The Useless Son-in-law Who Became A Crypto Genius

Escape in Shadows

On the evening of the dinner, Alina fussed over her reflection. Noam waited by the door, adjusting his cheap tie. She glanced at him, lips curling.

"Try not to embarrass me tonight. Just smile and keep quiet."

He dipped his head. "Of course."

Her heels clicked across the floor as she swept past, perfume trailing behind. Expensive. Floral. Suffocating. To everyone else, she was dazzling.

To him, she was death wrapped in silk.

They arrived at Bellvue—the upscale restaurant glittering with glass and polished brass. Waiters in black vests moved with precision. The air smelled of seared steak and wine, undercut by money.

Alina was in her element, greeting acquaintances with perfect poise. She whispered little barbs disguised as jokes, drawing laughter.

"Oh, he's harmless," she said sweetly when someone asked about him. "Like a stray dog I decided to keep."

Laughter rippled. Glasses clinked.

Noam smiled faintly.

'Stray dog, huh? When I'm done, you'll wish I stayed one.'

He ate quietly, observing. Same chandeliers. Same seating. Same trap tightening like a noose.

His fingers brushed the tablecloth, remembering how it'd been stained with his blood. He forced himself to breathe.

Not this time.

Not tonight.

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The chandeliers dripped light everywhere—crystals throwing golden rays across polished mahogany like some kind of overpriced light show.

Wineglasses caught the glow, laughter bounced off walls with that fake warmth rich people always had, and the air was thick with garlic butter, roasted duck, and cigar smoke drifting in from the lounge.

Every detail was exactly the same as before.

Same scent. Same voices. Same polished perfection—right before the night had ended in screams and blood.

Noam slouched in his chair, tie loosened, jacket unbuttoned. Black hair falling over his eyes, making him look like he'd had one too many drinks. Like he was barely awake, barely aware of the grand event happening around him.

That was the mask.

Behind it? His thoughts spun sharp as knives.

'Doors slam open. Three men, black masks, weapons. Everyone screaming. Me—dragged center stage like some sacrificial lamb. And my wife... crying those perfect crocodile tears while her plan ripped my life apart.'

He glanced across the table.

Alina looked stunning. Always did. Lavender silk that shimmered when light hit it just right. Emerald necklace sparkling against her collarbone. She leaned toward her cousin Mark, whispering something that made him chuckle, then turned to smile sweetly at the other guests. Perfect mask. Flawless performance.

Noam's lips twitched.

'Keep smiling, darling. This time you won't get your ending.'

Minutes dragged. Each tick of the clock pressed harder against his ribs. His breathing stayed steady, but every muscle coiled tight, waiting.

And then—

The heavy oak doors slammed open.

Music stopped with a jarring click.

Three men stormed in. Masks. The tall one had a pistol that gleamed under chandelier light. The other two held long knives, blades catching silver as they moved.

"Nobody move!" the leader barked, voice cutting through the room like broken glass. "Hands on the table! You hear me? Hands on the damn table!"

Chaos.

Instant, absolute chaos.

Screams erupted. Plates crashed. A tray fell, scattering glasses in glittering shards across tile. Waiters froze, hands shaking, while diners scrambled back into seats, pressing trembling fingers against polished wood.

"On your knees!" one of the knife guys shouted, waving the blade. "Nobody tries to be a hero, or you die!"

The chandeliers trembled slightly from the door slam.

And right in the center—Noam.

He leaned back a bit, eyelids drooping, playing confused drunk. Like danger was too abstract to comprehend through the alcohol haze.

Inside though? His blood burned hot.

He'd lived this already. Knew every beat.

'Leader goes left. His men spread out. And then... one comes for me.'

Right on cue, a masked thug strode forward, boots pounding wood. His gloved hand grabbed Noam's collar, yanking him up violently. Noam's head snapped back, body dragged upright.

"Please!" Alina's voice cut through the room, dripping desperation. "Don't hurt him! Take the money, just don't—please, not my husband!"

Her chair screeched as she reached for him. Tears glistened in her eyes, looking so real they could've won awards.

Noam might've believed them—if he hadn't already died knowing the truth.

The thug slammed him across the table. Glasses toppled. Wine spilled in dark arcs, staining cloth crimson.

"This one," the thug growled, pressing the knife to Noam's chest, "is the example."

Gasps filled the room. Someone prayed under their breath. A woman choked on a sob.

"No!" Alina cried again, lunging forward until Cassandra and Douglas pulled her back, fear twisting their faces into perfect panic masks.

The blade gleamed.

'And this is where it ended last time.'

Noam's jaw tightened. Fingers twitched.

The thug pressed harder—

Noam exploded.

His hand shot up, grabbed the thug's wrist. Twisted. Hard. The knife jerked away from his chest.

More gasps.

The thug snarled, but Noam drove his knee up, slamming it into the guy's gut. Air whooshed out.

"Shit!" another thug barked, rushing forward.

Noam didn't wait. Elbow to the masked face. The first thug tore free, stumbling. The knife clattered to the floor, gleaming against spilled wine.

Guests screamed louder. Chairs scraped as people ducked.

"Get him!" the leader roared, raising his gun.

But Noam was already moving.

He barreled toward the side door near the kitchen, shoving past terrified guests. Plates shattered. A waiter stumbled out of the way.

His lungs burned. Muscles screamed.

'Back exit. Through the kitchen. Don't look back.'

He slammed through the swinging doors into heat and chaos. Garlic and roasted meat hit him like a wall. Cooks froze, eyes wide, as he darted past.

Behind him—heavy boots.

"Stop him!"

Noam shoved a rack of pans. They crashed to the floor, noise masking his escape. He burst through the back exit into cold night air, lungs gulping oxygen like it was on fire.

The alley stretched ahead, narrow and shadowed.

The black family car sat at the curb. Same one from before.

'Perfect.'

He sprinted, yanked the door open. Keys inside—just like he remembered. His fingers trembled as he turned the ignition.

Engine roared to life. Headlights carved through dark.

Behind him, thugs spilled into the alley.

"There! Get him!"

Noam's jaw clenched. Foot slammed the accelerator. The car lurched forward, tires screeching as it shot down the narrow lane.

Rearview mirror—headlights flared. The thugs had another car. Already chasing.

'So they planned that far, huh? Good. I planned further.'

The road curved toward cliffside. Waves roared below, silver under moonlight. His grip tightened on the wheel.

The great oak tree loomed ahead, branches stretching like dark claws.

He floored it.

The car screamed toward the tree, speed climbing to something unbearable. The thugs gave chase, headlights bouncing wildly.

At the last second, Noam flung the driver's door open and hurled himself into night.

His body slammed into wet grass. Pain shot up his ribs. He rolled, tumbled, slid toward the cliff's edge.

And then—he leapt.

Cold, merciless water swallowed him whole.

Above, the car smashed into the oak.

Explosion.

Fire bloomed—roaring flower of heat and flame. The blast echoed across cliffs, sparks raining down into the sea. The thugs' car screeched to a halt, headlights catching only fire and smoke.

To the world, Noam Ash was gone.

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By dawn, the news spread like wildfire.

"Tragedy at Bellvue," anchors announced on glossy screens. "Robbery gone wrong leaves casualties. Among them—Noam Ash, son-in-law of the prestigious Carver family."

Images of twisted wreckage filled every broadcast. Blackened car, metal twisted beyond recognition. Paramedics wheeling away charred remains. Reporters whispered about how tragic, how sudden.

"Useless son-in-law dead in fiery accident."

The Carvers played their roles perfectly.

Cassandra sobbed for cameras, tissues clutched in manicured hands. Douglas spoke of tragedy with grave head shakes. Mark sighed heavily, lips pressed into a performance of sorrow.

And Alina—God, Alina.

She wept openly. Voice cracking as she recounted the horror of watching her beloved husband die. She trembled, clutched tissues, pressed fingers against reddened eyes.

Sympathy poured in. Neighbors praised her composure, her bravery.

Behind closed doors though?

Champagne corks popped.

Cassandra raised her glass. "Finally free of that leech!"

Mark smirked. "Good riddance."

Douglas muttered, "Dead weight, at last."

And Alina? She smiled faintly when no one was watching. Lips curving with satisfaction.

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But far away, in a cramped motel room, Noam smiled too.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of an old laptop. Fan whining. Screen flickering. Noam sat hunched, chest bandaged, hoodie pulled low over his face.

In the cracked mirror propped against the wall, a pale man stared back—worn, exhausted, but alive.

His green eyes burned.

Bytegold's numbers scrolled across the screen. Charts climbing steadily. He moved coins into secret wallets. Clicks precise. Steady. Every transfer another brick in the fortress he was building.

The world thought him dead.

Perfect.

He leaned back, lips curling into something sharp.

'Noam Ash is gone. From today... I'm someone else.'

His gaze lingered on the mirror. On the man reborn from fire and ocean.

"Neo Ames," he whispered.

And with that name, a new life began.