"Please," Fegor tried again, his desperation bleeding through. "I just need to speak to someone. Anyone. A manager. A receptionist. I have a proposal for the Syndicate that could benefit…""A receptionist?" the guard interrupted, his face twisting in anger. He stepped into Fegor's personal space, shoving a hard finger into Fegor's bruised chest. Fegor winced as the finger dug into his cracked ribs."Do you know where you are?" the guard hissed. "The people who clean the toilets inside those gates have master's degrees from Harvard. The people who trim the grass make more money in a week than your entire bloodline has made in a century. The staff members in this Syndicate are gods in the city you came from. And you think you can just walk up here and ask to speak to them?""I just need five minutes," Fegor pleaded, standing his ground."You aren't worthy of five seconds of our air," the guard spat. "To get a personal invite to this estate, you have to be the president of a country. You

Fegor lay in the dirt, the cold wind biting through his torn shirt. The ground beneath him vibrated with the raw, terrifying power of the convoy’s engines.He watched the vehicles roll past him. The glossy black paint of the armored SUVs reflected the blinding white floodlights of the gate. Fegor couldn't tear his eyes away. Was this wealth? He had thought the Cross Tower in New York was the peak of human achievement. He had thought Lance’s blue Tesla was a sign of success.But this? This was entirely different. This wasn't just money. This was absolute, undeniable power. This was a force of nature wrapped in steel and bulletproof glass.The central cruiser… the elongated, impossible masterpiece of engineering—was sliding past the ditch where Fegor lay.Despite the lead guard’s frantic warnings, despite the threat of being shot, Fegor couldn't stay down. His stubbornness, that deep-seated grit that refused to let him die quietly in the mud, flared to life. He slowly pushed himself up

Fegor pressed his face against the thick, tinted glass of the armored SUV, his eyes darting frantically —up, down, left, right.He forgot about his bruised ribs. He forgot about his bleeding knuckles. He even temporarily forgot about the crushing betrayal he had left behind in his Queens apartment.Where in heaven's name was this place? Was he still on Earth?The convoy glided silently over a bridge of solid, glowing glass that spanned a massive, manufactured waterfall. Below them, Fegor could see the inner workings of the West Syndicate Island. It didn't look like a corporate headquarters. It looked like a civilization built by gods.Towering skyscrapers of white metal and reflective glass spiraled into the night sky, connected by sleek skybridges where transport drones buzzed like busy silver bees. He saw vast, glowing biodomes housing entire forests. He saw thousands of people —scientists in pristine lab coats, engineers in sharp tactical gear, executives in suits that cost more th

Fegor stood perfectly still, terrified that if he moved too fast, the illusion would shatter and he would wake up shivering in the dirt outside the gate.He took a cautious step forward. The carpet beneath his scuffed, worn-out shoes didn't feel like fabric. It felt like he was stepping onto a thick layer of soft, warm moss. He looked up at the ceiling, where hidden lights mimicked the soft glow of a twilight sky.He slowly walked further into the guest apartment, leaving his cheap duffel bag by the door like a forgotten piece of trash.He ran his hand along the dining table. It wasn't wood or glass; it was a single slab of polished, dark marble with veins of gold running through it. The living area had a curved sofa that looked big enough to seat twenty people, facing a wall of glass that offered a dizzying, uninterrupted view of the glowing island and the dark Atlantic Ocean."Is this a joke?" Fegor whispered, his voice cracking.Before he could process the sheer scale of the luxury

The bathroom alone was worth more than everything Fegor had ever owned.He stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, just staring. The tiles beneath his bare feet were some kind of imported stone — warm, smooth, the kind that doesn't exist in places like Warri. There were two sinks. Two. He had grown up sharing a single bucket of water with his mother on some mornings, and this man had two sinks for one bathroom. The faucet was the kind you had to hover your hand in a certain way to activate. Gold-plated. Or actual gold. He genuinely could not tell the difference anymore.He turned on the tap and let the water run over his hands. Cold. Then warm. Then perfectly in between, like it knew what he needed before he did. He cupped his palms and splashed his face. Once. Twice. The third time he just held the water there against his skin and breathed.He needed to be sharp. He could not afford to be anything less.The suit was laid out on the ottoman by the time he stepped back into the