The Loser Who Bought The World

Chapter 3 : The Boy Who Wouldn’t Stay Down

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“Isn’t that the delivery guy?”

The voice cut through the polished hum of the Oakridge Country Club’s grand ballroom like a rusty knife. Heads turned. Champagne paused mid-sip. A hundred wealthy eyes settled on Ethan Cross as he walked in—head high, shoulders squared, exuding the calm pressure of a man who didn’t need to prove anything anymore.

Not to them.

Not anymore.

But he still remembered when they used to laugh.

Three years ago, Ethan had crashed a car outside this very building trying to deliver gourmet sushi to one of these elites—unpaid overtime, a sprained wrist, and a kicked door in return. Tonight, he wasn’t carrying orders.

He was buying the club.

---

Mason Whitaker, president of the Oakridge Executive Board and third-generation billionaire, stood near the stage with a drink in hand. His smirk twitched when he saw Ethan approaching.

“You’ve got nerve showing up here,” Mason said. “You weren’t invited.”

Ethan gave a calm smile. “Correction. I wasn’t invited last year. Tonight, I own the lease on this building.”

A beat of silence.

Mason laughed, but it sounded thin. “That’s a joke, right?”

“I don’t joke about my property portfolio,” Ethan said, pulling a signed contract from his inner pocket. “Bought it this morning. Direct from the previous owners—had to triple the offer to make it quick.”

A few guests coughed awkwardly. Others lowered their gazes.

“Impossible,” Mason muttered. “My father—”

“Your father needed liquidity,” Ethan cut in. “And I needed a reminder that even the untouchables bleed when you hit them in the right artery.”

---

He stepped toward the podium. The emcee hesitated.

Ethan leaned in. “I’d like to say a few words as the new sponsor of this evening’s charity.”

Within seconds, the microphone crackled to life.

Ethan faced the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen. I’m humbled to stand here tonight… not as a guest, but as proof that no throne is safe from the man you once mocked.”

A few people chuckled nervously.

“I used to be your waiter. Your delivery guy. Your pity case. Now I own the floors you stand on, the roads you drive on, and by Monday—your lawyer’s firm.”

Mason flinched.

Ethan’s eyes locked onto his.

“Here’s to the forgotten. The underestimated. The ones who never stayed down.”

He raised his glass.

“To the losers… who bought the world.”

---

Back at his penthouse, Ethan stared out over the glittering skyline, glass of scotch untouched in his hand. Victory tasted sweet—but it was never enough. Power was like fire; if you didn’t feed it, it consumed you.

And someone out there was fanning the flames.

He pulled open the drawer in his study and took out the black card. Still smooth, still warm to the touch, still pulsing with secrets.

His phone buzzed again.

> FROM: FOX

“Midnight. Parking garage Level 6, Solace Tower. Come alone. You’re not the only one with questions.”

---

Midnight, Solace Tower.

The garage echoed with silence, lights flickering above as if even electricity feared what lurked there. Ethan’s shoes clicked against concrete as he stepped into the center of Level 6.

A shadow emerged from the far corner.

It wasn’t The Fox.

It was a woman.

Black combat boots. Leather jacket. Hair tied back tight. Eyes sharper than knives.

“You’re earlier than expected,” she said.

“You’re not who I expected,” Ethan replied coolly.

She stepped forward and held out a sealed envelope.

“Call me Wren. I work for someone who’s been watching you. Closely.”

He took the envelope. “What’s in it?”

“A file. Your father’s real life. Not the one you think you knew.”

Ethan’s pulse quickened.

“He was one of the original Nine,” she continued. “Founders of the Ouroboros Network. The same people who are trying to kill you now.”

---

Ethan opened the envelope right there under the buzzing light.

Inside were photos—his father, young and fierce, standing among a group of suited men and women. Each face marked with symbols. A council of power brokers who pulled strings governments didn’t know existed.

One image showed his father’s body. Charred. Twisted.

“Car accident,” Ethan whispered.

“No,” Wren said. “Sabotage. He tried to leave the game. Tried to take the secrets with him.”

Ethan’s hands clenched around the photos.

Wren continued, “You were supposed to inherit nothing. They erased his legacy. Burned the records. But the system... it found you anyway. It always finds the heir.”

He looked up slowly. “Then why me?”

“Because unlike your father, you were broken first. And they fear people who rise after falling.”

---

“Why tell me all this?” Ethan asked.

“Because a war is coming,” Wren said. “And your name’s already written on the first bullet.”

A car screeched above. Lights blazed.

Wren shoved Ethan to the ground as a sniper round shattered the concrete beside them.

“Go!” she hissed.

Ethan bolted behind a pillar. Three black-clad figures descended from the stairwell above—guns drawn, moving like professionals.

Whoever they were, they hadn’t come to talk.

They came to erase.

Ethan reached for the only thing he had: a switchblade in his boot.

He was done being hunted.

---

The fight was brutal. One attacker lunged. Ethan sidestepped, slashing across the man’s thigh. The second raised a gun, but Wren knocked it aside and sent him tumbling over the stair rail.

The last one turned to flee—but Ethan grabbed his collar, yanked him back, and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with every ounce of rage he’d been storing since the day Clarissa threw him away.

The man crumpled.

Blood dripped from Ethan’s lip. His hands shook. But he was alive.

Barely.

Wren pulled him toward the car. “We need to move. They won’t be the last.”

As they sped into the night, Ethan looked back at the garage.

Someone had tried to wipe him out.

That meant he was getting too close to something.

And he wasn’t stopping now.

---

The next morning, Ethan stood in the mirror, staring at the bruises on his ribs, the gash above his eye. But he didn’t see weakness.

He saw proof.

Proof that he was dangerous enough to warrant a hit.

He was done being the pawn.

Now he wanted the throne.

---

His phone buzzed.

> FROM: UNKNOWN

“You’ve survived your first move. But the board is far from finished.”

Below the message was a new address.

A building long thought abandoned.

A place called: The Vault.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed.

Game on.