Rise of the Unpredictable Man II

“Let me save you the suspense, Damien,” Fred said, sliding a folder across the desk. “You’re fired.”  

The words hit harder than a punch. Damien stared. “You’re joking.”  

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Fred stood, walking around the desk with the easy arrogance of a man who owned everything in sight. “You were the head of finance, Cruz. The company lost twelve million dollars. Someone’s got to take responsibility.”  

Damien stood too. “I "reported" that loss to you! I was the one trying to fix it.”  

Fred’s smile widened. “And I’m sure you "thought" you were. But corporations need a name, not a story. Congratulations, you’re that name.”  

Damien’s pulse hammered in his ears. “You’re framing me.”  

Fred shrugged. “Call it what you want. Your severance will cover the next few months. Try not to spend it all crying.”  

For a moment, Damien’s composure cracked. He slammed his palms on the desk. “I gave this company ten years. I made you millions.”  

Fred raised a hand lazily. “And I made you relevant. Don’t mistake gratitude for ownership.”  

The room spun. The man across from him, the one he’d admired, defended, now looked at him like trash on the sidewalk. Damien’s voice broke. “Why are you doing this?”  

Fred leaned closer, his breath reeking of mint and power. “Because I can.”  

He didn’t remember the elevator ride down, only the whisper of gossip as the doors opened on the lobby floor. People stared, whispers trailing behind him like smoke. “Is that Cruz?”  

“Yeah, he got axed. Embezzlement, I heard.”  

“Damn. Guess loyalty doesn’t pay.”  

Outside, the Los Angeles air was too bright, too alive. The city didn’t care about his fall; it kept moving, fast and cruel.  

By the time he reached his car, his hands were trembling. He sat in silence for a long minute, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror, eyes hollow, suit wrinkled, dignity gone.  

He drove home in a blur. The house in Silver Lake looked the same, the neat white fence, the bougainvillea spilling over the porch rail.

The echo of what had once been happiness. “Clara?” he called as he stepped inside.  

No answer. He set down his briefcase. The faint sound of music floated from upstairs, soft, rhythmic, then a laugh. A man’s laugh.  

His stomach turned to ice. “Clara?” he said again, louder this time.  

Another sound, a moan. His feet moved before his mind did. Up the stairs. Down the hallway. 

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, he saw her. Clara. His wife, and Fred. Fred Meyer.  

The man who’d just ruined his life. Fred’s hand tangled in her hair, his lips against her neck. Clara laughed breathlessly. “He probably thinks you’re still at work.”  

Fred chuckled. “He’s too stupid to suspect anything.”  

The world shattered. Damien pushed the door open. The laughter stopped. Clara gasped, covering herself with the sheet. “Damien, wait, this isn’t.”  

Fred didn’t even flinch. He smirked, still half-dressed. “Guess the meeting ended early, huh?”  

Damien’s voice was barely a whisper. “You.”  

“Me,” Fred said smoothly. “And your wife. Small world.”  

Damien’s chest rose and fell. “You fired me, and then you come into my home.”  

Clara snapped, “This "isn’t" your home anymore! You’re broke, Damien! You’ve been broke for years. You couldn’t even buy me a decent life.”  

Her words hit harder than Fred’s smirk. Fred stepped forward, fixing his cufflinks. “Don’t take it personally. Clara has expensive tastes. You were just insufficient.”  

Damien’s hands curled into fists. “You think this is over?”  

Fred grinned. “No, Damien. It "is" over.”  

He walked past him, the scent of his cologne burning in Damien’s throat. “Enjoy unemployment.”  

Clara followed, not even looking back. “You’ll thank me one day.”  

The door slammed. The silence that followed was unbearable. Damien dropped to his knees, breath ragged, heart crushed under the weight of betrayal. 

The bed still smelled like her perfume, and another man’s sweat. He screamed. Not words. Just pain. Night fell before he moved again.  

The whiskey bottle clinked against the bar counter as he poured another glass. The bar was dim, tucked away under a flickering neon sign near 7th Street. 

The air smelled of cigarettes and regret. “Rough night?” the bartender asked.  

Damien chuckled bitterly. “You could say that.”  

He drank until his vision blurred and the voices around him melted into static. Fred’s words echoed in his mind. "Because I can."

Clara’s voice followed. "You were never enough."  

He slammed the empty glass down. “I’ll show you enough,” he muttered. “I’ll show you both.”  

The bartender frowned. “You say something?”  

Damien blinked. “No.”  

He pulled his wallet out, empty. His card declined. Even the universe was mocking him now. He stumbled out into the street. 

The rain had started, a fine mist turning the city lights into streaks of color. He leaned against a lamppost, staring at the asphalt. “Worthless,” he whispered. “That’s what I am.”  

And then, DING! The sound was soft, but it cut through the night like a blade. Damien froze.  

[System initializing]  

He blinked, looking around. No one was there.  

[Welcome, Damien Cruz]  

[The Wealth System has been activated]  

He stared into the darkness, breath catching. “I'm drunk.”  

[Starter Reward: $100 Billion USD, Locked]  

[Complete your first quest to unlock: "Rise, or be forgotten."]  

The air around him pulsed faintly, like static, alive and waiting. Damien’s throat went dry. “What the hell.”  

[Quest Objective: Reclaim what was stolen]  

He stared into the rain as a slow, dangerous smile began to form. “Fine,” he whispered. “Let’s begin.”