He had spent five years holding onto a dream.Klaus stood frozen, his hands trembling as the bouquet of roses and the carefully chosen cake slipped from his grasp. The flowers, once vibrant, now seemed to wilt under the weight of his devastation. The cake—meant to celebrate their love—felt like a cruel joke, a painful reminder of his misplaced hope. He had given everything to Allison. He had endured prison, humiliation, and endless nights of despair clinging to the belief that she would be waiting for him. He had sacrificed for her, for her family, only to be discarded like a broken, unwanted relic of the past. His breath came in ragged gasps as Allison’s cold eyes bore into him, devoid of the love he had spent five years holding onto. "You really want me to leave?" His voice cracked, betraying the whirlwind of emotions clawing at his chest. “After everything I’ve done for you?” Her expression hardened, her gaze impassive. “I don’t know why you thought you could just show up here

The mortuary was eerily silent, save for the faint hum of the air vents. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting shadows along the cold, sterile walls. Then, the mortician’s face twisted in sheer terror. His breath hitched as his eyes darted toward the funeral table. “G-Ghost…” Francis stammered, his voice barely a whisper. His body went rigid, his eyes rolling back—then he collapsed, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Klaus, crouched nearby, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His pulse remained steady, but his mind was already calculating his next move. Footsteps. Voices drifted from the hallway, growing louder by the second. He had to hide. Without hesitation, Klaus slipped beneath the nearest funeral table, pressing his body against the cold tile. The door creaked open. A group of people entered, their movements crisp and deliberate. Among them was a stern-faced man in a white lab coat, his sharp eyes scanning the room. Beside him stood an elderly gentleman with nearly s

Meanwhile, Klaus perched atop a low rooftop, the city stretching before him. The adrenaline still hummed through his veins, but more than that—he felt good. The system’s boost was kicking in. His movements were sharper, his senses more attuned. A soft ping echoed in his mind. [Congratulations! You have successfully used your gambling skill for the first time.] [Reward: Permanent 20% boost in agility and grace.] [Luck stat: 180 pts.] Klaus exhaled, a smirk playing on his lips. [Convert money into digital form for bank account?] [Yes] [No] Without hesitation, Klaus selected "Yes." The bag of cash in his hands vanished, replaced by a sharp chime and a new notification: [Mission: $9,000,000 more to go] [System account: $1,000,000] Klaus exhaled, his lips curling into a grin. This was more than just numbers on a screen. This was the start of something new—an opportunity. He leaned against the railing of the pedestrian bridge, scanning the cityscape below. Neon ligh

Klaus slid his stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills onto the table. The soft rustle of cash against felt was almost drowned out by the silence that gripped the room. $120,000 now lay in the betting circle. Isabella’s breath hitched. Even in high-roller territory, this was lunacy. Klaus? He was smiling. The energy in the room changed. The low murmur of gamblers and dealers, the clinking of glasses, the distant jingle of slot machines—everything dulled, as if the casino itself was holding its breath. Eyes turned toward the table, drawn by the gravity of absurd stakes. The dealer, a woman with weary eyes but a sharp mind, studied Klaus. His confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was something else—something colder, more deliberate. Klaus closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He didn’t need to see the cards. He could feel them. Probability whispered to him, unseen forces shifting just slightly in his favor. When he opened his eyes, his gaze locked onto the dealer’s. With a smirk as bright as

Klaus followed him, brushing a hand through his disheveled hair. His fingers caught on knots, reminding him just how much he had let himself go. His beard was overgrown, his clothes slightly wrinkled from days of wear. He probably did look like a beggar. Behind them, two employees near the counter exchanged glances. "Does Steve not realize that man is a beggar?" a female attendant muttered under her breath. She folded her arms, watching them disappear into the grooming section. "He acts like this boutique is his entire world, always showing off what he knows." Another attendant, a male, scoffed. "He thinks he’s better than us just because he won Employee of the Year last year. I really hope he gets into trouble this time." The two chuckled quietly, glancing toward the entrance, where their supervisor, Mr. Jonathan, was due to arrive at any moment. "If the supervisor catches him wasting time on someone who clearly can’t afford anything, he’s done for," one of them whispered. They