The last laugh.

They laughed when I had nothing. Now I own everything they ever wanted.

You ever hit rock bottom so hard it feels like the ground punched you back?

That was me.

I was sitting on the corner of 8th and Main, leaning against a brick wall behind a Chinese takeout spot, soaking wet, with a backpack full of nothing. My phone was dead, cracked from when I dropped it earlier trying to text someone for help. Not that anyone would've answered. I already knew what they’d say.

"Can’t help you, man."

"Sorry, bro, I’m short too."

"Yo, don’t bring that bad energy around me."

People treat you like a virus when you’re broke.

It hadn’t always been like this. A year ago, I was working a decent job at a startup. Nothing big, but enough to get by. I was living with my girl, thinking I was on my way up.

Then everything flipped.

First, I got laid off.

Then she left me.

And just to rub salt in the wound, she made a show out of it — breaking up with me at a club in front of everyone. She stood on a table, holding up a drink like she was making a toast, and said, “This one’s for all the girls who’ve ever dated a broke loser thinking he’d become something. I’m done babysitting a man-child with dreams and no dollars.”

The crowd laughed. I didn’t.

Three months later, I was jobless, homeless, and eating leftover fries from a trash can. People passed me like I was invisible. Even pigeons looked at me like I wasn’t worth pecking at.

Then something happened I can’t explain.

It was around midnight. Rain was pouring like the sky was mad at me personally. My stomach growled so hard it felt like my body was trying to eat itself.

Then I saw headlights. Not the usual Uber or police cars that rolled through this part of town.

No. This was different.

A matte black Rolls-Royce slowly pulled up and parked right in front of me. I thought maybe some rich guy got lost or something. I moved out of the way, not wanting trouble.

But then another car pulled up behind it.

And another.

Seven total.

All matte black. All tinted windows. All running silently like panthers in the dark.

For a second, I thought it was a hit. I don’t even know why — it just felt heavy. Like something serious was about to go down.

The back door of the first Rolls opened.

And out stepped a man in a black suit so clean and sharp, it looked like it could slice through steel. He had short silver hair, jet black sunglasses, and gold pins on his collar. He moved like he was in control of everything around him.

And he walked right toward me.

I stood up fast. “Hey, look, I didn’t see anything, alright? I’m just chilling, man.”

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.

Thick. Black. Sealed in gold wax with a strange symbol on it. My name — Jason Carter — was written across the front in bold black ink.

I stared at it, confused.

"Mr. Carter," the man finally spoke. His voice was smooth, deep. “I’ve been searching for you for over three weeks.”

"Me?"

“Yes, sir. You are the last living heir to the Orion Consortium.”

I blinked. “The what?”

“The richest private conglomerate in the world,” he said. “And as of two nights ago, its former owner, your grandfather, passed away. You, Mr. Carter, are now its sole heir.”

I laughed.

Not a funny laugh. A broken one. “Nah, man. You got the wrong Jason Carter. My grandfather worked at a steel plant. He had one good leg and smelled like chewing tobacco.”

The man shook his head slowly. “Your mother ran away from the family before you were born. She changed her name. Hid you. We have documentation. DNA tests. Records you’ve never seen.”

I didn’t know what to say. My mom died when I was fifteen. I never knew my dad. She didn’t talk much about her past.

I looked at the envelope again.

“What if I don’t want it?” I asked.

He gave a small smile. “You’ve already inherited it. The choice now is whether you accept the power that comes with it.”

Then he stepped aside and opened the door to the car.

Inside, a glowing screen lit up with numbers that made my jaw drop. My name. My new ID. Bank accounts. Net worth.

Over $212 billion.

My knees buckled. I grabbed the car door to keep from falling.

“Holy—”

He held out his hand. “Shall we begin your new life, sir?”

I stared at the sky, at the rain, at the alley that had been my bed for two nights. Then I looked back at the convoy of power waiting for me.

Screw it, I thought. What do I have to lose?

I got in.

Twelve Hours Later

I was standing in a private penthouse 89 stories above Manhattan. Walls made of glass. Floors of black marble. A bedroom the size of my old apartment building. There were three chefs cooking things I couldn’t even pronounce, a wardrobe with fifty watches, and a closet with suits more expensive than cars.

Felix — the man in the suit — stood beside me.

“Sir, the press will begin sniffing soon. We recommend we control the narrative.”

“The narrative?” I asked, still dizzy.

“Yes. You are now the richest man alive. Every move you make will ripple across markets, governments, even crime syndicates. You must learn quickly.”

I shook my head. “I’m just a broke guy who got lucky.”

Felix gave a small smirk. “No, sir. You were a lion in chains. Now, the chains are off.”

He handed me a phone — brand new, fingerprint locked to me — and said, “Your past is over. It’s time to decide your future.”

And in that moment, I realized something.

Money doesn’t just change your life.

It changes you.

You know what happens when people think you’re finished?

They get brave. They say anything. Do anything. Step on you like gum on a sidewalk because they believe you'll never rise again. That you’ll always stay in the dirt where they left you.

But the thing about the dirt?

That’s where diamonds are made.

And I wasn’t the same Jason Carter anymore.

Not after last night.

Not after $212 billion dropped on my head like a thunderstorm from God Himself.

Now, I had power. The kind of power that made kings nervous and billionaires stutter. I could buy and sell the same people who laughed at me when I had nothing. And I knew exactly where to start.

It was 10 a.m. when the jet landed back in my city. Not a regular jet — my jet. Black with gold trim. “ORION” written in sharp silver across the wings.

As soon as we landed, a car was already waiting.

I wasn’t alone.

Felix was still by my side — always quiet, always ten steps ahead.

“Your uncle lives on 46th and Harris,” he said, tapping his phone. “The property is valued at $720,000. Do you wish to purchase it?”

I leaned back in the leather seat and grinned. “No. I want to buy the entire street.”

“Understood.”

Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of the same old run-down house where I spent half my childhood being mocked like a stray dog.

Paint peeling. Cracked windows. Dead grass. But behind that broken door was the man who used to call me “worthless” every chance he got.

Uncle Ray.

He was my mom’s brother. Bitter. Angry. Mean as a pit bull with a toothache. When my mom died, I stayed with him for a while. Worst year of my life. He made it very clear I was just another mouth to feed. Called me “freeloader,” “garbage,” “dead weight.”

I never forgot that.

I knocked twice.

When he opened the door, his face said everything. First confusion. Then disbelief. Then panic.

He stepped back like he saw a ghost.

“Jason?”

I smiled. “Morning, Ray.”

“What the hell—what’re you doin’ here? What, you selling something now? Don’t got time for—”

I held up my hand.

Behind me, six men in suits stepped out of black SUVs and began measuring the front yard. Another walked up with a clipboard.

“I’m not here to talk,” I said. “I’m here to buy.”

“Buy what?”

“Everything.”

He squinted. “What the hell you talking about?”

I took a step closer. “Your house. Your neighbor’s house. The gas station down the block. The whole damn street.”

He blinked. “You—what?”

“You ever play Monopoly, Ray?”

He didn’t answer.

I continued. “You laughed when I had nothing. Remember calling me ‘trash’? Making me sleep in the garage because I didn’t bring money into your house? I do.”

“You little—” he started.

I didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to see me again. You’ve got thirty days to move out. Or don’t. The demolition crew starts next month.”

I turned to leave.

But he stepped forward, grabbing my shoulder. “Wait! Jason—look, I didn’t mean half the things I said, alright? That was years ago! Family fights, you know? Come on, don’t do this.”

I looked at his hand on my shoulder.

Then at the man I used to fear.

He looked smaller now. Weaker.

“It’s not a fight, Ray,” I said calmly. “It’s business.”

I nodded to Felix, who handed him a thick envelope. “Here’s a settlement. Double what your house is worth. Buy a trailer. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

I walked away without looking back.

There was one more door I needed to knock on.

Actually, I didn’t even need to knock.

I had her address pulled up. Her apartment was small — fancy enough to look good on I*******m, not good enough to live in forever. Rent she probably couldn’t afford.

Her name?

Tasha.

My ex.

The one who humiliated me publicly, then posted the video online with the caption: “Trash belongs on the curb. Took mine out tonight ”

That video went viral for all the wrong reasons. I got laughed at by strangers for months.

Now?

It was my turn.

Felix raised an eyebrow. “Shall I handle this for you, sir?”

I shook my head. “Nah. I want her to see me.”

We went up the elevator. Floor 11. Apartment 1108.

I knocked twice.

It took a minute, but she opened the door wearing a silk robe and a face full of regret the moment she saw me.

Her jaw dropped.

“Jason?”

I smiled. “Hey, Tasha.”

She blinked fast. “Oh my God… I thought you—where have you been? You look… different.”

“Rich,” I corrected.

“I didn’t mean what I said that night, baby. I was just mad—angry—you know how I get when I’m drunk. I’ve missed you.”

She actually tried to hug me.

I stepped back.

“No thanks.”

“Please,” she said, voice trembling. “I was wrong. I was stupid. You were always meant for more, I just—I didn’t see it then.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You didn’t.”

She started crying. Real tears. Or maybe performance tears.

I took out a card and handed it to her.

She looked at it.

It was blank.

“What’s this?”

“Exactly what you gave me,” I said. “Nothing.”

I turned around and walked back to the elevator.

Felix was waiting, smirking quietly.

I didn’t need applause.

I had satisfaction.

I was sitting in a private cigar lounge made entirely of glass and leather. The kind of place where people whispered names that never appeared in magazines but controlled everything behind the scenes.

Felix leaned in.

“There’s a line forming, sir. Ex-friends. Old employers. Reporters. Gold diggers. Business rivals. Even a few shady organizations. Everyone wants a piece of the new king.”

I sipped from a crystal glass filled with twenty-thousand-dollar whiskey.

“Let them wait,” I said.

He nodded.

Then he hesitated. “And what about your old boss? The man who fired you and threw coins at you?”

I smiled slowly. “He’s next.”