Alex Thompson sank into the plush leather couch in the heart of his One Chicago penthouse, feeling like he'd just stepped onto the set of a Hollywood blockbuster. The living room was straight-up next-level: sleek, modern, with every gadget screaming luxury. Smart appliances from brands he'd only seen in tech mags lined the space—fridges that could order groceries, lights that dimmed on voice command, and a coffee maker that probably cost more than his old pickup back in Montana. He shook his head, grinning. This is some Tony Stark shit.
He stood and strolled to the south-side balcony, pushing open the glass doors. The Chicago skyline stretched out before him, Lake Michigan shimmering under the afternoon sun like a scene from a drone shot in a Michael Bay flick. The view hit him like a gut punch—growing up in a speck of a town outside Bozeman, he'd never imagined owning a crib like this. His grandpa, a Vietnam vet with a gravelly voice and a no-nonsense vibe, had taught him to aim high—whether it was sighting an AR-15 at the range or pushing through Ranger training. "Keep your eyes on the target, kid," he'd say. Now, at 24, Alex was staring at a target he never even dreamed of hitting.
He wandered the penthouse, jaw dropping with every step. The place was a tech nerd's wet dream. The kitchen had a touchscreen panel that could whip up meal plans or sync with a delivery app. The bedrooms—eight of 'em—had beds that looked like they belonged in a five-star hotel, with smart thermostats keeping the vibe just right. He poked his head into a bathroom bigger than his South Side apartment, complete with a jacuzzi tub that could fit a whole squad. No cap, this place is unreal.
Thirsty from all the exploring, Alex hit the living room and approached a sleek water dispenser that looked like it was designed by NASA. Before he could even touch it, the damn thing flipped open, poured a cup of water at the perfect 104°F—his go-to temp—and slid it toward him like a bartender serving a craft beer. He froze, cup in hand, then took a sip. Perfect. "Yo, system," he thought, "this 'primary intelligence' shit is wild." The system's perky voice chimed in his head: "Glad you're vibing, host! This smart-home system's ten years ahead of anything out there. Full automation, tailored to you."
Alex flopped back onto the couch, staring at a blank gray wall. On a whim, he said, "Yo, play Top Gun: Maverick." The wall lit up like a movie theater screen, transforming into a crystal-clear display. Tom Cruise's jet roared to life, the sound booming through hidden speakers. Alex laughed out loud. The whole damn wall was a screen, disguised as industrial-chic decor when it was off. This is some Hollywood-level flex. He leaned back, soaking it in. Movies had always been his escape—back in Montana, he'd binge old action flicks with Grandpa, dreaming of one day pitching a script in LA. Now, he was living in a pad that could be a set for the next Mission: Impossible.
His stomach growled, reminding him he'd skipped lunch in all the excitement. He grabbed his phone and ordered some deep-dish pizza from Lou Malnati's—Chicago's finest. The delivery guy showed up quick, but security at One Chicago was tighter than Fort Knox. The dude got stopped twice—once at the gate, once in the lobby—before Marcus, the butler, brought the pizza up himself. Alex scarfed it down at the kitchen island, tossing the box in the trash. He braced for a mess, still stuck in his old broke-dev mindset where a spilled sauce meant scrubbing for days. But when he peeked in the can, the box had been sealed in some high-tech, leak-proof liner. This place is too damn smart.
The penthouse kept blowing his mind. When he stood to head to the kitchen, the movie paused automatically. Lights flicked on wherever he walked, like he was the star of his own show. A wall panel displayed real-time stats—room temp, air quality, even the damn weather forecast. This is some sci-fi shit I'd code in a fever dream, he thought, shaking his head. His Ranger days had taught him to adapt fast, but this was next-level.
He was still sweaty from the cab ride over, the Chicago humidity no joke. "Yo, system, prep a bath," he called out, half-joking. Ten seconds later, the smart-home voice replied, "Bath ready, sir." He walked into the bathroom, and the jacuzzi was filled, steam rising at the perfect temp. He stripped, sank into the tub, and let the jets melt away the stress. This is the life. He closed his eyes, drifting off, the water lulling him like a Montana creek.
Thirty minutes later, the smart-home voice piped up: "Sir, prolonged soaking may lead to health risks, including cardiovascular strain. Recommend exiting the bath." Alex jolted awake, laughing. "Aight, chill, I'm out." He toweled off, tossed his clothes in the washer, and found them cleaned and dried in minutes. This place is a cheat code.
By 6:30 PM, he was back on the couch, feeling like a new man. His phone buzzed—a text from an old Ranger buddy, Jake, asking if he was hitting the bars later. Alex smirked. Normally, he'd be down, but he wasn't ready to leave this penthouse paradise. He wasn't hungry yet, thanks to the late pizza, so he started thinking about what came next. The system promised daily sign-ins, but the rewards were random. Could be another crib, could be a stack of cash—or maybe a new AR-15 to add to his collection, like the one Grandpa gave him. For now, though, he was still just Alex—a coder with $800 in his account, living in a $20 million penthouse. The property fees alone—$15K a year, according to the brochure—were more than he'd made in a month at his old startup. Gotta figure this out, he thought, a flicker of stress creeping in.
But then he remembered: another sign-in tomorrow. Bet. Why stress when he was already living like a rap mogul? He kicked back, restarted Top Gun, and let the jets roar. Around 8:00 PM, his stomach growled again. He called Marcus, who arranged a pickup order from a nearby steakhouse—prime rib, medium-rare, just how Grandpa used to grill it. After eating, Alex hit the penthouse's game room, a setup that'd make any streamer jealous. The PC was a beast: 12TB hard drive, top-tier GPU, and internet so fast it downloaded Call of Duty: Modern Warfare in minutes. He jumped into a match, sniping fools like he was back at the range, and couldn't help but laugh. Ain't no lag in this crib.
By 10:30 PM, he was beat. He crashed in the master bedroom, the king-sized bed feeling like a cloud. As he drifted off, his mind wandered to the future—maybe coding the next big app, maybe hitting LA to pitch a war flick based on his Ranger days. In his dreams, he was chilling in the penthouse, surrounded by models straight out of a music video, all curves and vibes. But then one turned around, and—oh, hell no—it was Mrs. Nowak, her crooked grin flashing like a horror movie villain. "You owe me rent, Alex!" she cackled.
He bolted upright, heart racing, cold sweat on his brow. A quick scan of the room—no landlady, just the sleek penthouse. Fucking nightmare. He laughed it off, wiping his face. The Chicago skyline glowed outside, the sun just starting to rise over Lake Michigan, painting the water red and gold. It was 6:00 AM, and the city was waking up.
Alex got up, splashed water on his face, and stared out the window. This was his life now. From Montana ranges to Ranger ops to a Chicago penthouse, he'd always been a fighter. Whatever the system threw at him next, he was ready to lock and load.