The Heir’s Awakening System

The Waiter’s Wager**

Montreal, 4:12 a.m. The sky is still ink, the city lights smeared across wet asphalt like wet paint. Marcus steps out of the staff entrance of Phoenix Biomedical and the cold hits like a bill collector—sharp, unapologetic, personal. The black waiter uniform is still damp from the dining-room mist, the silver thread at his collar pulsing like a heartbeat that isn’t his.

The System flickers—weak, apologetic: [DEBT CLOCK—$1,320,000.00—INTEREST ACCRUING—NO NEW HOST DETECTED].

He breathes through it, counts the seconds until the pain subsides, then counts again—because counting is free, and free is all he has left.

A black sedan idles at the curb. Not the usual SUV. Not the usual driver. This one wears a chauffeur’s cap but no gloves—hands on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes straight ahead. The rear window slides down.

Margaret Whitmore again, but this time in jeans and a ball cap—like she’s trying to be invisible. She doesn’t greet him. She hands over a plain white envelope.

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