The Castaway Supreme

Chapter 10: The Scraps of Pride

The white piece of paper fluttered slightly against Christian’s chest before falling down. Christian caught it with two fingers before it could touch the muddy porch floor. He held the one million dollar check up to the light, looking at Julian’s messy signature with a calm, amused expression.

Julian let out a loud, proud laugh, crossing his arms over his white designer suit. He thought he had won. He thought every poor person had a price, and one million dollars was enough to make any slum beggar jump through hoops like a circus animal.

See that, beggar. Julian sneered, tapping his shiny leather shoes against the bottom step. That is the power of the Vance family name. Now, take that money, pack your rags, and run away before I change my mind. If you stay here for another minute, I will take that check back and let my men use your head as a football.

Clara ran forward, her face full of deep worry. She grabbed Christian’s arm tightly. Marcus, do not listen to him. Do not take his dirty money. We can find another way to handle this.

Christian looked down at Clara. He gave her a small, reassuring smile that instantly made her heart feel warm and safe. Do not worry, Clara, Christian said, his deep voice smooth and steady. This little piece of paper cannot buy anything important.

Christian turned back to Julian. His eyes grew incredibly cold, and his posture became as straight as a steel pillar. 

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the heavy gold pen that he had snatched from Julian’s suit pocket with lightning speed when the young master slapped the check against his chest. Julian did not even notice his pen was missing until that exact moment.

Hey, that is my pen, Julian shouted, his face turning red with sudden annoyance.

Christian ignored his shout. He laid the check flat against the wooden railing of the porch. With a few quick, bold strokes, he wrote a new number right over Julian’s one million dollar figure. He did not write millions. He wrote a staggering figure of ten billion dollars, a number so huge that it could buy the entire city, including all the lands owned by the Vance family.

He signed it with a sharp, elegant cursive mark, the secret personal signature of the true head of the Sterling Financial Empire.

What are you doing, you crazy bum. Julian laughed, though he felt a sudden, strange chill down his spine when he saw the absolute confidence in Christian’s movements. Are you writing fairy tale numbers on my check. You really are out of your mind.

Christian picked up the check from the wooden railing. He looked Julian dead in the eyes. Your wealth is nothing but a joke to me, Julian. You think you are a king because you have a few millions. In my eyes, you are just a small ant playing in the dirt.

With a sudden, violent motion, Christian gripped the paper check with both hands.

Rip. Rip. Rip.

He tore the one million dollar check into dozens of tiny, white scraps within a split second. The paper pieces looked like a small cloud of winter snow. Before Julian could even process what was happening, Christian threw his hand forward, slamming the handful of paper scraps directly into Julian’s arrogant face.

The wet, dirty pieces of the torn check smacked against Julian’s cheeks, his nose, and his forehead, sticking to his expensive hair gel and getting into his mouth.

Julian stumbled backward off the wooden steps, gasping and spitting out the paper scraps in total shock. His gold sunglasses flew off his face, landing right in a puddle of muddy water. The neighborhood people watching from the windows let out a collective gasp. A kitchen beggar had just slapped a wealthy young master in the face with his own money.

You, Julian screamed, his voice reaching a high, piercing note of pure rage. He wiped the paper scraps off his sticky face, his body shaking so violently that he looked like he was having a medical fit. You dirty, worthless piece of slum trash. You dare to throw paper at me. You dare to ruin my white suit. I am going to erase you from this world.

Peter covered his mouth behind the counter, his knees turning to jelly. Marcus, you shouldn't have done that. The Vance family will destroy us all now.

Clara did not step back this time. She stood right beside Christian, her eyes wide with amazement. She had never seen anyone stand up to the rich lords with so much pride and raw power.

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black walkie talkie. He pressed the button, his face twisted into an ugly, murderous mask. He looked up at Christian with eyes full of pure, unadulterated hatred.

Get out of the car right now, Julian roared into the device. Break his arms. Break his legs. Leave him breathing, but make sure he can never stand up on his two feet for the rest of his miserable life.

The back doors of the sleek red sports car and a larger transport vehicle parked further down the street flew open instantly.

Four massive men stepped out onto the concrete. They did not look like local street thugs or cheap security guards. These were elite foreign mercenaries, hired from the dark underworld of international combat. 

They were over six and a half feet tall, with giant muscles bulging beneath their tight black tactical shirts. Their faces were completely blank, devoid of any human emotion, and their knuckles were covered in thick, hardened scars from years of professional killing.

The four giant foreign bodyguards walked forward in a perfect, terrifying line. They moved with an ominous rhythm, their heavy combat boots cracking the loose stones on the street. They did not carry weapons because their bare hands were already lethal tools. 

They surrounded the small wooden porch of the diner, locking their deadly, predatory gaze directly on Christian’s chest, ready to tear him apart like a piece of raw meat.