Alex Thompson twisted his arm, wincing as a sharp hiss escaped his lips. Yup, definitely not dreaming. The One Chicago penthouse around him—sleek hardwood, Lake Michigan views, and tech straight out of a sci-fi flick—felt too wild to be real. He called up the glowing blue system interface in his mind, the holographic screen popping up like something out of Iron Man. "Aight, system," he thought, "let's hit that sign-in."
Ding! The perky, Gen-Z voice chimed in his head: "Sign-in successful! Congrats, host, you just scored one million bucks in cash!" Alex's heart did a backflip, his grin wide enough to light up the Chicago skyline. No cap, this is insane. A million dollars? He could yeet his South Side dump, tell Mrs. Nowak to kick rocks, and live like a rap mogul without her creepy-ass vibes haunting him.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, snapping him out of his daze. He grabbed it, and there it was—a text from his bank: "Your account ending in 6427 received $1,000,000.00 on August 15, 2025, at 7:32 AM. Current balance: $1,000,786.46 [Chase Bank]." He read it twice, word for word, his pulse racing like he was back in Ranger training, staring down a live-fire exercise. A million bucks, just sitting there, ready to change the game.
But then a flicker of doubt hit. A million bucks out of nowhere? That's the kind of thing that gets the IRS sniffing around, asking about "unreported income." His Ranger instincts kicked in—always plan three steps ahead. Before he could spiral, the system's voice piped up: "Chill, host. All funds are clean. I've got you covered with legit sources—U.S. stock accounts, crypto wallets, offshore investments. No one's coming for your bag."
Alex leaned back on the couch, exhaling. This system's got my back like Grandpa at the range. Back in Montana, his grandpa—a grizzled Vietnam vet—had taught him to shoot straight and stay sharp. "Always know where your round's coming from," he'd say, squinting through a scope. This system was like that: precise, locked in, no loose ends. The voice added, "Wanna peek at those accounts? They might pop up as future sign-in rewards. Stay tuned, fam."
"Hell yeah, that's dope!" Alex shouted, hyped like he'd just dropped a fire verse. The system's voice cut in, deadpan: "Uh, host? According to Earth's gender vibes, I'm more of a 'sister' than a 'bro.'" Alex froze, then laughed. "Aight, my bad, sis! You're still the GOAT." The system stayed silent, probably side-eyeing him in digital form.
He glanced at the clock—8:15 AM. Time to move. He washed up, the penthouse's smart shower adjusting the water temp like it read his mind. Dressed in his usual—J. Cole hoodie, ripped jeans, and Nikes—he grabbed his phone and headed out. Marcus Reed, the butler, met him in the One Chicago lobby, giving a crisp nod. "Safe travels, Mr. Thompson." Alex smirked—Marcus probably thought he was some low-key tech mogul, not a broke coder who'd lucked into a cheat code for life.
He hailed a cab outside, the Chicago morning buzzing with honking taxis and L trains rattling in the distance. "South Side, near 63rd," he told the driver, a dude blasting Chance the Rapper through tinny speakers. As they rolled through the city, Alex couldn't help but wonder what Marcus thought of him. Yesterday, in his beat-up gear, he'd strolled into One Chicago like he owned it—which, yeah, he did. But to the staff, he must've looked like a SoundCloud rapper who'd hit the jackpot. Low-key flex is the vibe, he thought, grinning.
The cab pulled up to his old South Side apartment complex, a gray slab of a building that screamed "budget life." Alex's stomach dropped when he saw Mrs. Nowak at his door, rocking a loud red dress that looked like it was stolen from a thrift store's clearance bin. Next to her was a skinny dude in a shirt that read "Jimmy's Locksmith Services," fiddling with the lock like he was cracking a safe.
"Yo, hold up!" Alex shouted, jogging over. Both froze, caught red-handed. Mrs. Nowak spun around, her face shifting from shock to a fake-ass smile. "Well, look who's back! Thought you skipped town, Alex."
He ignored her, glaring at the locksmith. "Who told you to mess with my door?" The guy, Jimmy, threw up his hands. "My bad, man. This lady said you bailed on rent and split. I'm just doing my job. Y'all sort this out." He grabbed his tools and bolted, dodging Mrs. Nowak's attempt to grab his arm. "Hey, Jimmy, leave your number!" she called after him, her voice dripping with desperation. Alex shuddered. This woman's thirst is next-level.
Mrs. Nowak turned back, batting her lashes like she was auditioning for a bad rom-com. Alex cut her off. "Chill, Mrs. Nowak. Let's settle up. How much I owe?" Her smile widened, sensing cash. "Last month's rent was $2,000, plus this month's—$4,000 total."
Alex pulled out his phone, opened Venmo, and sent her $4,000 on the spot. Her phone pinged, and her grin turned smug. But then her eyes narrowed, like she was doing mental math. "Hold up," she said, leaning in, her perfume hitting like a chemical attack. "You didn't come home last night, and now you're dropping four grand like it's nothing? You out here hustling at some club, chasing rich cougars?"
Alex nearly gagged. She thinks I'm what? The implication hit him—she thought he was out here selling himself to Chicago's elite. "Nah, Mrs. Nowak," he said, stepping back. "I'm done with this place. Moving out today. Keep the deposit, we're good." He turned to the door, leaving her stunned, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Inside, the apartment was a time capsule of his old life: a sagging couch, a mini fridge, and his ancient laptop—the real MVP. That laptop held his coding projects, some pirated movies, and, yeah, a folder of "study materials" he wasn't about to leave behind. He packed it into a duffel bag, along with a few clothes—some tees, his favorite flannel from Montana, and a pair of boots Grandpa had given him. The rest? Junk. One Chicago had everything he needed, from smart fridges to TVs bigger than his old bedroom.
He locked the door, slung the duffel over his shoulder, and called an Uber. As he waited, he thought about his next move. A million bucks was life-changing, but he wasn't about to blow it on bottle service or a tricked-out ride. Rangers had taught him discipline—plan the mission, execute clean. Maybe he'd invest it, start a tech side hustle, or bankroll a screenplay he'd been sketching out, something gritty about his Army days. Hollywood was the dream, right? Get that coder money, pitch a script, walk the red carpet like he was in a Fast & Furious sequel.
The Uber pulled up, and Alex slid in, directing the driver to One Chicago. The Gold Coast sparkled as they approached, the twin towers gleaming under the morning sun. Back in the penthouse, he dropped his duffel and flopped onto the couch, the city sprawling below. His phone buzzed—another text from his Ranger buddy Jake, asking if he was hitting a rooftop bar later. Alex grinned. Maybe tomorrow. For now, he was content to soak in the glow-up. A million bucks, a penthouse fit for a rap star, and a system that was basically a genie? He was ready to run this game.
"Yo, system," he thought, "what's the next sign-in gonna drop?" The interface flickered, but the voice stayed silent, teasing him. Fine, keep me guessing. Alex kicked back, blasting Kendrick Lamar through the penthouse's smart speakers, the bass rattling the windows. From Montana ranges to Chicago's skyline, he'd always been a fighter. Whatever came next, he was locked and loaded.