Fate’s Billionaire

People Who Should Have Died

Vincent did not sleep.

The city outside his apartment was quiet, but his mind was not. Every time he closed his eyes, death opened them again.

A woman choking in a fine-dining restaurant.

A banker bleeding out on the steps of his own office.

A smiling man falling from a balcony he believed was safe.

Each image was sharp. Exact. Final.

By 4:12 a.m., Vincent gave up on sleep and stood by the window, staring down at the street below. A delivery truck passed. He focused on the driver.

Nothing.

Blank.

Vincent exhaled slowly. “So it’s true…”

Not everyone had an ending he could see.

He tested again. A woman jogging with expensive wireless earbuds. Her image snapped into place instantly—hit-and-run, three days from now, rain involved, no witnesses.

Vincent stepped back like he had touched fire.

The pattern was becoming clear, and he hated how fast his brain adapted to it.

Power. Influence. Money.

Those people had visible endings. Changeable ones.

The powerless were invisible to fate or maybe fate simply didn’t care enough to warn him.

His phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number:

You saved the wrong man last night.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. He typed back.

Vincent: Who is this?

The reply came immediately.

Unknown Number:

Someone cleaning up the mess you’re about to make.

Vincent didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket and keys and walked out.

If they wanted to scare him, they were too late.

By mid-morning, the city was awake. Vincent moved through it like a ghost, eyes constantly flicking, testing, learning.

A private chauffeur stepping out of a luxury car death by explosion, two weeks, triggered by a corporate rivalry.

A young tech founder laughing into his phone suicide in six months, crushed by secrets he thought no one knew.

Vincent stopped walking.

That one felt different.

He turned and followed the man into a glass building downtown. The sign read KAIROS MEDIA GROUP.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with activity. Journalists. Editors. Assistants rushing with tablets and coffee cups. Vincent blended in easily no one ever noticed him unless he wanted them to.

He found the man from earlier arguing with a woman near the elevators.

“You can’t run this,” the man snapped. “We don’t have proof.”

The woman didn’t back down. She was sharp-eyed, mid-twenties, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, wearing a press badge that read: LARA CHEN – Investigative Reporter.

“If we wait for perfect proof,” Lara said, “people die. You know that.”

Vincent froze.

Something twisted in his chest.

He looked at her.

Nothing happened.

No vision. No ending.

Blank.

That surprised him more than anything else that day.

The man stormed off, leaving Lara standing there, fists clenched. Vincent watched her take a steadying breath, then turn and nearly collide with him.

“Sorry,” she said quickly.

Vincent shook his head. “It’s fine.”

Their eyes met.

For half a second, Vincent felt… pressure. Like the air around her resisted his ability.

Interesting.

“I’m Vincent,” he said without thinking.

“Lara,” she replied. “You look lost.”

“Just… passing through.”

She snorted. “No one passes through this place unless they want something.”

Vincent smiled faintly. “What if I want to warn you?”

Her expression sharpened. “About what?”

Vincent hesitated. He saw it again the tech founder’s ending. The slow collapse. The loneliness. The way no one listened until it was too late.

“Your colleague,” Vincent said carefully. “The one you were arguing with. He’s in trouble.”

Lara studied him. “That’s vague.”

“He’s going to die if you publish the wrong story.”

That got her attention.

She crossed her arms. “That’s either a threat or a prediction.”

“Neither,” Vincent said. “It’s a fact.”

Lara stared at him for a long moment, then laughed once. “You reporters from rival outlets are getting creative.”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“Then what are you?”

Vincent met her gaze. Calm. Unflinching. “Someone who sees patterns before they happen.”

Before she could reply, shouting erupted near the entrance.

A man collapsed, clutching his chest. Panic spread. Someone screamed for help.

Vincent was already moving.

He knelt beside the man, fingers checking pulse, eyes focused.

The vision hit instantly.

Heart attack. Right now. Preventable but only if someone acted now.

“Call an ambulance,” Vincent barked. His voice cut through the noise like steel.

Lara froze for half a second…then obeyed.

Vincent pressed hard, precise, counting under his breath. He didn’t think. He knew.

Minutes later, sirens wailed. Paramedics rushed in, taking over.

The man lived.

As they wheeled him away, Vincent felt it.

A shift.

Like something unseen snapping back into place.

And then

Pain exploded behind his eyes.

Vincent staggered, grabbing the edge of a desk. His vision blurred. A new image forced itself forward.

A woman.

Lara.

Blood on her shirt. A bullet wound. Twenty-three days from now.

Vincent sucked in a sharp breath.

“No,” he whispered.

Lara turned. “What?”

He straightened quickly, face controlled again. “Nothing.”

But inside, panic flared.

Saving the man had changed something.

Someone else was now in danger.

That night, Vincent sat alone in a high end bar he couldn’t afford but no one questioned him. He had learned that confidence opened doors money had not yet touched.

Across the room, men in suits laughed loudly. Power recognized power, even before it was visible.

Vincent focused on one of them.

Darius Vell.

The name surfaced uninvited in his mind, like a file unlocking.

CEO. Ruthless. Smart.

Ending: Blank.

Vincent’s fingers tightened around his glass.

That was new.

Darius noticed him staring and raised an eyebrow, amused. He walked over.

“You look like a man with questions,” Darius said.

Vincent met his gaze evenly. “And you look like a man without an ending.”

Darius laughed softly. “Careful. That kind of talk gets people killed.”

“Not tonight,” Vincent said. “Tonight, I’m just watching.”

Their eyes locked.

Something unspoken passed between them.

Recognition.

Darius smiled

but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We should talk again.”

“We will,” Vincent replied.

Darius walked away.

Vincent exhaled slowly.

Enemies were forming faster than he expected.

His phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number:

You interfered. Again.

Vincent typed back calmly.

Vincent: I saved a life.

Unknown Number:

*And marked another. The girl. The reporter.

Vincent’s blood ran cold.

Vincent: Stay away from her.

The reply came after a pause.

Unknown Number:

That depends on you.

Vincent stared at the screen, then slipped the phone into his pocket.

Rain began to fall again outside.

He finished his drink, stood, and walked into the night with steady steps.

He was no longer confused.

He was no longer afraid.

If fate wanted a game

Vincent Drake would learn the rules.

And then he would break them.