Your Wealth Is Mine

The phone vibrated against the rickety wooden table, its cracked screen lighting up the dim room.

He stared at it for a second too long, dread pooling in his chest before he even answered.

“Hello?” His voice came out thin.

There was a pause on the other end. Too long.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.

The words were flat, practiced. Like she’d said them out loud before, maybe in front of a mirror. Maybe to someone else in form of a rehearsal.

He swallowed hard, sweat already pooling like beads of his forehead. “W-What do you mean?”

“I mean us. This relationship.” Her sigh crackled through the speaker. “I’m tired, Mark. I want to move on.”

Panic rushed in, hot and suffocating. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. “Wait—wait, please. We can fix this. I-I can do better. I will do better.”

Silence followed again. Then, irritation. “You’ve been saying that for two years, Mark. Two years.”

“I know, but listen to me,” he said quickly, words tumbling over themselves. “I’ll sell my bicycle. My phone, my tablet—everything. I’ll get you something nice. Just… just hold on with me a little longer.”

Her breath hitched—not with emotion, but anger.

“Do you hear yourself?” she snapped. “Sell your things? That’s your plan?”

“It’s just temporary,” he said, desperation creeping into every syllable. “I swear I’ll change. I’ll work harder. A promotion is on its way, I can feel it. I’ll—”

“Stop.” Her voice rose suddenly, sharp and cutting. “Stop pretending this is about effort.”

Then she said the name. “I’ve been dating Eric.”

The world tilted.

“Eric?” he repeated, dumbly.

“Yes. That Eric,” she said, almost daring him to react. “Your high school....bully. The one you always complained about tirelessly to me.”

His hand tightened around the phone. Memories flashed through his mind—locker shoves, mocking laughter, trousers pulled down, being called useless in front of everyone.

“Why… why him?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“Because he treats me well, Mark.” she shot back. “He buys me things. He got me a house for my birthday last year. A real house. Not some run-down place near a bridge or a slum like yours.”

Her words sank in like knives. He slowly turned, his gaze drifting around the room.

Peeling paint on the walls. A mattress on the floor with a torn blanket.

A single bulb flickering overhead.

Outside the window, the distant hum of traffic and the smell of stagnant water rising from the drainage canal nearby.

Shame wrapped around his throat.

“Eric spoils me,” she continued. “He doesn’t make excuses like you do. He doesn’t ask me to wait while he ‘figures things out.’”

He pressed his forehead against the wall, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“I loved you,” he whispered. “I loved you so damn much.”

“And I’m tired of loving someone who can’t even afford a proper place to live,” she replied coldly. “Don’t call me again, Mark. I’m not coming back. I wouldn't even dream of it.”

Then the line went dead.

The phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull crack.

For a moment, he just stood there, stood in disbelief and honor. Then his legs gave out.

He sank down, his back sliding against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. The sobs came hard and uncontrollable, ripping through him until his chest ached and his throat burned.

He cried until there was nothing left.

Night swallowed the city by the time he stepped out, the last of his cash folded loosely in his pocket. Neon signs buzzed overhead as he pushed open the door to a small bar tucked between two closed shops.

The smell of alcohol and sweat hit him immediately.

“Whiskey,” he muttered to the bartender, dropping his money on the counter.

The bartender looked at the money, then at him. “What is this?” the middle aged man asked, a glass tumbler and a towel in his hands.

“This is all I have.” Mark answered without care.

“This can barely afford you a chair in this bar.”

“But this is all i have. Please.”

The man stared at him for a while, pity evident in his face. “Fine.” then he poured him a drink.

One drink became two. Two became three. And it just kept going.

The noise blurred together—laughter, clinking glasses, music playing too loud. His head grew heavy, thoughts sinking into a fog where the shame dulled just enough to breathe.

“Rough night?” a soft voice asked.

He looked up. A girl stood beside him, holding a drink of her own. She had tired eyes but a gentle smile.

“You look like someone who lost everything,” she said lightly.

He let out a humorless laugh. “I didn’t have much to begin with.”

She tilted her head. “Still hurts the same.”

She talked, about nothing important. About how the city chewed people up. About how tomorrow could be different. He nodded, barely listening, until the weight in his chest returned, heavier than before.

“I need air,” he muttered, standing abruptly.

“Wait—” she started, but he was already moving.

Outside, the night air was cold and damp. He staggered down the street, turning into a narrow alley to steady himself. “What am I doing?"

He slumped down into a dumpster can, breath hitching. “I swore never to do this yet here I am.” he gripped his head in frustration, breathing hardly info it.

In the next monent, he heard footsteps approaching.

“Hey.”

He turned just as a fist slammed into his face.

Pain exploded behind his eyes. He fell hard, hitting the ground as shadows loomed over him.

“Empty your pockets,” one of them growled.

“I don’t have anything,” he gasped.

Another kick struck his ribs.

“Liar.”

They searched him anyway. His wallet—empty. His phone—cracked and worthless.

“Pathetic,” someone spat.

When he refused to beg, the beating continued. Kick to his face and guts, blow to his jaw and back. They kept on hitting him over and over until he started to bleed. Until breathing became difficult.

“Let’s go boys.” one of them said, kicking him one last time. As their footsteps faded, darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.

“What—” he spat out, blood staining the ground. “What more do you want to take from me?”

“Haven’t you already taken everything from me? Why can’t you leave me to enjoy one miserable night?” he cried out, his words barely leaving the alley.

As his vision began to dim, he heard a voice.

Calm. Female.

“You won’t survive this world the way you are.”

His eyes fluttered weakly. He couldn’t see her, but he recognized the voice from the bar.

“The only way forward,” she continued, “is to accumulate wealth. Not scraps. Not hope. Wealth itself.”

His lips trembled. “I just… want it to stop.”

“It can stop. It will stop. But you have to be willing.”

“T-to do what?”

“In this world, only wealth grants the right to live however you want, to live with dignity. Will you succumb or will you arise and conquer?” 

He could barely keep his eyes open now, could barely form words. But with his last knowing breath..m he forced the word out.

“Yes,” he whispered.

A golden glow bloomed in the darkness, warm and blinding.

And then—

Nothing.