He turned to the closet.
A jagged piece of mirror was taped to the door, held in place by layers of yellowing adhesive.
The reflection was rough, but passable. His hair was a chaotic mess, and faint violet shadows lingered beneath his eyes. His t-shirt was too simple, hanging a little loose on his frame.
He didn't look like a billionaire. He looked like a student running on cheap coffee and four hours of sleep. If he walked out there and told them he had infinite money, they wouldn't celebrate. They would call a doctor. Or the police.
He needed a narrative they could process. A variable that fit their world view.
Labor for capital.
"Freelance," he whispered to the glass, testing the weight of the word. "Emergency database migration. Overseas client. Rush rate."
It was technical enough to discourage questions and urgent enough to explain the sudden cash flow.
He straightened his collar, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and opened the bedroom door. The smell hit him instantly—butter, salt, and the sharp carbon bite of burnt toast. It was the scent of every morning for the last ten years at home.
He stepped into the narrow hallway.
In the kitchen, his mother, Elise, stood at the stove. She hummed a low, off-key tune, the sound barely audible over the sizzle of the pan.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a fraying bun, silver strands escaping to stick to the damp skin of her neck. She moved with a practiced rhythm, flipping eggs with a flick of her wrist, but Evan watched her feet. She shifted her weight constantly—left to right, right to left—trying to bleed the pressure off her lower back without stopping the work.
At the rickety laminate table sat his father, Aaron.
He was hunched over a physical newspaper.
The pages were grey, the cheap ink smelling of damp pulp. Aaron claimed digital readers triggered his migraines, but Evan knew the actual variable.
It was the hardware.
Aaron's phone sat face-down on the table—a brick of a device with a spiderweb crack across the corner. It was five generations behind. Trying to load a modern news feed didn't just lag the interface; it turned the battery into a hand warmer and crashed the OS.
The paper was slower, but it didn't buffer.
Aaron's hand moved in jerky bursts. He was attacking the Classifieds section with a red ballpoint pen. He circled listings with desperate force, the ink bleeding through the thin newsprint until the circles merged into one long, red wound.
Laborer needed. Night shift. Warehouse sorting. Heavy lifting required.
Evan looked at Aaron's broad, hunched shoulders. Years of hard labor were visible in the curvature of his spine. His brows were heavy, giving him a stern look that strangers mistook for anger. Evan knew better. It wasn't anger. It was exhaustion.
"Morning," Evan said, stepping into the kitchen.
Aaron glanced up. His face barely shifted, but his eyes softened at the sight of his son.
"Morning." His voice was gravel.
His pen kept moving. Another circle. Another sigh. Another page turned.
Elise looked over her shoulder, smiling. The smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Look who's up early," she said. "Sleep well?"
"Yes."
It wasn't a lie, exactly. Sleep had come fast.
He forced a smile and leaned against the counter, grabbing a glass of water.
"Smells good," he said.
"Just the usual. Almost done," she said, turning back to the pan. "Your siblings should be up soon. If they don't, please help me drag them out of bed."
As if on cue, the thud of footsteps announced the arrival of the chaos crew.
Jacob stumbled in first. Fourteen years old and already taller than he had any right to be. He moved with restless, uncoordinated energy. His hair looked like it had been styled by a tornado, and his half-lidded eyes scanned the kitchen for food like a starving predator.
He went straight for the fridge, pulling it open. The light inside flickered.
"We out of juice?" Jacob mumbled.
"Bottom shelf," Elise said without looking.
Lily trailed behind him. Twelve years old, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, even in summer. Her wavy hair fell over her face in tangles. She collapsed into a chair with a yawn that seemed to fold her entire body in half.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Evan said, reaching out to ruffle her hair.
She swatted weakly at his hand. "Don't. Too early."
Jacob placed the carton on the table. "What's for breakfast?"
"The usual," Elise said, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs onto the table. "Keep your expectations low, you'll never be disappointed."
Evan sat down opposite his father.
He watched Aaron's hand. The red pen was shaking slightly.
Aaron circled an ad for a Hazardous Waste Removal job.
A knot formed in Evan's chest.
Hazardous waste, Evan thought. Dad, your lungs are already bad. You can't add that.
He watched his mother measure out the portions, leaving the smallest scoop for herself.
You've carried this weight long enough.
He didn't say it aloud. He wanted to tell them what he had now.
Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a sudden, hysterical urge.
A wild thought crossed his mind. What if he just said it? Just dropped the raw number onto the wobbly table, right there between the salt and the pepper.
Hey Mom, Dad. Pass the butter. Also, I have a billion dollars. I could buy the factory Dad's applying to. I could buy the hospital you work at. Actually, I could buy whatever we want.
It was so absurd he almost snorted. He pictured it perfectly: Aaron dropping his mug, coffee splashing the wall. Elise slowly reaching over to feel his forehead for a fever. They wouldn't celebrate. They'd call an ambulance.
He forced the laugh down, swallowing the cosmic joke.
A plate slid in front of him.
"Eat up," Elise said gently, patting his shoulder. "You have work today. You'll need your strength."
Evan nodded. "Thanks, Mom."
He took a bite. Bacon, eggs, toast. Comfort food. But it tasted like ash.
He looked around the table.
His family.
Ordinary. Imperfect. Breaking at the seams.
This wasn't just about buying things. This wasn't about power or Emperors or Systems. This was about erasing the red circles on his father's newspaper.
After breakfast, Lily and Jacob darted into the living room. The sound of the TV roared to life—loud, manic cartoons that filled the small apartment with noise.
Evan lingered in the hallway.
From the kitchen, the low murmur of his parents' voices drifted out. The atmosphere had shifted instantly from "family breakfast" back to "survival mode."
"The electricity bill is red, Aaron," Elise whispered. "If we pay that, we're short on the grocer."
"I know," Aaron replied. "I'm calling the depot today. If I can get three shifts…"
"Your back, Aaron…"
Evan stood there, gripping his phone.
This is why I chose the Aurum path.
He walked back into the kitchen.
"Mom. Dad."
His voice cut sharper than he intended.
Both parents looked up, startled. Aaron tried to cover the bills with his newspaper.
"Evan," Aaron said, forcing a smile. "Thought you were getting ready to leave."
"How much do we need?" Evan asked.
He didn't wait for a polite segue.
"For the rent. And the bills. This month. How much?"
Elise blinked, setting her dishrag down. "Evan, we talked about this. We decided not to burden you anymore. Don't worry, alright?"
"I already do," Evan said. He leaned against the doorframe. "Every day. I hear you talking."
Aaron lowered his paper. The pretense dropped. "You're already doing enough, son. Classes. Part-time work. You need to focus on your studies."
"That won't pay Mr. Greg. At least not in a few days time," Evan countered. "And part-time work doesn't stop you from taking dangerous jobs."
He looked his father in the eye.
"It's not enough. I can see it breaking you down. I'm not asking for permission, Dad. I'm telling you I want to help."
Aaron's jaw tightened. Pride warring with necessity.
Elise sighed, folding her hands on the table. "We're two months behind on rent, Evan. Mr. Greg wants it all by Friday. With the utilities…"
She hesitated.
"Maybe another thousand."
Evan did the math instantly.
$2,700.
Not long ago, that number would have crushed him.
Now?
It was less than the monthly fee for the Titan Node he just rented.
"I'll handle it," Evan said.
Aaron froze mid-reach for his coffee mug. "Handle it? What's that supposed to mean?"
"I've got it covered," Evan replied calmly.
Aaron gave Elise a look and let out a dry, disbelief-filled laugh. "He's lost it. Son, we're talking about something near three grand. You don't have that."
"I do."
Before they could ask for details, Evan unlocked his phone.
He checked the status bar. A small Green Key icon was glowing.
[ Titan Node: Active. Tunnel Secure. ]
The shield was up. He wasn't sending this from Edgewater; digitally, he was sending it from the capital.
He opened the banking app.
He tapped 'Transfer'.
[ Recipient: Dad. Amount: $3,000.00 ]
He paused.
$3,000 was safe. It covered everything with a $300 buffer.
He pressed 'Send'.
Buzz.
The phone on the table—his father's cracked smartphone—vibrated against the wood.
Evan walked over, placed his own phone in his pocket, and sat down.
"Check your account."
Aaron and Elise exchanged a wary glance.
Aaron picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen. He looked at Evan one last time, looking for the joke.
Then, he tapped the notification.
His eyes froze on the screen.
Elise leaned closer, squinting. Her breath caught in her throat. A small, sharp gasp.
Neither spoke.
The silence in the kitchen was deafening. The hum of the fridge seemed to fade away.
[ Transfer Received: +$3,000.00 ]
[ From: Evan Kyros ]
Elise brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and glossy.
Aaron's voice cracked when he finally found it. He looked up, his face pale.
"Evan… how… is this real?"
Evan kept his tone calm. He smiled, just enough to sell the lie, just enough to hide the billion-dollar secret sitting in his pocket.
"Like I said," Evan replied, leaning forward. "I've got it covered."
The room stilled.
The weight of the money pressed down on all three of them—heavy, undeniable, and for the first time in years…
Hopeful.