The days passed slowly.
And the nights? They dragged like chains.
Alex sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, still in the clothes he wore the day before. His fingers rubbed at the soft fray on the edge of his trousers. His father's death had emptied something in him. Something essential. And the silence at home had only made it worse.
The last thing Elliot said echoed in his head for days.
"Your dad… he wasn't the type to just collapse like that."
It rang in the silence. By the fourth day, the walls of the house began to close in.
He needed to get out.
Do something.
Anything.
So, he got dressed.
There were no plans, just desperate instinct. He pulled out his old CV and walked into the city, legs carrying him like a man on autopilot. He tried two offices, mid-size firms with plain glass doors, and receptionists who were looking so bored.
"We're not hiring."
"Try again next quarter."
He didn't even get a seat before being dismissed. It wasn't the rejection that broke him, it was the lack of care in their voices, the practiced disinterest. As if people like him were always coming through with trembling hands and degrees no one cared about.
By mid-afternoon, the sun burned against the concrete like punishment. The street is full of impatient drivers and crowds moving between buses, street vendors shouting into the air, smoke curling from suya stands, and danfo exhausts. But inside Alex, there was still only fog.
He walked aimlessly with his head down across potholes, flyers, wrappers, and noise until something, someone, caught his eye.
The man.
Standing across the street.
Same black suit. Same stillness. Only this time, he wasn't just a figure in the background of grief. He was real and clear.
Alex froze midstep.
The man was watching him.
Their eyes met.
And then the man turned and walked.
Without thinking, Alex followed. He pushed through the chaotic crowd and crossed the road with impatient horns blaring around him.
"Sir!" he called.
The man slowed slightly. Just enough.
Alex caught up. "I know you."
The man gave him a side glance, almost amused. "Do you?"
"You were at my father's burial. And… before that. I've seen you. Years ago. In our house."
He turned to face Alex fully now.
"You remember well."
Alex breathed heavily. "Who are you?"
Instead of answering, the man reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek black card. No logo. No name. Just a simple, gold embossed address and a line of numbers.
"Come tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp. Ask for me."
Alex looked at the card, then up again.
But the man was already walking away, again.
***
The next morning, Alex arrived at the address.
It didn't look like much from the outside. Just a tall glass building tucked between louder ones. But the moment he stepped through the front doors, something shifted.
The receptionist stood up before he even introduced himself.
"You must be Mr. Stone."
Alex blinked. "Uh… yes?"
She pressed a button. "Mr. Carter is expecting him."
Two security officers approached but not with hostility. One nodded and gestured toward the elevator.
"Right this way, sir."
Sir.
They called him sir.
The elevator opened to a quiet floor lined with glass walls and plush dark carpet. Alex followed the assistant through a corridor that didn't feel like an office, it felt more like a vault. Everything whispered luxury and power. Quiet money.
The assistant stopped at a door with no nameplate, just a fingerprint scanner. One press and it clicked open.
"Go in," she said.
Alex stepped inside.
The man stood at the window, back turned, overlooking the city. Same black suit. Same calm.
"I see you came."
Alex nodded. "Couldn't exactly ignore the invitation."
The man turned a faint smile on his lips. "Sit."
The chair was leather, too soft. The room was minimal, just a desk, a globe, a few books, and an odd painting on the wall.
"So Alexander, My name is Raymond Carter," the man said finally. "I knew your father. We weren't just friends. We worked together... once."
Alex's eyes narrowed. "Doing what?"
Raymond ignored the question. "You said you're looking for a job. What have you been doing?"
Alex exhaled. "Trying. Applied to over six places. I had a job… briefly. Startup company. Tech stuff. Seemed promising, but I missed out as I couldn't attend the first day. That was the day before my dad collapsed. The job has actually been the last thing on my mind then."
Raymond watched him silently.
"Everything feels… fake," Alex added. "Like the rules change for certain people, and the rest of us are just supposed to adapt."
Now Raymond leaned forward.
"I'll ask you something, and I want you to think before you answer."
Alex met his gaze.
"Do you want a job… or do you want to understand how money really works?"
The question hit like a stone in still water.
"What do you mean?"
"A job will pay you a salary. Enough to survive. Maybe enough to look decent and buy things you don't need. But the real game? It's never been about jobs. It's about control. Wealth. Power."
"Ever wondered why five companies own nearly everything you see, hear, and buy?" Raymond asked.
"Why does the news read like a script, one that's coordinated, timed, careful? That's not an accident. That's orchestration. A handful of hands on all the levers."
He tilted his head. "They don't want you to notice the pattern. And when someone starts pulling the wrong thread… the whole thing threatens to unravel."
"You sound like my old neighbor who loves a conspiracy," Alex muttered.
Raymond chuckled. "Then your neighbor was paying attention. Let me tell you a secret, money moves in cycles, yes, but not natural ones. It flows through gates. And those gates? Controlled. Every crisis, every boom, every government bailout, it all circles back to the same hands."
Alex leaned in, intrigued despite himself.
Raymond continued. "When you see a man get rich overnight, he either inherited access or broke something to get there. Morals. Laws. Systems."
"And you?"
"I learned early that the system is broken on purpose. Your father… he tried to fix things.
Alex's heart skipped. "Are you saying—?"
"I'm saying he knew things. And he taught people. Good people. Some who listened, some who didn't."
Raymond stood and walked to the window again.
"I'll give you a choice, Alex. Two paths."
He held up a finger. "One: you work for me. Simple job. High pay. You'll start today. No questions, no noise."
He raised another finger. "Two: I mentor you. I show you how this thing works. How influence flows behind closed doors. How fortunes are made while the world sleeps. But it won't be easy. It'll take your time, your curiosity… maybe even your innocence."
"And why should I trust you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Raymond smirked. "Because I've given you nothing to believe, yet."
"You talk like a man who's watched too many crime documentaries," Alex muttered, half skeptical, half curious.
"And you talk like someone who still thinks the world is fair," Raymond replied quietly.
Silence filled the room.
Alex could hear the hum of the city outside. His heartbeat was in his ears.
"What would my father have chosen?" he asked quietly.
Raymond turned, eyes shadowed.
"He would've tried to walk both paths. But the system doesn't like that."
Alex swallowed.
"So, what'll it be?" Raymond asked. "Comfort? Or clarity?"
"..."