After mastering English, Marcus moved on to the mathematics section of the library.
He had a reason for this.
Math wasn't just useful—it was essential for what he was planning.
After working through the math books, Marcus expanded his reading. Financial history. New York City guides. Economic theory. Stock market basics. Anything and everything that seemed relevant.
He absorbed it all.
By the time he left the library, it was six o'clock. Closing time.
Marcus had spent almost four hours inside. In that time, he'd mastered English, learned basic French, and picked up a dozen other useful skills.
Not bad for an afternoon.
Marcus grabbed a burger from a food cart on the street, then flagged down a cab.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"You know any casinos around here?"
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Yeah. I know a few."
"Take me to one."
Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of a small casino.
Marcus paid the fare and stepped inside.
The casino was packed.
Slot machines beeped and chimed. People crowded around blackjack tables, shouting and cheering. The air smelled like cigarette smoke and desperation.
Marcus walked through the crowd slowly, taking it all in. Observing. Calculating.
He had a super brain now. If he couldn't make money in a place literally designed to take people's money, then what was the point?
People had done this before. Used math and probability to beat casinos. Some had even made millions before getting banned.
Marcus was just going to do the same thing.
He scanned the games. Slot machines—pure luck, no skill involved. Roulette—slightly better odds, but still a losing game in the long run. Baccarat—decent, but required a big bankroll.
Blackjack.
That was the one.
Card counting. Probability analysis. Pattern recognition. With NZT, Marcus could track every card in the deck effortlessly.
Marcus walked up to the cashier and pulled out a thousand dollars.
"Chips, please."
The cashier handed him a mix of different denominations.
Marcus had started with about two thousand dollars from Finn's stash. After the hotel, food, and transportation, he was down to about twelve hundred.
This thousand was a big chunk of what he had left.
But Marcus wasn't worried.
He knew what he was doing.
Marcus didn't rush.
He spent the first twenty minutes just watching. Observing the dealers. Tracking the cards. Calculating probabilities.
The casino had cameras everywhere. 360-degree coverage. No blind spots.
And there were plants in the crowd—employees pretending to be regular gamblers, designed to make it look like people were winning.
Most people who walked into a casino walked out broke.
That was by design.
But Marcus wasn't most people.
Two hours later, Marcus cashed out.
One thousand dollars had become ten thousand.
He could've kept going. Could've pushed it higher.
But he'd noticed something.
The pit boss was watching him.
Marcus had been careful. He'd deliberately lost some hands to avoid suspicion. Kept his wins modest. Played it safe.
But even with that, the casino had noticed him.
A thin Asian guy, consistently winning more than he lost? That stood out.
The casino saw every gambler's money as their money. And Marcus was taking it.
They didn't like that.
So Marcus decided to stop.
He was still just a regular guy. No superpowers. No backup. And technically, he was an undocumented immigrant in this world.
The last thing he needed was to draw attention.
Plus, he had ten grand in cash now. That was enough for the next phase.
The moment Marcus stepped outside, he felt eyes on him.
He glanced around casually.
A group of men leaning against a wall. Another guy sitting on a bench. A woman pretending to check her phone.
All of them watching him.
Their expressions ranged from surprised to greedy to cruel. Some looked amused. Like they'd just found a juicy target.
Accomplices, Marcus realized.
These people had contacts inside the casino. Whenever someone won big, the insiders would send a signal. And these vultures outside would pick their targets.
Marcus—thin, Asian, alone—probably looked like an easy mark.
It was common knowledge in America. Asians were seen as rich and easy to bully.
Marcus didn't panic.
He quickly scanned the street. Analyzed the waiting taxis. Looked at the drivers—their body language, their clothes, their expressions.
Picked the most trustworthy-looking one.
He walked over and got in.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"Just drive. I'll tell you when to stop."
The driver shrugged and pulled into traffic.
Marcus watched through the rear window. The group of men cursed and turned away, already looking for their next victim.
Marcus had the driver circle a few blocks, making sure no one was following.
Going out at night in New York was dangerous, even for locals. And you couldn't trust anyone. Even a taxi driver who looked honest might rob you if the money was good enough.
After twenty minutes of circling, Marcus was confident no one had tailed him.
"Here's fine," he said.
He paid the driver and got out a few blocks from his hotel. Better not to give away his exact location. Just in case.
Marcus walked the rest of the way, keeping his head down and his senses sharp.
By the time he got back to his room, it was nine o'clock.
About an hour left before the NZT wore off.
Marcus sat down at the small desk and pulled out a notepad.
Time to finalize the plan.
Current assets:
Approximately $11,200 in cash Around 100 pills of NZT-48
Problems:
NZT supply is limited. Once he ran out, he'd lose his edge. And if he stopped taking it after becoming dependent, the withdrawal could kill him.
NZT was addictive. The side effects got worse the longer you used it.
He needed more NZT. And he needed a way to eliminate the side effects permanently.
And all of that required money.
Lots of money.
Fast.
So how did he get it?
Option One: Casinos.
Pros: Fast cash. Relatively low-risk in small doses.
Cons: Limited earning potential. If he pushed it too far, every casino in the world would ban him. And some of them might do worse than just ban him.
There was a cap. Maybe ten million, tops, before the industry blacklisted him.
Not enough.
Option Two: Stock Market.
Pros: Huge earning potential. In the original Limitless story, Eddie had turned $15,000 into $40 million in two months.
Cons: High visibility. Trading at that level would attract attention. Wall Street wasn't run by idiots—they'd built the stock market to fleece retail investors, not to let outsiders get rich.
And if Marcus started making waves? If he disrupted their game?
They'd investigate him.
They'd find out he had no real identity. No social security number. No background.
And in America, an undocumented person making millions on Wall Street? That screamed "foreign spy."
They could arrest him on espionage charges. No trial. No evidence needed. Just a suspicion.
Marcus clenched his jaw.
He couldn't risk it.
Not yet.
Option Three: Hacking.
Marcus stared at the word he'd just written.
Hacking.
It was risky. But it was also anonymous. And with NZT, he could learn programming, cybersecurity, network infiltration—all of it—in a matter of days.
He could steal from the people who deserved it. Criminal organizations. Corrupt corporations. Offshore accounts.
And if he was careful? If he covered his tracks?
No one would ever know who he was.
Marcus nodded slowly.
Yeah.
Hacking.
That was the path he'd take.
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.