Alex Thompson sprawled on the plush couch in his One Chicago penthouse, the Chicago skyline blazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Last night's call with his parents had dragged past 10:00 PM, a marathon of convincing Mom his "stock market" cash was legit. He'd spun the Baller Sign-in System's millions as trading wins, dodging the truth about his magical cheat code. When he mentioned owning a place in Chicago—leaving out that it was a $20 million Gold Coast penthouse—Mom nearly cried, hyped about visiting. Dad, gruff as a Montana winter, just grunted, "Proud of you, kid," probably itching to get back to his fishing gear. Alex grinned, the memory hitting like a warm shot of bourbon. His grandpa, a Vietnam vet with war stories and a no-nonsense vibe, had always said, "Family's your anchor, kid. Hold it tight." That's why Alex had joined the Army at 17, becoming a Ranger to honor the old man. Now, at 24 in 2025, with a busted knee from a bad jump and a coding gig that barely paid Chicago's rent, he was ready to change the game for his folks—and himself.
He rolled out of bed at 8:00 AM, the penthouse's smart lights fading up like a Hollywood set. First move? Sign-in time. "Yo, system," he thought, pulling up the glowing blue interface. "Hit me with that sign-in."
Ding! The perky, Gen-Z voice chirped: "Sign-in successful! Congrats, host, you just unlocked the skill: One-Handed Ferrari Driving! Check the deets: Attribute 1: Master-level driving skills when you're behind a Ferrari's wheel, plus a boost to handling any ride. Attribute 2: Charm boosted by 50%, opposite-sex appeal up 20%, and a 10% chance to spark love at first sight. P.S.: You ain't Chris Hemsworth, but with a Ferrari and this skill, you're straight-up Hollywood, fam!"
Alex laughed so hard he nearly choked on his coffee. One-Handed Ferrari Driving? This system was wild, dropping skills like it was scripting a Fast & Furious sequel. Attribute 1 was dope—his Ranger training had him driving Humvees through war zones, so master-level skills sounded like a flex. Attribute 2? Charm and "love at first sight"? That was some player shit, like he was about to roll into a club with Drake's aura. Problem was, no Ferrari. His Chase account sat at $3.9 million after three daily sign-ins and One Chicago's $21,000 property fee. A quick Google showed a new Ferrari Roma started at $220K, but the real beasts like the SF90 Stradale were $600K and up. Gonna need a few more sign-ins, he thought. Used cars? Hard pass—new or bust.
He pinned the nearest Ferrari dealership in the Gold Coast on his phone, imagining cruising Lake Shore Drive, one hand on the wheel, blasting Kendrick Lamar. That's a vibe. The system teased future rewards—maybe a car or stock accounts—so he'd hold off for now.
His stomach growled, so he texted Marcus Reed, the One Chicago butler. "Yo, Marcus, hook me up with some lunch." Marcus replied: "On it, sir." Thirty minutes later, a delivery from a bougie Gold Coast spot arrived—steak sandwich, truffle fries, craft soda, $80 total. Not cheap, but compared to the South Side ramen days, this was living like a rap mogul.
Post-lunch, Alex caught his reflection in the bathroom's massive mirror. A slight gut was creeping in. Nah, this ain't it. His Ranger days had him ripped, running 12-mile rucks with a 60-pound pack. College and desk jobs had softened him, coding all day with no gym time. Grandpa's voice echoed: "No excuses, kid." Alex didn't need abs like a Marvel hero, but he wasn't about to rock a dad bod. He hit the penthouse's gym—treadmills, weights, Lake Michigan views—and jogged 20 minutes before his legs gave out. Outta shape, damn. After a smart shower hit the perfect temp, he texted Marcus: "Yo, One Chicago got trainers?" Marcus shot back: "Yes, sir. Fitness center has pro trainers. You're booked with Coach Jackson, 9 AM tomorrow." Bet.
But the gym wasn't enough to scratch the itch. Growing up in Montana, Alex had been shooting since he was eight—Grandpa's .22 rifle, then a Glock 19 by 12. Rangers had him slinging M4s like a pro. Now, in Chicago, he missed the range. Time to lock and load. He Googled local spots and found Maxon Shooters Supplies in Des Plaines, a 20-minute Uber from the Gold Coast. Perfect. He grabbed his duffel, threw on his J. Cole hoodie and Nikes, and headed out, the city buzzing with L trains and street rappers.
At Maxon, the range was packed—guys in tactical vests, a few off-duty cops, and some weekend warriors. The smell of gunpowder hit like a memory of Montana. Alex signed in, flashed his ID, and rented a lane with a Glock 17 and an AR-15, his old Ranger faves. He lined up a target at 25 yards, the Glock's weight familiar as an old friend. Breathe, sight, squeeze. He popped off rounds, grouping tight as hell, muscle memory kicking in like he was back in a firefight. The AR-15 was next, its kick bringing back nights under desert stars. He burned through 50 rounds, grinning like a kid. The range officer, a burly dude with a Marine tattoo, gave him a nod. "Nice shooting, man. You ex-military?" Alex smirked. "Something like that."
Feeling the rush, Alex hit the shop's counter. With millions in the bank, why not build a collection? He picked out a Glock 19 Gen 5—compact, reliable, $600—and a Daniel Defense DDM4 V7, a slick AR-15 for $2,000. Add ammo and a safe, and he dropped $3,000 total, swiping his card like it was nothing. Illinois' gun laws were tight, so he'd need to wait for the background check and permits, but his clean record and Ranger creds would sail through. The clerk boxed his purchases, saying, "Come back in 72 hours for pickup." Alex nodded, already picturing a private range someday, maybe on a Montana ranch.
Back at One Chicago, he fired up the penthouse's beast PC, its 12TB drive loaded with games. His old South Side laptop couldn't handle Minesweeper, but this rig was a gamer's dream. He launched Ghost Recon: Wildlands, a tactical shooter that hit different after the range. Lining up a sniper shot in-game, he grinned—same focus as today's AR-15. Grandpa always said, "Every boy's got a gun dream." Alex had lived it in the Army, and now, with cash stacking, he was planning big: a ranch, a gun permit, a private range to blast targets with a beer in hand.
He leaned back, chuckling, the game's gunfire booming through the penthouse's sound system. His phone buzzed—Jake, his Ranger buddy, pushing a bar crawl. Pass, Alex texted. He was deep in the glow-up: One Chicago, millions in the bank, and a system dropping skills like One-Handed Ferrari Driving. Hollywood was the endgame—code an app, bankroll a war flick, walk the red carpet like Vin Diesel. For now, he cranked up Drake, the bass rattling the windows, and thought, System, what's tomorrow's drop? The interface flickered, silent and teasing. Keep it mysterious, huh? From Montana dirt to Chicago's Gold Coast, Alex was locked and loaded for whatever came next.