The Billionaire Mirage

Chapter 2: Eyes on the Prize

Chapter 2: Eyes on the Prize

"A word, Mr. Billionaire?"

Mrs. Hart leaned in, the fluorescent lobby light casting harsh, predatory shadows across her face. The two men behind her stood like granite statues, their eyes fixed on Fajar’s stained hoodie.

"I can explain," Fajar stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "There’s a—a simple misunderstanding regarding the corporate structure."

“System! Alert! Status! I need the suit! Now!”

“Energy levels insufficient,” the cold, synthetic voice pulsed in his mind. “The environment lacks the necessary social pressure to sustain the manifestation. Initiate interaction immediately.”

"Corporate structure?" one of the suits scoffed, his voice smooth and dangerous. "In that dumpster fire of a building? You’ve got nerve, kid. We’re the developers. Why don't you tell us what exactly your 'vision' for this property is?"

Fajar felt his palms sweating. He looked at the elevator doors, then back at the looming men. "Look, I’m in the middle of a high-level briefing. If you’ll excuse me, I have investors waiting."

"Investors?" The man laughed, stepping closer. "Let’s see them."

Suddenly, the lobby shimmered. The floorboards beneath Fajar’s feet morphed into polished marble. The stench of stale noodles evaporated, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and expensive cologne. The two suits blinked, their expressions shifting from irritation to sudden, jarring confusion.

"My apologies, gentlemen," Fajar heard his own voice—deeper, resonant, and dripping with authority—echo through the lobby. He looked down. His hoodie was gone. A charcoal-grey, three-piece suit hugged his frame.

The developers stepped back, genuinely unsettled. "Who… who are you with again?"

"I’m with the firm that’s going to make you look like amateurs," Fajar replied, his legs moving with a confidence he didn't feel. He marched past them, his leather shoes echoing like gunshots on the marble.

"Wait, the board meeting is starting on the fourteenth floor!" the man called out, stumbling over his own confusion. "We were told the lead consultant was already upstairs!"

“Mission updated: Command the meeting. Do not let your gaze waver,” the System commanded.

Fajar didn't look back. He sprinted into the elevator, his pulse a frantic rhythm. He hit the button for fourteen.

“Fourteen seconds until the illusion destabilizes if you lose focus, Fajar. Keep the image of success cemented in your mind.”

"How am I supposed to 'command' a room when I don't even know what industry I'm in?" Fajar hissed at the ceiling.

“You aren't there to know. You are there to lead.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to reveal a glass-walled conference room. A dozen people in crisp office attire sat around a long oak table. They turned in unison, eyes narrowing as Fajar entered.

"You're late," a woman at the head of the table said. Her nameplate read Nadia. She watched him with sharp, predatory curiosity.

Fajar strode to the head of the table, his knees knocking beneath the polished veneer of his tailored trousers. "Apologies. Dealing with small-time skeptics in the lobby. Let’s begin."

He pulled out a chair, the leather creaking ominously.

"The Q3 projections, then?" a man to his right asked, sliding a thick folder toward Fajar. "We need to know if the merger is still on the table after the debacle in the logistics sector."

Fajar opened the folder, his eyes darting across charts he couldn't begin to decipher. "Logistics is... stagnant. We pivot. We always pivot."

"Pivot to what?" Nadia asked, leaning forward, her gaze piercing. "The board is losing patience with these vague mandates, Fajar."

"We pivot to the core value," Fajar said, his voice rising. He stood up, pacing the length of the room. "Efficiency. Scalability. If we can't see the profit, we create it."

"With what capital?" the man pressed.

"Capital is a social construct," Fajar blurted out.

The room went deathly silent. A few people exchanged skeptical glances. Nadia stood up, walking toward the large whiteboard at the far end of the room. "If that’s your strategy, then write the breakdown, Fajar. Show us the math."

“Warning: External attention shifting. Illusion stability dropping to 30%,” the System hissed.

Everyone turned their backs to him, waiting for him to approach the board. Fajar felt the fabric of his sleeve beginning to itch—the telltale sign of the wool dissolving into threadbare cotton.

"I... I prefer to delegate the visualization," Fajar said, his voice straining.

"You're the Lead Consultant," Nadia said, not turning around. "Write it down. Or are you just guessing?"

“20% stability. The suit is fading, Fajar. Act.”

Panic surged. He could feel his digital watch biting into his wrist, the Patek Philippe vanishing into thin air. If he lost this suit now, he’d be standing there in a filthy, stained hoodie in front of the board of directors.

"I said, write the breakdown, Fajar," Nadia repeated, her pen tapping the board.

Fajar looked around, desperate. He needed to break their focus. He needed chaos.

His eyes landed on a heavy crystal water carafe sitting on the side table. Without thinking, he lunged for it.

CRASH!

The carafe shattered against the floor, sending water and shards of glass skittering across the room. Every head whipped around, eyes wide in shock.

"What on earth?" the man to his right gasped.

Fajar scrambled, diving beneath the long oak table, feigning a sudden, intense inspection of the power cables.

"Just a minor structural interference!" Fajar shouted from under the table, his voice muffled. "I need a moment to assess the, uh, data integrity!"

"Fajar? Why are you under the table?" Nadia’s voice was directly above him.

He froze. Through the small gap between the table leg and the floor, he could see her expensive heels, polished to a mirror finish.

"Is the data under there, Fajar?" she asked, her tone dripping with thinly veiled amusement. "Or are you just hiding from the fact that you have absolutely no idea what you're doing?"

Fajar curled into a ball, his fingers clawing at the cheap, fraying lining of his hoodie—it was back. He was exposed, and he was cornered.

Nadia knelt, her face coming into view beneath the table. She didn't look angry. She looked intrigued, her eyes scanning his desperate, trembling face.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," she whispered, reaching out a hand. "Tell me, Fajar—what exactly are you playing at?"