Two days had zipped by in Alex Thompson's new life at One Chicago, and the Baller Sign-in System was dropping cash like a viral TikTok. Every morning, he'd signed in, and boom—another million bucks hit his Chase account. His balance now sat at a cool $2,995,786.46 after covering rent and fees. Living like a rap mogul, he thought, sprawled on a leather couch in his penthouse, the Chicago skyline sparkling through floor-to-ceiling windows. Back in Montana, he'd grown up on discipline—shooting ranges and hard work—but Chicago was a whole new game. At 24 in 2025, he was done scraping by as a junior coder, ready to level up.
He'd figured the system's rewards were random, but its perky, Gen-Z voice set him straight: "Daily sign-ins guarantee at least a mil in cash, host. Monthly check-ins? Those drop the real heat—think supercars, penthouses, or wild flexes. Keep it locked!" Alex grinned, sinking deeper into the couch, which probably cost more than his old South Side apartment. A daily million took the edge off. Without the system, he'd be dodging his landlady, Mrs. Nowak, in a shoebox flat. Now? He was in a $20 million crib fit for a Drake video.
For two days, he'd been geeking out over the penthouse's tech. The smart-home system was like something out of Iron Man—lights dimmed when he left a room, the fridge suggested recipes, and the shower hit his perfect temp every time. He'd even found a hidden panel in the game room that controlled a sound system so fire it made his J. Cole playlist feel like a live show. This place is a cheat code, he thought, still half-expecting to wake up broke.
It was 9:00 AM when he rolled out of the king-sized bed, sheets softer than a Hollywood star's ego. After washing up in a bathroom bigger than his old place, he grabbed his phone to hit a Gold Coast café for breakfast—maybe a bagel and coffee. A WhatsApp notification pinged: a friend request from Marcus Reed, the One Chicago butler. "Mr. Thompson, this is Marcus, your concierge. Hope I'm not overstepping!" Alex smirked—Marcus was smooth, like a guy who'd seen every type of rich but stayed chill. He approved the request.
Marcus followed up: "Good morning, sir! Sorry to bother." Attached was an image—a property management notice with big black letters: NOTICE. It listed annual fees, with Alex's penthouse tagged at $21,000 due to its 8,200-square-foot size. That's a grip, he thought, but his bank balance laughed it off. Three mil in the account? He could handle it.
He texted back: "Yo, Marcus, can I Venmo the fee?" Marcus replied: "Absolutely, sir! 😊" Alex opened Venmo, but the app capped him at $5,000 without extra verification. Nah, too much hassle. He shot Marcus another text: "Limit's tripping. I'll swing by downstairs and swipe my card." Marcus responded: "No problem, sir. I'll be in the lobby."
Alex grabbed his wallet, threw on his J. Cole hoodie and Nikes, and took the elevator down. The One Chicago lobby screamed money—marble floors, modern art, chandeliers like a Mission: Impossible set. Marcus stood with a woman in a property management uniform, holding a POS machine. Alex nodded, swiped his card for the $21,000, and bounced without a word. Behind him, Marcus and the woman probably swapped shocked looks, not used to someone dropping that cash so casually. If they only knew about the system, Alex thought, smirking.
He hit the Gold Coast streets, grabbing a bagel and coffee from a café blasting Chance the Rapper. The day got away from him—wandering the Magnificent Mile, checking sneaker shops, and swinging by an Audi dealership. With millions stacking, he was itching to cop something big. The Audi RS7 caught his eye, its silver-gray "suit thug" vibe screaming power. The R8, a straight-up supercar, was even wilder. Prices started at $120K for the RS7, $150K for the R8. Tempting, he thought, picturing himself cruising Lake Shore Drive. But his Ranger instincts—plan ahead, stay sharp—held him back. Wait for the system's next drop. He could afford to be patient.
By 8:00 PM, he was back at One Chicago, bags in hand—new kicks, a leather jacket, some snacks. He flopped onto the couch, Lake Michigan shimmering outside. His phone buzzed—a missed call from Mom. Family was everything, from Montana days to now. His parents had scraped by to support him, even helping with a Bozeman condo down payment last year. Now, he could return the favor.
He dialed Mom back, the skyline glowing behind him. She picked up, her voice all sunshine: "Alex! I was just gonna call you! Ain't that some mother-son telepathy?"
He laughed, his Montana drawl slipping out. "For real, Mom. You know I'm your boy." She chuckled, yelling off the phone: "See, Frank? Our kid calls me!" Alex could hear Dad grumbling, probably tinkering with his truck.
"Mom, I'm sending you some cash," Alex said. "Y'all need to eat good, maybe take a trip. No more pinching pennies." Mom's tone softened. "Honey, we're fine. Keep that money for yourself in the big city. You eating okay?"
Alex's chest tightened. Mom always worried, even after he'd survived tough times. "I'm good, Ma. Been making bank—legit money. I'm sending some your way, so take it, aight?" She hesitated, then gave in. "Alright, you win. But I'm saving it for your wedding!" Alex rolled his eyes, grinning. Wedding? Chill, Mom.
"Bet, we'll talk soon," he said, hanging up. He opened Venmo, sent $20,000 to Mom's account, and braced for the follow-up call. Sure enough, she rang back, panicked. "Alex, $20,000? You in trouble? You didn't do anything dumb, did you?"
He laughed. "Chill, Mom. It's clean—stock market moves." The system had fake accounts to cover his tracks. "I'll send screenshots if you want." Mom sighed, relieved. "Okay, but be careful. We're proud of you." They chatted, then hung up. Alex stared at the skyline, Lake Michigan catching the city lights. His dream was Hollywood—code a killer app, bankroll a war flick, walk the red carpet like Vin Diesel. For now, he cranked up Kendrick Lamar, the bass rattling the windows, and thought, System, what's tomorrow's drop? The interface flickered, silent, teasing. Keep it mysterious. Chicago's Gold Coast was his stage, and he was ready to run it.