“What the—“ he whispered under his breath.Clara noticed him muttering crouched on the ground. “What is it now, Rafe? That little scratch hurts that bad?” She asked with irritation.“What….what is this? He whispered to himself, lost in confusion.A sharp voice snapped him back. “Rafe!” He turned. Clara glared down at him, her expression filled with disgust this time.“You’re embarrassing me in front of everyone! Was I such a terrible person for offering you this job!” She hissed. “Can’t you do anything right?!”“I’m sorry, it’s just that there’s this—“But before he could finish, the massive LED screen behind the podium flickered. The logo of Li holdings flashed onscreen, followed by a breaking news banner from London Business Daily.||”BREAKING NEWS: Li Holdings rocked by embezzlement scandal.”||”sources confirm insider Rafe Miller – husband to Clara Li – has stolen £150,000 from project funds.”The hall erupted in gasps. Phones were lifted instantly.“That’s him! The poor son-in-l

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving London wrapped in a grey haze.The streets glistened, buses hissed through puddles, and Rafe moved quietly among the crowd, just another face in the city that had already forgotten him.He stopped by a lamppost to check his phone.A faint blue flicker appeared in his vision.[SYSTEM MISSION #2: PROVE YOUR WORTH]Objective: Earn £10,000 profit in 48 hours without using System money.Reward: unknown.Penalty: Balance deduction – £1,000,000.He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “No pressure, huh?”Two days. No System funds.Just him, and his brain.And honestly comparing it to what he faced in the Li’s house, it was nothing.By afternoon, he wandered through South Bank’s quieter streets, the ones where old shops clung to life between shiny glass towers. Thaat’s when he saw it: “CLOSING DOWN SALE – 3 DAYS LEFT”, printed across the dusty window of a small café.He paused. The place looked dead — lights dimmed, furniture stacked near t

Rain returned the following morning.It always did in London, falling in slow, apologetic sheets that blurred everything into grey.Rafe sat by the window of his modest South Bank flat, the glow of his laptop screen reflecting off the mug of black coffee beside him. The city outside hummed faintly, buses growling, footsteps splashing through puddles, a siren in the distance.On his screen, a spreadsheet blinked back at him.Company names. Stock prices. Notes scribbled like scattered thoughts.Finance for beginners, the title of the tab read.He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have cared about the importance of a portfolio. Now, he was consuming everything he could, equity, valuation, market trends, leverage ratios.Not because he suddenly adored numbers.But because numbers were the language of those who had ridiculed him. Those he wanted to crush.Clara’s father had once scoffed across their dinner table, his voice dripping with disdain.“You wouldn’t last

London had a strange way of going quiet after midnight.The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still glistened under the orange lamplight, slick and reflective like sheets of glass.Rafe crossed the bridge toward South Bank, the faint hum of the Thames beneath him.His new suit hung perfectly, the expensive fabric hugging his shoulders, a small, quiet reminder that the man walking home tonight was not the same one who once bowed to the Li family’s insults.He felt lighter somehow.Not happy, just… focused.Every step brought him closer to something he couldn’t yet name.His phone buzzed in his pocket.[Sub-Alert: Unusual Movement Detected.]Rafe frowned. “Unusual movement?” he murmured.He stopped at the end of the bridge and glanced behind him. The street was mostly empty, a delivery van passing in the distance, a couple huddled under an umbrella, a lone cyclist gliding past.Everything looked normal.He shrugged it off and kept walking.By the time he reached the narrow str

The motel room smelled of damp wood.Rafe Miller, or at least the man who had inhabited that name until yesterday, sat on the edge of a thin mattress that dipped under his weight. He kept his eyes fixed on the peeling wallpaper, tracing the yellowed edges as if the patterns could explain how he had ended up in a dive on the outskirts of the city. In the corner, a television played on mute. The screen was a strobe light of his own past, broadcasting footage from a funeral that belonged to him. His own face looked back from the glass, frozen in a professional headshot that seemed like a relic from a different century.He was dead.The public record, the news cycles, and the official documents all agreed on that single point. He was dead and buried.The realization should have brought a sense of panic or a heavy weight to his chest, but instead, it felt like a clean slate. It was a cold, quiet kind of freedom.His phone vibrated against the wood of the nightstand. He reached for it, expe