The fortune's deadline

chapter 7: the million gambit

The morning after the storm, the city smelled of wet dust and diesel. Jason crossed the empty street with a cheap umbrella and the weight of the holographic cross pressing against his chest. The screen had flashed its cruel reminder at dawn:

> TASK: Amass and spend $500 000 in meaningful aid within five days.

REWARD: +15 days of life.

PENALTY: Emotional erosion — Stage 2.

Five days. A number so small it felt like an insult.

He rented a desk in a shared workspace that still hummed from the previous night’s power cut. The ceiling dripped. His laptop fan wheezed. He named his page The Orphan Horizon Project—one sentence of code, a blank donate button, and a mission that sounded impossible.

By noon he had called everyone he’d ever met—former co-workers, small charities, classmates who barely remembered him. Most answered with sympathy, none with help.

Then a stranger’s voice came from behind him, low and confident.

“Maybe what you need is presentation.”

Jason looked up. A man stood there holding two cups of coffee, one stretched toward him.

“Name’s Malik,” he said with a bright, easy smile. “Saw your post about the orphan project. You’re fighting a losing war. I like that.”

Jason hesitated, then accepted the coffee. “I’m fighting for kids who don’t get tomorrow.”

“Then let’s buy them one,” Malik said. “I’ve done marketing for social startups. Let me help.”

Jason studied him—neat beard, calm eyes, not rich but tidy. Something about his tone sounded practiced, but the warmth in his words made it hard to doubt him.

“Alright,” Jason said. “We’ll try.”

---

They worked late into the night. Malik handled emails and donors, Jason organized requests and receipts. By midnight, the dashboard blinked—$2 150 raised. Tiny, yet it felt like hope’s first spark.

“See?” Malik grinned. “People care. They just need someone who knows how to talk to them.”

Jason smiled back, the first real smile in days. “Then we talk louder.”

---

Day 2

The fund exploded. Malik’s pitches were magic. Local bloggers shared Jason’s orphan story, describing him as the boy who sells time for hope. Small donations poured in—$5, $10, sometimes $100.

By evening, the total climbed past $80 000. Jason barely slept. Every sound outside the workspace felt like a countdown.

But the screen on the cross pulsed quietly:

> Meaningful aid must equal meaningful intent.

Jason didn’t fully understand, only that it wanted him to spend as honestly as he earned. He sent money to verified orphan shelters, paid overdue hospital bills, and delivered food vouchers to street kids he knew by name.

At dawn, the total reset: $52 000 remaining usable balance.

Half gone.

He whispered, “So it only counts what’s real.”

Malik clapped his shoulder. “Still, that’s impact. You’re doing what governments don’t.”

Jason nodded, but his chest felt tight. Stage 2 emotional erosion. He didn’t feel tired, or sad, or happy—just muted, like the world’s volume was dropping.

---

Day 3

The local news caught his story. A morning host interviewed Jason via video call: “A 22-year-old orphan fighting to save others. What drives you?”

He almost said fear, but he smiled instead. “Because no one should die feeling forgotten.”

Malik stood off-camera, cue cards in hand. “Perfect,” he mouthed.

By sunset, donations passed $310 000.

Jason stared at the numbers until his eyes blurred.

Then his phone buzzed—a private number.

Victor’s voice slid through the speaker.

“You’re making noise, boy. Be careful who handles your money. Fame burns faster than pity.”

Jason’s throat went dry. “You think I’m scared?”

“I think you’re predictable,” Victor said. “And predictability is easy to buy.”

The call ended.

Jason turned slowly to Malik, who was busy drafting the next campaign. For a second, he thought of Victor’s words. Be careful who handles your money. But Malik noticed his stare and laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Jason said. “Just tired.”

---

Day 4

The fourth day was chaos. A promised sponsorship from a big company vanished overnight—contract withdrawn without reason. Rumors spread online that Jason’s fund was a scam.

He scrolled through comments, each one a blade: “Fake orphan!” “Another pity thief!”

Malik slammed his laptop shut. “Ignore them. I’ll handle it.”

Jason grabbed his wrist. “How?”

“Connections. I’ll reach out to the same bloggers. They owe me.”

He rushed out. Jason watched him leave, unease crawling under his skin.

He checked the cross.

> Time: 41 hours left.

Valid funds: $390 000.

They were so close.

That night Jason visited the shelter he’d grown up in, its cracked walls shining with cheap paint. The kids ran to him screaming his name. He told stories until dawn, and for the first time since the diagnosis, he felt alive.

When he returned, Malik was waiting by the door, dark circles under his eyes.

“Had to clean up some mess,” he said. “Someone tried to freeze our account. It’s fine now.”

Jason exhaled. “You’re a miracle worker.”

Malik smiled faintly. “Maybe just a lucky one.”

---

Day 5 – The Deadline

The final sunrise was red as spilled ink. Jason hadn’t slept in forty hours. The cross ticked like a heartbeat.

> 14 hours remaining.

Fund balance: $470 000.

He needed thirty thousand more.

Malik suggested a livestream—Jason speaking directly to donors. They set it up in the old workspace, wires snaking across the floor, one dying camera taped together.

Jason looked into the lens and said, “I was born with nothing. I’m dying with little. But I’ll leave something behind that breathes.”

When the stream ended, donations flooded in.

At 11:42 p.m., the counter hit $501 230.

Jason sank to his knees, laughing and crying at once.

The cross glowed brilliant gold:

> Task complete. Reward: +15 days.

He whispered, “We did it.”

Malik knelt beside him, clapping his back. “You did it, brother.”

Jason looked at him, eyes shining. “No—we did.”

The lights flickered. For a moment, the screen projected a faint extra line Jason hadn’t noticed before:

> Integrity check pending…

He frowned. “What’s that?”

Malik’s smile froze for half a heartbeat. “Probably nothing.”

---

At 2 a.m., Jason returned to lock the workspace. Malik had left his tablet behind. It kept buzzing with notifications—encrypted messages scrolling across. One line caught Jason’s eye before the screen dimmed:

> To: Victor B.—Transfer confirmed. Account collapse scheduled.

Jason’s breath caught. He tapped the screen, but it demanded a password. He stared at Malik’s chair, at the empty coffee cup still steaming.

The cross pulsed crimson.

> Alert: Integrity Breach Detected.

Jason whispered, “No…”

Outside, Malik’s shadow moved under the streetlight, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low but clear:

“It’s done, sir. The fund will fold by morning. He’ll never see it coming.”

The rain began again, washing the city clean of sound as Jason stepped into the doorway, eyes wide, heart breaking all over Malik had betrayed him??