The New Tycoon Conquers Every Business

Chapter 5: The unseen enemy

Marcus didn't sleep. He sat on the couch-bed in their apartment, watching his mother's door and his phone in alternating intervals. The photo haunted him—someone had been outside their building, watching, taking pictures. Sending messages.

Who? And why?

At 3:47 AM, his father came home from his overnight shift, smelling like industrial cleaner and exhaustion. He stopped short when he saw Marcus awake.

"You sick?"

"Couldn't sleep."

Raymond moved to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinet for the coffee that was more grounds than beans. "Something on your mind?"

Everything. "Just thinking about the future."

His father snorted softly. "The future. That's a luxury, son. Most of us are too busy surviving today to worry about tomorrow."

"What if we didn't have to just survive?"

Raymond turned, his eyes sharp despite the hour. "What's really going on with you? The new clothes, the money for your mother's medicine, this talk about the future. You dealing drugs now?"

"Jesus, Dad, no."

"Then what? Because money doesn't just appear. Not for people like us."

"What if it could? What if I told you I found a way to make real money, legal money, but you'd have to trust me without knowing all the details?"

His father was quiet for a long moment, studying Marcus's face in the dim light. "I'd say every man who ever lost everything said the same thing to his family first. 'Trust me. I've got it figured out.'" He poured his coffee. "But I'd also say you're my son, and I've watched you work yourself half to death for this family. So if you're telling me you found something good, something legal, I'll trust you. For now."

"That's all I'm asking."

"But Marcus?" Raymond's voice was steel wrapped in weariness. "If this goes sideways, if you bring trouble to this house or put your mother and sister in danger, we're done. You understand me?"

Marcus nodded, his throat tight. "I understand."

After his father went to bed, Marcus finally opened the business knowledge the system had downloaded into his brain. It was like accessing a file directory. information organized and searchable. Real estate investment, asset acquisition, market analysis. The system hadn't just given him money; it was teaching him to think like someone who belonged in the world he was entering.

His phone buzzed. The rebate had landed: $2,300, right on schedule. Current balance: $4,520.47.

But the mission timer was counting down: 6 days, 19 hours to acquire something Derek valued.

Marcus pulled up searches for used Porsche 911s in Chicago. The prices made his stomach drop: $65,000 to $120,000 depending on year and condition. Derek's was a 2020 model, which meant close to the higher end.

How the hell was he supposed to get six figures in six days?

The system interface flickered to life, as if sensing his frustration:

[SPENDING: $4,520.47 = REBATE: $9,040.94]

[SPENDING: $9,040.94 = REBATE: $18,081.88]

[SPENDING: $18,081.88 = REBATE: $36,163.76]

[SPENDING: $36,163.76 = REBATE: $72,327.52]

[4 CYCLES = $72,327.52]

[TIME TO MISSION CAPITAL: 4 DAYS]

[RECOMMENDATION: SPEND MORE]

Four days of maximum spending cycles would get him most of the way there. But what could he possibly spend money on that quickly? The system's daily limit had proven flexible, but there were only so many suits and bottles of champagne a person could buy before it became obvious and wasteful.

Unless.

Marcus pulled up the contact information Keisha had mentioned yesterday. Morrison's Soul Food. They needed $20,000 to survive.

What if he didn't just give them money? What if he invested it properly, became a partner, turned a struggling restaurant into something profitable? The system had given him business knowledge. maybe it was time to use it.

He sent a text to Keisha: Is your dad free this morning? I want to talk about the restaurant.

The response came surprisingly fast for 4 AM: Are you serious?

Dead serious. 9 AM?

I'll tell him. Marcus, please don't make promises you can't keep.

I never do.

---

Morrison's Soul Food occupied a corner lot in a building that had seen better decades. The yellow paint was peeling, the sign was missing letters (M RRIS N'S S UL F D), and through the windows Marcus could see mismatched chairs and tables that wobbled. But the smell—God, the smell of frying chicken and fresh cornbread—was heaven.

Robert Morrison was a big man gone soft around the edges, his chef's apron stained with decades of work. He looked at Marcus with the same skepticism everyone else did: another kid from the neighborhood, probably here to waste his time.

"Keisha says you want to talk business." Robert's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "What kind of business does a delivery boy have with me?"

"I'm not a delivery boy anymore, Mr. Morrison." Marcus sat at one of the wobbly tables. "I'm an investor. And I think your restaurant has serious potential."

Robert laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. "Potential. Right. Son, I've been running this place for twenty-three years. I know what it's worth. And right now, that's about negative fifteen thousand dollars."

"Twenty thousand, actually. That's what Keisha said you need to catch up on rent and repairs."

The laughter died. "What's your angle, kid? You trying to buy me out? Turn this into another Gen Z hipster coffee shop?"

"No angle. I want to invest twenty-five thousand dollars for a forty percent stake in the business. You keep majority control, you keep running it how you want. But I get a say in marketing, renovations, and expansion strategy."

Robert stared at him. "You're serious."

"Completely."

"And you have twenty-five thousand dollars."

"Soon"

Marcus pulled out his phone, showed his bank balance.

Robert's eyebrows rose. Then furrowed. "Where'd you get that kind of money?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it does. Because if you got it illegally, I don't want it near my business."

"It's legal. I promise. I just... got very lucky with an investment."

"Uh-huh." Robert crossed his arms. "And why my restaurant? There's hundreds of businesses in Chicago you could throw money at. Why here?"

Marcus met his eyes. "Because this place matters. Because Keisha matters. Because I'm tired of watching good things die just because nobody with money gives a damn." He leaned forward. "And because I know what it's like to work yourself to death and still lose. I don't want that for you."

Something shifted in Robert's expression. "You got paperwork? A contract?"

"I'll have my lawyer draw one up."

"Your lawyer." Robert shook his head, disbelief warring with hope. "Marcus Sylvester has a lawyer now. World's gone crazy."

"Is that a yes?"

Robert was quiet for a long moment. Then he extended his hand. "It's a 'we'll see.' Get me that contract, legal and proper. We'll talk."

They shook. Marcus's system chimed:

[INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY ACCEPTED]

[PENDING COMPLETION: CONTRACT REQUIRED]

[SKILL UNLOCK AVAILABLE: NEGOTIATION (ADVANCED)]

[ACCEPT SKILL?]

Marcus mentally clicked yes. Information flooded in—reading body language, understanding leverage, recognizing when to push and when to yield. It was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.

He left Morrison's with a verbal agreement and a phone number for a contract lawyer the system had helpfully provided. His balance would take a significant hit, but the investment was solid. And more importantly, it was right.

Marcus was three blocks away when the black SUV pulled up beside him.

The window rolled down. A man in his fifties, silver hair, expensive suit, looked out with eyes like ice chips. "Marcus Sylvester. Get in the car."

"I don't think so."

"It wasn't a request." The back door opened, revealing another man—younger, built like a linebacker, with the kind of stillness that suggested professional violence.

Marcus's heart hammered. "Who are you?"

"Someone who's been watching your recent... financial activities. We need to have a conversation about where your money's coming from." The man smiled without warmth. "You can get in the car, or we can have this conversation somewhere much less pleasant. Your choice."

The system interface flashed red:

[THREAT DETECTED]

[DANGER LEVEL: EXTREME]

[RECOMMENDED ACTION: COMPLY TEMPORARILY]

[WEAPONS DETECTED: 2]

[SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 23%]

Twenty-three percent if he ran. Marcus looked at the man's face, at the enforcer in the back seat, at the empty street around them. Nobody was coming to help. Nobody even knew he was in danger.

He got in the car