The Billionaire Mirage

Chapter 1: The Golden Handshake

Chapter 1: The Golden Handshake

The morning air in the cramped apartment smelled of stale instant noodles and damp laundry. Fajar’s phone vibrated against his pillow with a sharp, insistent chime that cut through the silence like a jagged blade.

Notification: [PRESTIGE ILLUSION CORE ACTIVATED. MISSION 01: ESTABLISH PRESENCE. REWARD: INITIAL ASSET UPGRADE. ACCEPT?]

Fajar tapped the screen with a trembling thumb. "What the hell is this? Some kind of phishing scam?"

A cold, synthetic voice echoed directly inside his skull. “Compliance is mandatory, Fajar. You have three minutes to exit your unit and enter the lobby.”

"Who said that? Is someone in here?" Fajar scrambled off his mattress, checking the locked door.

“Tick-tock. The transformation is already underway.”

The room suddenly shimmered, the peeling wallpaper turning into rich velvet panels, and his pile of laundry dissolving into a minimalist, high-end interior.

"No way. Am I dreaming? Did I inhale something bad?"

A loud knock hit his door. It was Mrs. Hart, the building manager. She sounded agitated.

"Fajar! Open up! I know you’re in there. Rent’s three days overdue, and the neighbors are complaining about the noise!"

"Coming! Just—hold on a second, Mrs. Hart!" Fajar looked down. His threadbare hoodie had been replaced by a tailored, charcoal-grey suit that felt like silk against his skin. "What the—this isn't mine."

“Step outside. Now.”

Fajar cracked the door open. Mrs. Hart stood there, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of the renovated apartment, then shifted to Fajar’s pristine, expensive-looking suit.

"Good grief, Fajar? Did you rob a museum? Or a store?"

"I... it’s not what it looks like, Mrs. Hart. I can explain."

"Explain? You’re wearing a suit that costs more than my annual salary! You haven't paid your rent in a month, and now you’re playing dress-up?"

"It’s just... a new job. A uniform."

"A uniform? Who hires a guy living in a shoebox to wear a thousand-dollar suit? You look like you’re trying to scam somebody."

"I’m not, I swear. Look, I’ll have the rent money by noon. Just give me a second."

"Noon? You better have it, or you’re out on the street. I don't care how fancy your clothes are."

Fajar squeezed past her, his heart hammering against his ribs. He made a beeline for the lobby, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the floor. As he entered the brightly lit foyer, a group of socialites—people who definitely didn't belong in a run-down apartment building—were standing by the concierge desk.

One of the men, a guy in a velvet blazer, glanced over at him. "Nice fit, buddy. Tailored, right?"

Fajar froze, pulling his sleeve down. A Patek Philippe watch, shimmering with diamonds, caught the lobby light.

"Oh, uh, thanks. It’s just... something I picked up."

"Picked up? At a boutique in Milan? That looks like the limited edition ‘Midnight Sun.’ I didn't think those were even on the market yet," the woman next to him said, squinting.

"I have my connections," Fajar blurted out, sweating.

"Connections?" The man laughed, turning his back. "If you have the money for that watch, why are you living in a dive like this?"

"I'm... waiting for my renovation to finish," Fajar stammered, feeling the weight of their judgment.

"Renovation? This building is a condemned fire hazard," the woman scoffed.

“Mission Progress: 50%. Use your status. Do not let them belittle you,” the System hissed in his mind.

Fajar took a deep breath, clutching his briefcase—which he hadn't realized he was holding until that moment. "Actually, I’m looking at buying the building. Turning it into a private residence."

The group went silent. The man in the velvet blazer tilted his head, his smirk replaced by a look of confusion. "Buying this heap? You’re joking."

"Do I look like I’m joking?" Fajar snapped, pointing to the watch. "If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the developers."

He turned on his heel and strode toward the elevator, his pulse racing. He couldn't believe he’d said that. If they checked, he was dead.

"Wait! Sir? Which group are you with?" the man called out, but Fajar didn't look back.

He jammed the ‘Lobby’ button, the elevator doors sliding shut just as the socialites started to move toward him. The small metal box hummed as it began to ascend.

"System, what the hell was that? I’m going to get caught! They’re going to find out I’m a total fraud!"

“You played the part well, Fajar. Confidence is the currency of the elite.”

Fajar let out a shaky breath, leaning his head against the cold steel wall of the elevator. His hands were still trembling, but the diamond watch on his wrist felt heavy and solid.

"Okay. Okay. I just need to get out of here before anyone asks more questions. Once I'm on the street, I’ll find a way to make this real."

He stepped toward the mirror to check his appearance, his hands smoothing down his lapels. As he caught his reflection, the light in the elevator flickered once, twice.

Fajar blinked. The expensive charcoal suit started to fade, the fabric turning back into the frayed, stained hoodie he’d woken up in.

He stared at his reflection, paralyzed. The Patek Philippe watch dissolved into a cheap, plastic digital band.

"No, no, no! System! What's happening?"

“The illusion is tied to your presence in high-stakes environments, Fajar. You are currently alone.”

Fajar scrambled for the door, hitting the ‘Open’ button frantically. The elevator dinged and slid open to reveal the lobby, but the socialites were gone. He was alone in the empty, silent hall.

He looked down at his clothes—the ragged hoodie and stained jeans were back. He felt the weight of his own failure pressing down on him.

"Wait," he whispered, his blood running cold. "If I go back out there now, everyone will see who I really am."

He turned to run back inside, but a pair of polished, expensive shoes stepped into his path.

"You," a cold, familiar voice said. "You’re the one who said he was buying the building, aren't you?"

Fajar looked up. Mrs. Hart was standing there, but she wasn't alone. She was flanked by two men in dark suits, their expressions unreadable and dangerous.

"I—I can explain," Fajar stammered, backing into the corner of the elevator.

"Explain?" Mrs. Hart stepped forward, her eyes scanning his pathetic hoodie with a sneer. "These gentlemen are the property investors you claimed to be meeting. And they’d love to have a word with the man who thinks he’s a billionaire."