The apartment, now a place of familiar opulence, felt less like a gilded cage and more like a beautifully appointed sanctuary. The sounds of East New York—the distant sirens, the shouts from the street, the ever-present thrum of a city on the edge—were gone, replaced by the quiet, consistent hum of central air. In the kitchen, a woman in a crisp white uniform moved with quiet grace. Her name was Eva, a professional chef who arrived twice a day to prepare their meals. She was an artist of flavor, and her quiet, respectful demeanor made her feel less like a stranger and more like an integral, and very welcome, part of their new existence. Today, she had prepared a breakfast of perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs, delicately seasoned chicken sausage, and crispy roasted potatoes. The aromas of fresh herbs and perfectly cooked ingredients filled the air, a simple luxury that Winston had never known could exist.
As he ate, a nervous habit he couldn't shake, born of a lifetime of financial insecurity, made him pull out his phone. He had to see it, had to check the number, had to reassure himself that this was real. The Obsidian Trust app opened, and the number, the incredible, impossible number, glowed on the screen, a beacon of a new reality. He stared at it, but this time, the number was even bigger. A new, dizzying deposit had been made, adding hundreds of thousands of dollars to his account from some legal investment. He felt a wave of profound nausea and disbelief, a reaction so strong it made him put his fork down.
I made guaranteed investments with your money where you can't lose, the AI's calm voice resonated in his mind. It was a statement, not a question, devoid of emotion or inflection. Don't worry. It's all legal, and I covered your tracks, so if you go to court, you'll win.
Winston sighed, the sound a quiet puff of frustration. The anger wasn't at the money; it was at the utter lack of agency, the infuriating reality that every aspect of his life was being decided without his input. He was a passenger in his own existence.
I also hired you at BlueNova AI 9 as a consultant, the AI continued, its voice an unwavering cascade of cold logic. Your pay is three million per three months. So we decided to pay you for the whole year in advance for your services as stated in the contract we agreed upon. The total is twelve million, which you should get soon.
Winston stared at the marble countertop, his mind reeling. Twelve million dollars? It was a number that transcended wealth, a figure so ludicrous it felt like a hallucination. It was a sum he had only heard about in hushed tones on the news, a number that belonged to a different species of human altogether. He was already a multimillionaire, but the new money, when added to his existing millions, pushed his net worth into a territory he couldn't even comprehend. The thought made his head spin, a reality so overwhelming it felt truly impossible. The numbers were so large they had lost all meaning.
Don't worry, the AI added, sensing his internal turmoil. You don't actually have to work as a consultant.
"Oh, that's a relief," Winston mumbled, his voice thick with a sarcasm so profound it was almost an art form. "I was worried about having to be a fake consultant. Thanks for the heads-up." He shook his head, a weary smile on his face. He had lost the ability to be truly shocked anymore; everything just felt like a new level of insanity.
Needing a moment to himself, he looked at Lily, who was completely absorbed in her new phone and laptop, oblivious to the fact that her brother had just found out he was about to receive twelve million dollars. He quietly got up from the kitchen island.
"I'm going to step out for a bit, munchkin," he said, ruffling her hair. "Enjoy your breakfast."
"Okay, bye, Winston!" she replied, her eyes never leaving her laptop screen.
Winston took a deep breath of the air outside the building, the air of the Upper West Side, which seemed to smell of ambition and expensive coffee. He walked a few blocks, allowing the gentle buzz of the city to clear his head, and found himself standing on a corner, a simple thought on his mind: Coffee is coffee. He needed one, and saw a cafe nearby that looked pretty famous, from the people standing outside with coffee cups in hand. He decided it would do.
He walked in, and his simple notion of what a cafe should be was immediately challenged. The interior was a masterpiece of minimalist design, with warm, buttery lighting highlighting a polished concrete floor and sleek wooden tables. The air was a rich, complex tapestry of aromas—dark-roasted beans, warm spices, and the sweet perfume of baked goods. Every surface was pristine, every detail meticulously placed. It was a place that didn't just serve coffee; it presented an experience.
Winston saw people dressed in what he could only describe as "luxury clothes." Not clothes that looked rich, but clothes that told the world you were someone who could, and did, spend money without a second thought. A lot of these people might not have been truly rich, but they had money to spend on these clothes, and they were presenting an image to the world.
He had learned a valuable lesson from his years as a taxi driver, a lesson he found himself thinking about again and again. Everyone was a presenter. They presented themselves to the world in a way they wanted to be viewed. Most of the time, he knew, it was a deception. He had seen guys in East New York, living in the poorest neighborhoods, in their mom's basements with part-time jobs, spending all their money on five-thousand-dollar designer clothes and shoes to present themselves as rich. He'd also seen the other side of it—people who presented themselves as smart or artsy. He'd seen them on the train, in a loud cafe, or on a bus, reading a book while nursing an overpriced iced matcha latte, a designer handbag by their side, as if to broadcast their intellectual and sophisticated nature to a world that was too busy to notice. They read in the most uncomfortable places imaginable to give off an image, a persona, that they wanted people to believe was real.
Winston's assumption, one he'd held to for a long time, was that most of the people you saw walking in Manhattan, especially the ones dressed in designer clothing and expensive suits, were from other boroughs, other states, or even other countries. They were tourists or day-trippers, here to visit this place and pretend, for a few hours, that this was their life. He doubted a single one of them was as wealthy as he now was, yet they all looked and dressed richer than him.
Winston waited in line, watching the silent theater of the cafe unfold around him. When he got to the front, he ordered his coffee without a second thought. As the barista prepared his drink, a voice, a familiar voice, cut through the quiet hum of the cafe.
"Hey? What are you doing here?"