The late October wind whipping off the East River had a way of cutting right through you, especially when you were wearing a jacket two seasons out of fashion and three sizes too thin for the weather.
Liam Whitmore stood outside the cafeteria of Brooklyn Heights University, staring at the glass reflection. The young man looking back was a ghost of his former self. His hair, usually styled by a stylist in Manhattan, was messy and overgrown. His eyes, once bright with the arrogance of youth and wealth, were dull, rimmed with dark circles from sleepless nights working the graveyard shift at a warehouse in Queens.
He checked his pockets. A crumpled five-dollar bill and two quarters.
Five-fifty, Liam thought bitterly. A year ago, I wouldn't have bent down to pick this up off the pavement.
A year ago, lunch would have been at Le Coucou or Per Se. He would have driven there in his Ferrari 488, tossed the keys to a valet, and dropped a hundred-dollar tip just for the hell of it. Now, five-fifty meant he had to choose between a stale ham sandwich or two slices of greased-up pizza.
He pushed through the cafeteria doors, the noise of the student body hitting him like a physical wave. The smell of industrial cleaner mixed with fried onions made his empty stomach churn. He kept his head down, navigating the sea of plastic tables, hoping to remain invisible.
But in a place like this, when you fall from the top of the pyramid, you don't become invisible. You become a spectacle.
"Well, look who it is. The Prince of Brooklyn."
The voice was loud, distinct, and dripping with mock sympathy. The cafeteria chatter died down instantly. Liam froze, his tray—containing a single plate of fries and a cup of tap water—trembling slightly in his hands.
He didn't need to look up to know who it was. Julian Thorne.
Julian was the son of a shipping magnate. Back when the Whitmore family ruled Brooklyn real estate, Julian had been nothing more than a hanger-on, a guy who laughed too hard at Liam's jokes and desperately tried to get invited to Liam's Hamptons parties.
Now, Julian stood in the center of the aisle, blocking Liam's path. He was wearing a bespoke Tom Ford suit that cost more than the debt Liam's father currently owed to his lawyers.
"Excuse me, Julian," Liam said, his voice raspy. "I'm just trying to eat."
"Eat?" Julian laughed, looking around at the crowd. "You call those soggy fries eating? Liam, buddy, I heard your dad's trial is moving to sentencing next week. Is it true? Is he trading the penthouse for a prison cell?"
Liam's grip on the tray tightened until his knuckles turned white. "Leave my father out of this."
"Touchy," Julian sneered. He took a step closer, invading Liam's personal space. "But honestly, Liam, you shouldn't be here. Tuition is due next week. Can you even afford the textbooks? Or are you going to beg for those too?"
Liam grit his teeth, preparing to step around him, when he saw her.
Sara Wells.
She was standing next to Julian, her hand resting casually on his forearm. She looked as breathtaking as ever, wearing a cashmere coat Liam had bought her for her birthday last year. The diamond earrings catching the cafeteria light? He bought those too.
She looked at Liam, not with hatred, but with something far worse: indifference. It was the look one gave to a homeless person on the subway—a mixture of pity and a desire to be anywhere else.
"Sara," Liam whispered.
"Let's go, Julian," Sara said softly, tugging on Julian's arm. " The smell in here is giving me a headache."
Julian smirked. "You're right, babe. Let's go to Nobu. My treat." He turned back to Liam, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Oh, and Liam? I think you dropped something."
Julian reached into his pocket, pulled out a penny, and flicked it. It hit Liam in the chest and clattered onto his plastic tray, landing right on top of the fries.
"For the retirement fund," Julian laughed.
The cafeteria erupted in snickers. People held up their phones, recording the downfall of the Whitmore heir. Liam stood there, the penny sitting on his cold fries, his heart pounding a rhythm of pure, unadulterated rage against his ribs.
He didn't fight back. He couldn't. If he punched Julian, he'd be expelled. If he was expelled, his scholarship—the only thing keeping him in this university—would vanish. He had to swallow the bile rising in his throat.
Without a word, Liam walked past them. He dumped his tray, uneaten, into the trash can and walked out into the cold Brooklyn air.
Liam sat on a rusted bench in a small park overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge. The majestic structure spanned the river, connecting the borough to the gleaming skyline of Manhattan. It was a view he used to admire from his father's office on the 40th floor. Now, he was looking at it from the bottom up.
His phone buzzed. A text message from his landlord.
Rent is three days late. Pay by tomorrow, or your stuff is on the curb. - Mr. Henderson.
Liam let his head fall into his hands. He was tired. He was so incredibly tired. He had done everything right. He studied hard, he treated people well, he loved Sara with everything he had. And because his father trusted the wrong business partner, because of one signature on a fraudulent document, Liam was serving a life sentence of poverty.
"I can't do this anymore," he whispered to the empty air. The despair was a heavy blanket, suffocating him. "I just... I want it to stop."
He closed his eyes, listening to the distant honking of taxis and the rumble of the subway beneath the pavement. He wished he could just disappear.
[BEEP.]
A sharp, mechanical sound, clear as a bell, rang inside his skull. Liam jolted upright, looking around. The park was empty save for a woman walking a poodle in the distance.
[Scanning Host...]
[Host Identity Confirmed: Liam Whitmore.]
[Current Status: Destitute. Social Standing: F-Grade. Mental State: Critical.]
"Who's there?" Liam stood up, spinning around. "Is this a prank? Julian, if you put a speaker in my jacket, I swear to God..."
[System Compatibility: 100%.]
[Welcome, Host. The Idle Life System has been successfully initiated.]
A semi-transparent blue screen materialized in front of Liam's eyes, hovering in the air like a hologram. He swiped his hand through it, but his fingers passed through nothingness. The text, however, remained crisp and legible.
"What the hell..." Liam muttered, his heart racing. "Am I hallucinating? Did I starve myself into insanity?"
[You are not hallucinating. You have been selected to live a life without restraint.]
[System Overview:]
[1. Daily Sign-In: Log in once every 24 hours to receive randomized rewards. Rewards include money, assets, skills, and special items.]
[2. Infinite Rebate: Every expenditure made by the Host generates a cashback rebate. The multiplier ranges from 1x to 10,000x based on the System's evaluation of the transaction.]
[Would you like to perform your first Sign-In? (Y/N)]
Liam stared at the floating blue button. He had read webnovels before. He knew what this was. But things like this didn't happen in Brooklyn. They happened in fantasy worlds or to people who got hit by trucks.
"If I'm crazy, pressing a button in my imagination won't hurt," he reasoned.
He reached out and tapped the [Y].
[Ding! Sign-In Successful!]
[Day 1 Reward: 1. $10,000,000 USD (Tax-Free, Legal Source). 2. Master Key to The Obsidian Tower, Penthouse Suite. 3. Novice Gift Pack.]
[Funds have been transferred to your primary bank account.]
Bzzzt.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a notification from his banking app—the same app that had shown a balance of $12.00 just five minutes ago.
With trembling fingers, Liam unlocked his phone. The banking app logo swirled for a second, then loaded the dashboard.
Total Balance: $10,000,012.50
Liam dropped the phone. It clattered onto the concrete path. He scrambled to pick it up, checking the screen for cracks, then staring at the number again. He counted the zeros. Once. Twice. Three times.
Ten million dollars.
"This... this is real?" His voice cracked. A laugh bubbled up in his chest—a hysterical, terrified, exhilarating sound. "Ten million?"
He looked back at the holographic screen.
[Does the Host wish to open the Novice Gift Pack?]
"Yes!" Liam yelled, not caring if the lady with the poodle thought he was on drugs. "Open it!"
[Ding! Novice Gift Pack Opened.]
[Reward: "The Eye of Insight" (Level 1). Allows the Host to see the value, authenticity, and hidden attributes of objects and people.]
A warmth flooded Liam's eyes, a soothing sensation like a hot towel. When he blinked and looked around, the world seemed sharper. He looked at the park bench. A small tag floated above it: [Rusty Iron Bench. Value: $5. Scrap Metal.]
He looked at his own shoes. [Worn-out Sneakers. Value: $0. Durability: Critical.]
It worked. It all worked.
A sudden, fierce hunger roared in his stomach, louder than before. But this time, the gnawing emptiness wasn't accompanied by anxiety. It was accompanied by possibility.
"Rebate system," Liam muttered, recalling the second function. "I spend money, I get money back."
He needed to test this. Immediately.
He grabbed his backpack and sprinted out of the park. He didn't head back to the university cafeteria. He headed straight for Riccardo's, an upscale Italian bistro three blocks away. It wasn't the most expensive place in New York, but a pasta dish there cost $40—an impossible sum for the Liam of yesterday.
He burst through the doors, breathless. The interior was warm, smelling of garlic, truffles, and expensive wine. The maitre d', a man with a stiff mustache who had known the "old" Liam, looked up. His smile faltered when he saw Liam's ragged jacket.
"Mr. Whitmore," the man said, his tone cool. "We are quite fully booked for lunch today."
The restaurant was half empty.
"I see a table right there," Liam said, pointing to a booth by the window.
"That is reserved," the maitre d' lied smoothly. "Perhaps there is a slice shop down the street that fits your... current requirements better?"
The old Liam would have hung his head and walked away in shame. The new Liam, with ten million dollars in his pocket, felt a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I'm not leaving, Marco," Liam said. "I want a table. And I'm paying."
He pulled out his debit card—the worn plastic card that had been declined twice last week. Marco eyed it with skepticism.
"Very well," Marco sighed, clearly expecting the card to decline so he could kick Liam out legally. "But we have a minimum spend policy for walk-ins during lunch. One hundred dollars."
"Fine," Liam said, brushing past him and sitting at the booth.
Marco slapped a menu down. Liam didn't even open it.
"I want the Lobster Fra Diavolo," Liam said. "A bottle of your '15 Barolo. And the truffle antipasto."
Marco raised an eyebrow. That order would easily clear two hundred dollars. "Payment upfront, Mr. Whitmore. Given the circumstances."
Liam handed over the card. Marco took it to the portable machine, inserting it with a smug look, waiting for the red light of rejection.
Processing... Approved.
Marco's eyes widened. He stared at the machine, then at Liam, then back at the machine. The receipt printed.
"Is there a problem?" Liam asked, leaning back, a newfound confidence radiating from him.
"No... no problem, sir," Marco stammered, his attitude doing a complete one-eighty. "I'll have the sommelier bring the wine immediately."
As Marco walked away, the blue screen flashed in front of Liam's eyes again.
[Ding! Expenditure Detected.] [Amount: $245.00] [Triggering Rebate...] [Multiplier: 100x]
[You have received: $24,500.00]
Liam's phone buzzed.
Bank of America: Deposit of $24,500.00 received. Current Balance: $10,024,267.5.
Liam stared at the notification, then he started to laugh. He laughed quietly at first, then harder, until his shoulders were shaking. He had just eaten a luxury meal, and instead of losing money, he had made twenty-four grand.
He poured himself a glass of the expensive red wine the waiter had just uncorked. He swirled the dark liquid, watching it catch the light.
Outside the window, he saw Julian's flashy BMW drive past.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, Julian," Liam whispered, taking a sip of the wine. It tasted like victory. "Because the check is coming due, and I'm going to buy the whole damn bank."
He picked up his fork. It was time to eat.