[In the original The Architecture series, Oliver becomes a Traveler within the other world after the great childhood arc, this is a more straightforward version].
[Taking: on a more straightforward road Chapter 0: The Architecture soon].....
Chapter 0: Oliver and the Infinite Promises
Oliver Woods Smith sat hunched over his secondhand laptop, its fan whirring like it was trying to take off.
The dim, yellowish glow of his desk lamp cast soft shadows on the walls of his modest apartment.
Pizza boxes stood like forgotten monuments of indulgence, and a lukewarm energy drink sat half-finished by his elbow.
He was 27. Unemployed. Overweight. Bearded. 5'7" of worn-out patience and too many empty promises.
His fingers tapped rhythmically against the keyboard as he scrolled through one too many tabs, each promising the same glittering lie with slightly different fonts:
> "Make Money Playing Games — No Skills Required!"
"This App Pays You to Watch Videos!"
"Take Surveys. Get Rich. No Joke."
"New Millionaires Made in 2025 – You Could Be Next!"
He sighed.
Click.
A sleek, overly produced video began to autoplay — a man, with a too-white smile and suspiciously perfect lighting, explained how he had gone from broke to $1.2 million in just four months by playing a "new revolutionary mobile game."
Oliver frowned and leaned in.
"All I did was play for 3 hours a day. That's it! My PayPal is exploding!" said the man in the video.
Three hours a day? He already played games for five. He could double explode his PayPal, right?
Click.
Another tab. This one was uglier, slapped together with Comic Sans and glittering buttons that looked like they hadn't changed since 2006.
> Take a 5-question survey and get $5 INSTANTLY!
(No disqualifications! Guaranteed!)
Oliver clicked "Start."
A moment passed. Then another. Then a full minute of loading screen, which ended in:
> "Oops! Something went wrong. Try again later!"
He stared. Not surprised. Not even annoyed. Just... used to it.
He leaned back in his squeaky chair and rubbed his face. He glanced at the digital clock. 2:38 a.m.
"What am I even doing," he mumbled, glancing at his bank account tab: $12.86.
The YouTube tab autoplayed another video.
> "How to Become a Millionaire in 2025 — You're Already Late!"
Oliver muttered to himself. "Yeah. Tell me about it."
His phone buzzed — a notification from an app he'd downloaded that promised to pay him for walking. "You earned 2 cents today! Keep it up!"
He stared at the notification for a while. Then at the mirror across the room.
A pale face. Puffy cheeks. Hair messy. A beard that could use some shaping but had grown into his identity. Eyes that used to be curious — now dulled by too much screen time and too little success.
But under it all — just a flicker, a spark — something hadn't fully died yet. He still wanted to believe.
That maybe one of these apps would pay out. That maybe, just maybe, he'd click on the right one and change his life.
He leaned forward, scrolled again.
A new ad popped up.
> "Make money by listening to music. Real money. No cap."
He smirked. "No cap, huh?"
Click.
Another rabbit hole. Another late night.
Another desperate try.
--------
Chapter 2: Promises in 1080p
By morning, Oliver's eyes were red-rimmed and dry, as if his tear ducts had been drained by too many terms and conditions. He hadn't slept—again.
His laptop, somehow still alive, was now filled with the ghosts of apps he had downloaded, tested, and abandoned in the same cycle: excitement, confusion, suspicion, and then disappointment.
The so-called "money-making" apps had all shared a common ending—payout thresholds he'd never reach, surveys that suddenly disqualified him at the final question, or games that paid in "gems" and "coins" that couldn't be converted into anything real.
He glanced down at his phone. Another notification from CashMazeGPT.
> "You earned 11 reward points! Only 49,989 more to cash out $5!"
He deleted the app with a bitter flick of his thumb.
Dragging his feet to the couch, Oliver collapsed into its torn cushions like a defeated prizefighter.
His YouTube algorithm was now poisoned—every suggested video a flashy thumbnail of someone holding cash, standing next to cars, yachts, or a suspiciously photogenic girlfriend.
He didn't click any of them.
Instead, he opened TikTok. That was where real people made real money, right?
The third swipe hit him hard: a teenage boy, maybe 19, tan skin, slicked hair, grinning next to a damn speedboat.
The caption read:
> "Bought my first speedboat. $5K cash. Hard work pays off #grindset"
Oliver blinked.
The boy in the video leaned against the boat while someone filmed him in cinematic angles. Then came the classic motivational spiel:
> "Look, if you're not making $20K a month, what are you doing? I was like most of you—broke, confused, watching videos all day. Then I used my resources. You don't need a 9-5, you need vision. Use what's already around you. Watch the right YouTube videos. That's it."
The video ended. No links. No guide. No explanation. Just a smug smile and a shot of the ocean behind the boat.
Oliver's face twisted. "Used your resources? What resources?! My student debt? My $12 bank balance? The microwave I've had since high school?"
He scrolled to the comments. Most were mindless hype:
> "W grind my bro "
"Boat game strong "
"Put us on tho???"
"How???"
"Bro gatekeeping smh"
No answers. Just the same loop of vague inspiration and false proximity to success.
Oliver's thumb hovered over the app. He didn't delete it. He just… set the phone down.
He sat there in silence, the hum of the fridge and the traffic outside reminding him that real life was still moving, indifferent to his struggles.
He got up, walked to the sink, and stared out the tiny window as the morning sun tried to peek through his dusty blinds.
A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes—fatigue, frustration, or maybe just the early symptoms of disillusionment settling in.
"I'm doing everything they say," he muttered, to no one.
"Why isn't anything working?"
There was no answer. Just the echo of a tired man, chasing digital shortcuts in a world that still demanded rent.
------
Oliver sighed deeply, the weight of another sleepless, fruitless night settling heavy on his chest. He pushed himself up from the couch and glanced toward the laundry basket—a towering mound of neglected clothes spilling over onto the floor.
"I can't keep living like this," he muttered. "At least I can get something done today."
The thought of sorting through the dirty shirts, socks, and underwear felt strangely grounding. Real work, even if small.
He shuffled toward the basket, grabbed a handful of clothes, and headed to the laundry room down the hall. The hum of the washing machine soon filled the small space as he tossed in detergent and set the cycle.
As the machine churned, Oliver leaned against the wall, watching the spinning drum through the glass. For a moment, the endless promises of easy money felt distant—like a bad dream.
Maybe today wouldn't be about scams or shortcuts.
Maybe today was about starting small.