TRASH TO TITAN

The rain didn’t fall it stabbed. Cold, sharp, merciless. Just like today. Aiden Cross stood outside the glass tower of Huxley & Marrs Global Finance, shirt soaked, tie loosened like a noose around his neck. The echo of the security guard’s laughter still rang in his ears.

“Don’t come back, loser. You’re fired, not furloughed.” Fired. On a Wednesday. In front of the entire floor.

Not for incompetence. Not even for a mistake. Just… replaced. By the senior partner’s golf buddy’s nephew. “Nepotism,” they called it. Aiden called it betrayal.

Clutching the cardboard box of his desk belongings half-used pens, a photo of his late parents, and a cracked mug that read “World’s Most Broke Genius” he took slow steps down the street, the city’s chaos blurring behind streaks of water and heartbreak.

He checked his phone. 5%. No calls. No texts. No one. Except a single message, sent thirty minutes ago. Lena: “Don’t bother coming to dinner. I can’t be with someone who’s going nowhere.” Short. Surgical. Cruel.

They’d been together three years. Talked about marriage. Kids. A simple life, maybe. Now she was gone. Just like the job. Just like the dream. And as if the universe were mocking him, a sports car splashed a wave of gutter water onto his shoes as it tore past. Black, polished, a status symbol on wheels. He caught a glimpse of the driver.

Lena Laughing. Her perfectly styled hair in the wind. And in the passenger seat? Damien Clark Aiden’s ex-boss. He stopped walking. Stopped breathing. “Trash,” Damien had called him, just before the boardroom doors closed behind security. “Dead weight.”

Aiden clutched the soaked box tighter. His knuckles whitened. Something inside him cracked. Not the heart. That was already broken. Something deeper. The part of a man that dreams. That hopes. That forgives. Now it smoldered. Quietly.

He took a deep breath. Cold air filled his lungs. His eyes lifted to the sky. “Fine,” he whispered. “I get it.” Thirty minutes later, he sat on a park bench in Central Square, under a flickering streetlight, rain easing into drizzle. His coat steamed faintly from the heat of his body. His lips tasted like copper and regret.

People passed him like a ghost. Businessmen. Tourists. Lovers. He was invisible again. He looked at the cracked phone screen. Still no messages. Nothing left to lose, he thought. And that’s when it happened. The sudden screech of tires. Not rushed. Not wild. Controlled.

A convoy of three black SUVs rolled slowly up the side of the road sleek, silent, gleaming. Tinted windows. No license plates. They stopped directly in front of him. He froze. The driver’s door of the lead SUV opened. Out stepped a man in a tailored charcoal suit, hair slicked, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses despite the dusk. Every move he made was deliberate, composed. Dangerous.

He approached Aiden slowly. “Aiden Cross?” the man asked, voice calm, rich with an accent Aiden couldn’t place. “…Yeah?”

The man didn’t speak again. Instead, he reached inside his coat and withdrew a black velvet envelope. Wax-sealed in gold, stamped with a strange insignia: a lion’s head surrounded by a circle of stars. He held it out with both hands and bowed.

"Sir," he said. “It is time.”

Aiden blinked. “…Time for what?”

“For you to take your place.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The man’s lips barely moved. “You are the sole heir to the Vallion Consortium.”

Aiden laughed once. Bitter, sharp. “Is this a prank?”

“I do not prank, Mr. Cross. My name is Veylor. I serve the Board.”

“The Board of what?”

“The Board of Everything.”

Aiden stared. Then looked down at the envelope. It felt heavy in his hands. Alive, almost. “…This is insane.”

“Open it,” Veylor said, softly.

Aiden did. Inside was a document printed on silk-paper words etched in silver ink. A will. A signature at the bottom: Julian Vallion. A name Aiden knew. A name the world whispered like myth.

Julian Vallion The Ghost King of Capital. Worth trillions. Silent owner of governments, banks, and corporations. Dead, supposedly, for a decade. No heirs. No relatives. No legacy. Until now. Until Aiden. His heart slammed in his chest. His breath shortened. “I don’t understand. Why me?”

Veylor removed his sunglasses, revealing sharp, grey eyes like polished steel. “Because you were chosen. Because you are blood.” Aiden sat in the back of the lead SUV, staring out the window as the city faded behind them.

His box of broken belongings lay forgotten in the seat beside him. In its place sat a new folder. A keycard. A phone. A deed to a private jet hangar. Access codes. And a list of assets that made his stomach twist: Mansions in Paris, Tokyo, New York, and Dubai Stock control in ten global banks Ownership rights to three military contractors Five offshore vaults of liquid currency Twelve private islands

And one line that stood alone: “You are now Chairman of the Vallion Consortium. Estimated Net Worth: $3.1 Trillion.” Aiden stared at it, mind reeling. Everything had changed. But one question remained: Why now?

As the convoy disappeared into the private tunnel beneath the city, Veylor spoke once more. “There will be those who will not accept your rise. They will come. Some with lies. Some with blood. Be ready.”

Aiden looked up. “For what?”

Veylor smiled faintly. “For war.” And the black SUV roared deeper into the shadows, carrying Aiden toward a world he never knew existed and a destiny no one would believe.