The rain had been falling all day, soaking through the holes in Darren's cheap sneakers and pooling in the gutter where he stood. His fingers were red and numb from cold, clenched tightly around the thin plastic bag in his hand — a loaf of bread, some bruised bananas, and a bottle of off-brand milk.
Total cost: £4.73.
It was all he could afford.
He looked down at the receipt and laughed bitterly.
"Dinner for three… luxury living."
He glanced at the time — 8:47 PM. He was already late.
The bus had left two minutes ago, and the next one wouldn't come for another forty. That meant he'd have to walk the two miles back home in the rain. Again.
Darren adjusted his hoodie and stepped onto the cracked pavement, ignoring the sharp sting of cold water soaking into his socks.
He couldn't afford to get sick.
Not with Aria's school fees due in four days.
Not with his mother still coughing blood when she thought they weren't listening.
Not when being broke felt like breathing in a world that didn't care.
The flat was quiet when he got back.
The hallway light flickered, casting his shadow across peeling wallpaper. His key stuck for a moment in the lock — one more thing they couldn't afford to fix — before the door creaked open.
"I'm home," Darren said softly.
His sister was asleep on the couch, curled up with a textbook across her chest. Her uniform skirt was still on, patched up with blue thread. She looked peaceful, even with the dark circles under her eyes.
He set the groceries down gently and tiptoed into the kitchen, where the smell of menthol and sickness still lingered. His mother was there, sitting up in her plastic chair, wrapped in a thin blanket, staring at nothing.
"Did you eat today?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Her eyes met his, and she smiled. A soft, empty smile.
"You're soaked," she whispered, voice raspy.
"I'm fine."
"You're not." Her eyes scanned his wet clothes, his hollow cheeks, his red hands. "You're not, Darren."
He looked away. "I got food."
They shared the bread in silence. He gave Aria the biggest piece, poured milk into a chipped mug, and sat back as the rain kept tapping against the window.
He didn't cry. Not anymore.
But inside him, something was screaming.
Midnight.
Everyone was asleep. Darren sat alone in the dark, scrolling job listings on his cracked phone, most of which required "experience," "degrees," or "working shoes."
He sighed and rubbed his eyes.
Then—
[Ding!]
He blinked.
The screen went black, then white.
Then a line of text appeared:
[System initializing…]
[Welcome, Darren Hayes. You have activated the Rebate System.]
Every cent you spend will return to you tenfold.
Every check-in will bring a reward.
Spend. Rise. Rule.
Darren stared at the screen.
"What the hell is this?"
[Daily Check-In Available.]
Check in now? [Yes] [No]
His thumb hovered over the screen.
He hesitated — then tapped Yes.
[Congratulations. Reward: £10,000 transferred to your account. Bonus: Premium Clothing Set delivered to door within 10 minutes.]
He froze.
Ten… thousand?
"No way."
His phone buzzed again.
[Your balance: £10,000.47]
Darren sat still. Completely still. Then he bolted to his bag, ripped open the zipper, and pulled out the bank card linked to that same dead-end account.
He opened the mobile app with trembling hands.
Balance: £10,000.47
A knock came at the door.
Three soft knocks.
He opened it slowly.
There was no one there.
Just a black designer bag sitting neatly on the welcome mat, sealed with gold foil.
He picked it up. Inside: a full outfit — clean, fitted, high-end. Shoes that probably cost more than his entire rent. A sleek black card was tucked inside the jacket's inner pocket.
[Use this card for all purchases to activate Rebate Bonus.]
Darren stood there, speechless.
Rain still fell behind him, but suddenly, it didn't matter.
His hands curled into fists.
They laughed at him yesterday.
Tomorrow… they'd beg him to notice them.