THE DESTINY REBOOT SYSTEM

Bids and Beggars

The morning sun had barely peeled over the horizon when Eliot sat on the edge of his mattress, eyes fixed on the sleek black card that hadn’t left his sight since the madness at the outside. His room was still—too still. The silence echoed louder than any scream Peter could have made.

The previous night’s chaos kept looping in his mind: Peter, shirtless in public, scratching at invisible bees, shouting about witches; Marthar, her face twisted with confusion and desperation, watching her boyfriend unravel in front of a crowd that didn’t lift a finger to help. And Eliot—Eliot had just stood there, holding a card that had changed everything.

The words haunted him.

[“Failure to use the money in the given days will result to death.”]

He stared at the digits dancing on his phone screen. He’d withdrawn a quarter of the funds, and his account balance still looked like a dream. But a part of him—a frightened, rational, grounded part—couldn’t let go of the “what if.”

What if it was all temporary?

What if one glitch, one wrong move, and he was back to counting change under park benches?

He opened his banking app and tapped “Transfer Funds.”

Just as his thumb hovered over the final confirmation, the screen fizzled—literally fizzled—like static had bled into it. The display turned black, and then slowly, letters began appearing, white and precise:

[ “Do you not trust me?”]

Eliot blinked, stunned.

“W-what?”

Another message appeared.

[> “Why do you have trust issues, Eliot?”]

The air in the room thickened. Eliot dropped the phone onto his lap, his pulse racing.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “What the hell are you?”

The letters changed.

[ “I am your system. I chose you. Do not insult me with your fear.”]

Then, with a sudden pulse of light, his phone displayed a new option—Manual Control. A brief tutorial flashed before him, guiding him through how to turn the system “on” and “off,” how to mask transactions, how to use voice commands in public without speaking aloud.

His hands trembled as he followed the steps.

This wasn’t just money. This was something… more. Something alive.

The final message before the screen faded read:

[“Trust opens doors. Use the right ones.”]

He sat there, breathless. Then, without a second thought, he rose, washed his face with cold water that couldn’t touch the heat pounding through him, and got dressed.

Today, he wasn’t going to shop for groceries or settle debts.

Today, he was going to buy a car.

No—auction the most expensive one.

An hour later, a beat-up taxi dropped Eliot at the gates of Lexon Auto House, a glossy glass kingdom for the rich and ridiculous. It was the kind of place that made luxury breathe. From the floors to the chandeliers hanging like jewelry from the ceiling, everything screamed wealth.

And yet, there he was—Eliot. Skinny jeans, a faded shirt, shoes worn from too many miles. He adjusted his backpack and walked confidently toward the gate.

The guards didn’t even try to hide their smirks.

“Hey!” one of them barked, stepping in front of Eliot. “Wrong event, man. Fast food's that way.”

The other one laughed. “Bro came here in a damn taxi and wants to enter a luxury auction?”

Eliot simply smiled. “I’m on the list.”

That made them laugh even harder. “The list? You? With those shoes?”

“I’d like to speak to the manager,” Eliot said calmly, unfazed.

“Yeah? And I’d like a date with Beyoncé.”

The taller guard stepped forward, chest puffed. “Leave now, man. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

But Eliot didn’t budge.

Instead, he tapped the side of his phone twice.

System, activate.

A silent response lit his screen: Access Granted.

Within moments, a notification buzzed on the manager’s office tablet upstairs, flagged in gold. Investor: Eliot Marven. VIP Clearance.

Down below, the intercom clicked.

“Let him in.”

The guards blinked, stunned.

“Wha—who the hell are you?”

Eliot just smiled. “Someone you’ll remember.”

Inside, the auction was already buzzing. Elegantly dressed elites held flutes of champagne, and the scent of wealth was in the air—leather seats, colognes that cost more than rent, and loud, phony laughter.

At the center of the room stood a masterpiece: a limited edition, chrome-dusted Bregali S7. Sleek, silver, and sun-kissed, its engine was rumored to purr like a tiger and cost more than most people’s homes.

Eliot moved through the crowd, ignored and overlooked. He wasn’t dressed like them. He didn’t move like them.

He moved like someone who had walked to survival through mud.

The auctioneer, a tall man with too much gel in his hair, banged the gavel.

“Opening bid starts at two million.”

The crowd murmured.

“Two point one,” a woman in red declared.

“Two point four,” followed another man with a cigar.

“Two point five,” someone else.

Eliot raised his hand.

The room turned.

“Three million.”

Gasps rippled through the air.

The auctioneer blinked, hesitant. “Sir… do you—uh—have verification?”

Eliot gave a slight nod and, with a tap on his phone, projected his account balance onto the nearest display screen. It wasn’t just three million. It was three million and counting.

The room fell silent.

People who had laughed minutes ago now stared with open mouths.

Cameras clicked. Reporters turned.

“Who is he?”

“Did he win the lottery?”

“Look at his clothes—where did he get that kind of money?”

The auctioneer cleared his throat, stunned. “Do I hear a counterbid?”

Silence.

“Going once… going twice… sold! To Mr…?”

“Eliot,” he replied, calm and cool.

He could hear the whispers now—his name rolling off lips that had scoffed at him just moments earlier.

By the time he stepped outside, the sun had shifted. The guards straightened their backs and didn’t dare meet his eyes. The same taxi driver who had dropped him off was still parked at the corner.

He opened the back door and slid in.

The driver blinked. “Wait… that was you on the news?”

Eliot nodded once.

“Damn, man. You’re famous now!”

Eliot chuckled softly, resting his head against the seat. His fingers curled around the black card in his pocket.

Famous? Maybe.

But more than that—he was becoming something else entirely.

And he had no idea where it would lead.