Rewriting My Billions: Boss of the Hidden realm

Chapter 5: Bailing Out A Dragon

The yellow cab smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap pine air freshener. 

Gideon sat in the back seat next to me, his knees pushed awkwardly against the plastic divider. He spent the first ten minutes of the ride staring out the rain-streaked window, watching the city blur past, completely silent. 

I watched him for a minute. My new Chief of Security was a lethal weapon, but right now, he just looked like a guy who needed a hot meal and a tailor. 

"So," I said, leaning back against the cracked vinyl seat. "Five hundred years."

Gideon didn't turn around. "Give or take a decade. I stopped counting after the French Revolution. Too much paperwork."

"How does a guy who survived the Black Plague end up living behind a pawn shop in a trench coat?" I asked. "I mean, look at pop culture. Vampires are supposed to be billionaires living in gothic penthouses."

Gideon finally turned his head. He gave me a look of absolute, exhausted misery. 

"Movies are a lie, Boss," Gideon sighed. "Sure, I used to be rich. I had a castle in Romania in the 1600s. I had chests full of gold coins. But do you know what happened? The twentieth century happened."

"Technology," I guessed.

"Paper trails," Gideon corrected, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, casting a paranoid glance at the cab driver's back. "Suddenly, you can't just buy a house with a bag of rubies. The banks want a Social Security Number. They want a birth certificate. They want a photo ID. Have you ever tried getting a driver's license when you don't cast a reflection in a camera lens?"

I actually hadn't thought of that. I fought to keep a straight face. 

"I got audited in 1986," Gideon shuddered. "I panicked. I abandoned my mansion, buried my gold in a forest that is now a Walmart parking lot, and went off the grid. Being an apex predator doesn't mean a thing if the federal government freezes your checking account."

I reached over and patted his shoulder. His jacket was soaking wet, but his body was completely ice cold. 

"Relax," I said. "As of today, you are a contracted consultant for Thorne Industries. My legal team will bury your identity under so many corporate shell companies the IRS won't even know you exist. You'll have a debit card by Friday."

Gideon’s silver eyes widened. He looked at me with a level of pure, unadulterated loyalty that you usually only see in golden retrievers. 

"I will kill anyone you want," Gideon whispered with absolute sincerity. "Just point."

"No killing," I reminded him, tapping my temple where the System lived. "We do things legally now."

The cab jerked to a halt. 

"Arkham Psychiatric," the driver grunted, not looking back. "Fifteen bucks."

I handed him a twenty from my new stack of cash and told him to keep the change. 

We stepped out into the rain. The asylum looked exactly like you’d expect a corrupt, state-funded mental hospital to look. It was a massive, depressing block of gray concrete surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence. The windows were barred. The air outside smelled like wet pavement and misery. 

We walked through the sliding glass doors into a lobby that smelled strongly of bleach. 

"I need to speak with the Director," I told the bored receptionist behind the bulletproof glass. 

She popped her gum, barely looking up from her magazine. "Do you have an appointment?"

I slid two crisp hundred-dollar bills under the glass slot. "I do now."

The gum-popping stopped. The bills vanished into her pocket. Two minutes later, Gideon and I were walking down a long, flickering fluorescent hallway led by an orderly. 

The Director’s office was at the end of the hall. The nameplate on the door read: *Dr. Elias Croft.*

I pushed the door open without knocking. 

Dr. Croft was sitting behind a cheap particle-board desk. He was a fat, sweating man wearing a suit that was trying very hard to look expensive but failing miserably. He looked up, his face instantly twisting into a scowl. 

"Excuse me," Croft barked, standing up. "Who let you in here?"

I walked right past the visitor chairs and planted my hands flat on his desk, leaning over it. 

"My name is Julian Thorne," I said, my voice sharp and demanding. "I'm here to arrange a private medical discharge for one of your patients. Damian Locke."

Croft blinked. Then, he let out a loud, mocking laugh. He sat back down in his leather chair, crossing his arms over his gut. 

"Damian Locke?" Croft chuckled. "Mr. Thorne, you must be joking. Locke is a Ward Four patient. He is violently delusional. He suffers from severe psychosis, hoarding tendencies, and a complete detachment from reality."

"I don't care if he thinks he's the Queen of England," I replied flatly. "I want him released into my custody. Today."

Croft’s eyes narrowed. He looked me up and down, sizing up my cheap jacket. Then he looked at Gideon, who was currently inspecting a potted fern in the corner of the office with a look of deep disgust. 

"Let me show you exactly why that is impossible," Croft said, standing up and grabbing a ring of heavy keys from his belt. 

We followed Croft down a heavy steel stairwell into the basement level. The smell of bleach faded, replaced by the smell of sweat and rust. Muffled screaming echoed down the corridor. 

Croft stopped in front of a heavy steel door with a small, reinforced glass window. 

"Look for yourself," Croft sneered. 

I stepped up to the window and looked inside. 

The room was completely padded in white foam. Sitting dead center on the floor was a skinny guy in his mid-twenties. He was wearing a canvas straitjacket, his arms bound tightly to his chest. His hair was a wild, messy mop of dark red. 

He was rocking back and forth, screaming at the top of his lungs to an empty room. 

"Fools! You absolute sheep!" the guy roared, his voice scratching with intensity. "Fiat currency is a lie! The central banks are printing paper trash! The ledger is absolute! You have to buy at three hundred! Buy now, you idiots, and hold until it hits sixty thousand! The blockchain is the only truth!"

I stared at him. 

Bitcoin. 

It was 2014. Bitcoin was currently hovering around three or four hundred bucks a coin. Wall Street thought it was a joke. The media thought it was fake internet money for criminals. Nobody in the world saw what was coming. 

Except the guy in the padded cell. 

*BEEP.*

My System screen flared to life, hovering right over the glass window. 

[Target: Damian Locke]

[Species: Fire Dragon (Human Form)]

[Hidden Potential: Mythic-Rank Data Analyst / Market Prediction]

[Current Status: Restrained. Frustrated. Craving artificial cheese flavoring.]

A dragon. A literal, mythological dragon who hoarded digital currency instead of gold. 

I stepped back from the window. I looked at Croft. 

"He’s perfect," I said. "Prepare his discharge papers."

Croft scoffed, shaking his head. "I told you, Thorne. He is a danger to himself and others. The state requires him to be housed here indefinitely. Releasing him would require a mountain of administrative overrides, private transfer approvals, and a specialized psychiatric board review."

Croft paused. A greasy, greedy smile slowly spread across his fat face. He leaned in close to me. 

"Of course," Croft whispered. "The administrative fees for rushing such a complex private transfer are quite steep. It would require a donation to the hospital’s... private fund. Say, fifty thousand dollars."

I looked at him. He wasn't asking for a donation. He was asking for a bribe. 

Behind me, Gideon sighed. "Boss, can I just bite him? He looks like he tastes like bad cholesterol, but I’ll take one for the team."

"Quiet, Gideon," I said. 

I looked right into Croft’s greedy eyes. 

*BEEP.*

[System Scan Complete.]

[Target: Elias Croft.]

[Hidden Secret: Has embezzled $1.2 Million in state psychiatric funding over the last four years. Funds are routed through a shell company in the Cayman Islands.]

I almost laughed. These corrupt idiots made it too easy. 

I took a step forward, closing the distance between Croft and me until I was inches from his face. My billionaire persona dropped over me like a heavy iron cloak. 

"Fifty thousand dollars," I repeated, my voice dropping to a lethal, quiet register. "That's a lot of money, Elias. Tell me, does that go into the hospital's general fund? Or does it go directly into the Cayman Islands offshore account ending in 4409?"

Croft’s entire body went rigid. The smug smile vanished, wiped completely off his face. 

"Under the shell company name *Croft Medical Solutions*," I continued, my voice perfectly steady. "The same account where you’ve been funneling state funding for the last four years. Tell me, Elias. If I make a five-minute phone call to the federal authorities right now, how long do you think it will take them to trace that 1.2 million dollars?"

He stopped breathing. Drops of cold sweat instantly formed on his forehead. His hands started to shake, the heavy ring of keys rattling violently against his leg. 

"I... I..." Croft stammered, his eyes darting around the hallway in sheer panic. 

"You are going to open that door," I ordered, pointing at the padded cell. "You are going to process Damian Locke's discharge paperwork. You are going to classify him as perfectly sane. And you are going to do it for free. Do we have an understanding, Elias?"

Croft swallowed hard. He didn't say a word. His hands shook so badly he dropped his keys twice before finally jamming the right one into the heavy steel lock. 

The door clicked open. 

"Orderlies!" Croft yelled down the hall, his voice cracking. "Unbind the patient! Now!"

Two massive orderlies rushed into the room. They grabbed Damian by the shoulders and quickly unbuckled the heavy canvas straps of the straitjacket. 

Damian rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck loudly. He rubbed his wrists, leaving the straitjacket on the floor. 

He didn't run. He didn't scream. 

He walked slowly out of the cell, stopping right in front of me. Up close, his eyes were a terrifying, unnatural shade of burning amber. He looked at me, tilting his head to the side. 

Then, he leaned forward and literally sniffed my jacket. 

Gideon tensed up behind me, ready to move. 

Damian pulled back, his amber eyes locking onto mine. 

"You smell like a boss who buys good servers," Damian said, his voice a low, raspy rumble that sounded like grinding stones. He looked me up and down. "Do you have Doritos?"