really well, I'd be doing this with a partner, maybe even thinking about kids or something, settling down with a family.

But here I am, single as can be, wandering the streets with a fat wad of cash and no clear idea of what I'm looking for. Guess this isn't about "settling down," I think, half-amused, half-sad. My mom always said that having a kid didn't give her some fairy-tale redemption arc, but it did make her determined to make her life better. Maybe the gods were finally pitying her now—dumping all this on her son to make up for all those years of struggle.

A-anyway, back to business. Time to house-hunt like the real estate mogul I absolutely am not.

I start with the first place that catches my eye, and it's fancy. Like, capital F, entire-font-in-bold fancy. Glass walls, sharp angles, minimalistic white everything. It's this ultra-modern cube that looks like it could double as a spaceship or a billionaire's vacation home. Walking in feels like stepping into a magazine. The living room has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The view is jaw-dropping, but the place itself is so pristine, so… hollow. Like no one actually lives here. Or ever could, without feeling like they're on display in a human-sized fish tank.

I walk around, trying to imagine myself actually living here. But all I see is me trying to avoid leaving fingerprints on the glass walls or feeling guilty every time I make a mess. I don't want a house I feel like I'm renting just by breathing in.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I mutter, half to myself, half to the polished marble floors as I let myself out.

House number two: big, sprawling, with its own gate. It's like a mansion straight out of a movie. There's an actual fountain in the front yard, for crying out loud. The front door is a solid, dark mahogany thing that looks like it could withstand a zombie apocalypse or a battering ram. Inside, the place smells faintly of old books and expensive cologne, which feels oddly comforting. There's even a library—a legit library with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a rolling ladder.

But something about it still feels off. For all its grandeur, it feels like someone else's dream home. Like it's waiting for a family with golden retrievers and perfectly groomed lawns, or maybe a lonely rich guy with a brooding personality who spends his evenings by the fireplace. I'm definitely not that guy. Not yet, anyway.

So, I pass on the mansion too.

And then there's house number three. This one… well, it's even bigger, somehow, like a full-blown castle. It has columns and ivy crawling up the sides, and there's a garden that probably takes a team of gardeners to maintain. The inside is beautiful but cold, all marble and crystal chandeliers. It looks like it's been frozen in time since the Gilded Age, just waiting for someone to step in with a ballgown or a top hat and monocle.

There's no warmth, no sense of life here. It's gorgeous, sure, but I can practically feel the draft coming off the stone walls. I wander from room to room, each more extravagant than the last, until I stop in the middle of a grand ballroom (because, yes, it has a ballroom) and stare at my reflection in a gilded mirror.

"What am I doing?" I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a little bit ridiculous. I just walked right out of that grand old castle and took a familiar I didn't think I was brave enough to stroll through again.