Leo set the last two 12-packs of Clarity on Mr. Kim's counter. The familiar clinking of the glass bottles sounded different tonight, heavier.
"Here you go," Leo said. "Frank's crew will be happy tomorrow."
Mr. Kim nodded, reaching for his cash box. "Good. What do I owe you for these?"
This was the moment. Leo took a slow breath, steadying his nerves. He felt less like a kid asking for a raise and more like a CEO announcing a paradigm shift.
"Mr. Kim, that's the other thing we need to discuss," he began, his tone serious and even. "These two packs… they're the last ones at the old price. From now on, things have to change."
Mr. Kim paused, his hand hovering over the cash. "Change how?"
"I've been doing some research," Leo continued, the lie feeling smooth and practiced. "On the water's properties. The fatigue relief, the... wellness benefits. This isn't just water. It's a health supplement. And my new retail price is going to reflect that. The price on my website will be fifty dollars a bottle."
Mr. Kim stared at him. He blinked once, then twice. A choked, incredulous laugh escaped his lips. "Fifty? Fifty American dollars? For one bottle of water? Leo, have you been drinking something stronger from that magic well of yours?"
"I'm serious," Leo said, his gaze unwavering. "And I'm limiting my production. My source is... delicate. I can produce twenty cases a day, maximum. I will never industrialize it. The moment I do, the source gets contaminated and the benefits are gone. Scarcity and quality. That's the brand."
The laughter died on Mr. Kim's lips, replaced by the sharp, calculating glint of a lifelong merchant. He looked from Leo's dead-serious face to the glowing bottles in the fridge. He thought of Frank the construction worker, who now bought a bottle every single day, claiming his chronic back pain was nearly gone. He thought of the three women from the yoga studio down the block who came in together to buy a case every week, swearing it gave their skin a 'glow'. They weren't just buying water; they were buying a result.
The old price was a steal. The new price was audacious, insane… and maybe, just maybe, brilliant.
"So you are cutting me out," Mr. Kim said, his voice low and dangerous. "Selling online for fifty dollars. Leaving the old man who gave you your start in the dust."
"No," Leo said firmly. "I told you, you'll be my first official distributor. But I can't sell it to you for three dollars a bottle anymore if the retail price is fifty. It doesn't make sense."
"What price are you proposing, Mr. CEO?" Mr. Kim asked, the title laced with sarcasm.
"My official wholesale price for retailers will be thirty dollars a bottle," Leo stated. "That gives you a twenty-dollar profit margin on every bottle you sell. But for you, as my first partner… the Founder's Price will be twenty-five."
A fifty percent profit margin. It was a standard retail markup, but on a product this expensive, the numbers were staggering. Sell one bottle, make twenty-five dollars. Mr. Kim did some quick math in his head. The potential was obscene. The risk was just as high. What if no one bought it at that price? He'd be stuck with hundreds of dollars of useless, overpriced water.
He looked at Leo, really looked at him. The kid wasn't bluffing. He had a plan.
"Okay," Mr. Kim said slowly. "I won't buy in bulk. Not at first. We will do it by contract, by the book, like you said. You bring me one case of twelve bottles at this new price. Twenty-five dollars a bottle. That's a three-hundred-dollar investment for me. If they sell, I'll order another. If they don't... well, we'll see."
It was a test. A cautious, smart-money test. Leo respected it. "Deal," he said, relief making him feel a little light-headed.
After leaving the store, Leo didn't feel triumphant. He felt the crushing weight of his own ambition. He had just set an outrageous price for his product and now he had to build a company that looked, felt, and operated like it was worth every single penny.
His tiny apartment, once a comfort, was now a glaring liability. He looked at his lumpy sofa and the ramen packets still sitting on the counter. This was not the headquarters of a luxury beverage brand. He spent the next hour in a frenzy of activity. He shoved his mattress and bedding into a closet. He disassembled the cheap shelving and moved everything into the kitchen cabinets. He scrubbed the floors. He cleared out the main room, leaving only his laptop on the floor. It was no longer his bedroom; it was his office and fulfillment center.
The next day, he made his first official business expenditure. He took a thousand dollars in cash to a bank and opened a business checking account for Clarity Beverage, LLC. Handing over the stack of twenties felt like a monumental step, converting his secret cash into legitimate, taxable, traceable capital.
His next stop was a packaging supply store. He was immediately overwhelmed. The sheer variety of boxes, bubble mailers, packing peanuts, and void fill was dizzying. Selling a fifty-dollar bottle of water in a plain cardboard box was out of the question. It had to be an experience from the moment it arrived.
He spent two hundred dollars—a figure that would have been a month's food budget a month ago—on sturdy, custom-sized white shipping boxes, crinkle-cut paper shred for filler (it looked classier than peanuts), high-quality packing tape, and giant 'FRAGILE' stickers.
Back in his "fulfillment center," he sat on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of packaging supplies. He carefully packed a single bottle of Clarity into one of the new boxes, nestled it in the crinkle-cut paper, and sealed it up. It looked... professional. It looked expensive.
He stared at the finished package on the floor next to his glowing laptop screen, which showed the homepage of his new website. The bold move had been made. The uncomfortable conversation was over. Now came the long, slow, tedious reality: he had to build a fifty-dollar company, one box at a time.