Ethan stirred awake on the couch, blinking against the light streaming in through the thin, worn-out curtains.
For a moment, he lay there, his mind caught in the haze of waking up from a good sleep.
But this time, something was different. The tension in his chest, the weight that had pressed down on him for a long time, felt lighter.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
The table came into view. The sleek black phone and the box it had come in sat there, right where he'd left them. It wasn't a dream.
Ethan stared at the phone for a moment, his thoughts racing. The events of last night played in his head — the strange delivery, the activation of the system, and the absurd message that had followed but hey, he wasn't complaining, if anything he was grateful for it all.
He wasn't sure how or why it had happened, but he knew one thing: this was real.
And if the system's rules were to be believed, he had a ticking clock. Opportunities like this didn't wait for indecision.
With a groan, he pushed himself off the couch and shuffled toward the bathroom. The cracked tiles greeted him like an old enemy.
The small mirror above the sink reflected his face back at him, tired but somehow more alive than it had been in weeks.
Still, he looked like crap.
His stubble had grown patchy and uneven, framing his face in a way that only made him look more defeated.
His eyes were less sunken, but the lines beneath them told a story of too many sleepless nights.
Ethan opened the cabinet under the sink, digging through a collection of toiletries until he found his shaving stick.
He paused for a moment, staring at the worn handle.
The memory hit him like a sudden gust of wind.
This same bathroom had once been filled with laughter. Emily, his girlfriend at the time, had leaned against the doorframe, teasing him as he shaved.
"You missed a spot," she'd said, grinning as she pointed at his chin.
He'd rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling back. "Yeah, yeah. You're just jealous you don't have a beard this majestic."
"Majestic, huh?" she'd teased, poking him in the side.
The memory faded, replaced by the cold truth.
Emily was gone. She'd left not long after the accusations came out. At first, she'd been supportive, promising to stand by him.
But as the evidence mounted, as the whispers turned to outright disdain, she began to pull away.
The final blow had come when his sister — Emily's best friend — had told her, "It's okay to walk away. You don't owe him anything."
Ethan clenched his jaw as he lathered the shaving cream onto his face. He didn't blame Emily. Not entirely. But the sting of her absence still lingered, a wound that refused to heal.
He shaved in silence, the rhythmic scrape of the blade against his skin filling the small bathroom. When he was done, he splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror.
He looked… better. Not great, but better.
"Alright," he muttered, drying his face with a threadbare towel. "Time to move."
The air outside was crisp, carrying the faint smell of exhaust and the ever-present hum of the city. Ethan stepped out of the apartment building, his eyes scanning the streets of Silverpoint.
The city was a study in contradictions. On one hand, it was a hub of opportunity, a sprawling metropolis where dreams were chased and sometimes caught.
On the other, it was a harsh, unforgiving machine that chewed people up and spit them out.
Ethan had once been enamored with its energy.
The towering skyscrapers, the buzzing markets, the crowded streets — it had all seemed so full of promise. But now, walking these same streets, he felt like an outsider, disconnected from the life he'd once known.
The sidewalks were packed, as always.
Businessmen in suits brushed past street vendors shouting about deals on fruit and electronics.
A group of teenagers laughed as they dodged through the crowd on skateboards. Somewhere in the distance, the wail of a siren pierced the air.
Ethan kept his head down, pulling his jacket tighter against the morning chill.
He made his way to the nearest bus stop, standing in the shadow of a towering billboard advertising some luxury brand he couldn't afford even before his life fell apart.
A bus rumbled up to the curb, its brakes screeching as it came to a halt. Ethan climbed aboard, fumbling in his pocket for change.
"Two seventy-five," the driver said without looking up.
Ethan dropped the coins into the slot and moved to the back, sinking into a worn seat. The bus lurched forward, and he stared out the window, watching the city blur past.
His mind drifted to the task ahead. The system had recommended his first investment: a rundown food truck in Johnson's Lot.
It wasn't exactly the kind of opportunity he'd dreamed of, but he wasn't in a position to be picky.
The rules were clear. Physical investments only. Things that directly benefited him.
He wasn't sure how a food truck fit into that, but he trusted the system's guidance. After all, it had given him a million dollars.
The bus jolted as it hit a pothole, snapping Ethan out of his thoughts.
He glanced around at the other passengers. A woman in a business suit was typing furiously on her phone.
An older man was dozing, his head bobbing with each bump. A kid with headphones stared at the ceiling, lost in his own world.
For a moment, Ethan felt a strange sense of calm. These people didn't know who he was or what he'd been accused of. To them, he was just another guy on the bus.
The bus finally came to a stop near Johnson's Lot, and Ethan stepped off, taking a deep breath.
The lot was exactly what he'd expected: a stretch of cracked asphalt filled with overgrown weeds and abandoned vehicles.
At the far end, he saw it — a battered old food truck, its paint faded and peeling.
Ethan's stomach churned with a mix of nerves and determination. This was it. The first step toward clawing his way back.
He pulled out the black phone, the screen lighting up as he approached the truck.
[Investment Opportunity Verified]
The message appeared in glowing text, and Ethan's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.