The next morning, it was barely light out.
A faint gray-blue glow pressed at the edges of the curtains when the phone beside Leon's bed began to vibrate. The screen lit up in the dark.
He opened his eyes, still half asleep, reached out, and grabbed it.
Deposit Alert
Account ending in 1247
Wire received on Sep 20, 07:31 AM
Amount: 100,000,000.00∗∗∗∗ Availablebalance:100,000,382.00
Leon stared at the message for two full seconds.
Then the sleep vanished.
He jerked upright in bed, phone in one hand, the other hand raised as if he could somehow count the zeros faster with his finger.
A hundred.
A thousand.
A million.
Ten million—
His breathing stopped for a beat.
One hundred million.
His mouth slowly pulled open into a grin he couldn't control.
"A hundred million dollars."
The words came out low and rough.
His pulse kicked hard. Heat rushed to his face. He tightened his fist, staring at the screen like the number might disappear if he blinked.
Leon knew money would become the easiest thing in the world for him to obtain before long. Easier than power. Easier than influence. Easier, perhaps, than trust.
Even so, this moment still hit him like a live wire.
Because he also knew something else.
This might be the first time in his life he would ever feel this happy over a hundred million dollars.
And possibly the last.
So he let himself have it.
He stayed there against the headboard, phone still in hand, looking up at the ceiling while the old years came back in fragments—the bad apartments, the overtime, the cheap takeout, the quiet humiliations, the dead-end meetings, the ambition he'd buried one compromise at a time.
Less than a minute later, his phone vibrated again.
Another message.
This one was not from the bank.
It began with:
Dear Mr. Li,
Forgive the intrusion. This is William. The one hundred million dollars has just been transferred into your designated account. To ensure the highest possible degree of liquidity and privacy protection for your funds on a global basis, I took the liberty of contacting J.P. Morgan's private banking division on your behalf and having an independent legal entity established for you.
Your time is far too valuable to be wasted on administrative clutter. My private legal counsel, Mr. Anderson, is already standing by. He will act as your chief representative and can handle any practical matter you wish delegated, including property acquisition. If you require anything at all, one phone call will be enough. He will clear the path for you.
Thank you again for your generosity.
— W.R.
Leon read it once, then again.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
This was William showing his hand. Or more precisely, showing his value.
To identify him this quickly, trace the account, connect him to J.P. Morgan Private Bank, set up a separate legal structure, and place a personal attorney on standby before sunrise—
That wasn't money alone. That was infrastructure. Reach. Discipline. The kind of operational speed only a true old-money family could command.
But Leon had expected this much.
William Rowan was not merely expressing gratitude. He was making a statement.
You chose the right buyer.
The Rowan family is worth doing business with.
Leon saved Anderson's number without much reaction, then lowered the phone and began thinking through the day.
By the time the room had fully brightened, he had already gone over several possibilities.
Outside, beyond his bedroom door, he heard movement in the apartment.
His roommate, Chloe Bennett, was rushing through her usual morning routine again—shoes on in a hurry, keys, the door opening, then shutting behind her as she left for work.
Time moved quietly after that.
At exactly nine o'clock, Leon's phone rang.
The number was familiar.
Anderson.
Clearly, the man had been ready for a while, simply waiting until an appropriate hour to call.
Leon paused, then answered.
"Good morning, sir. My apologies for disturbing you at this hour. This is Anderson."
The voice on the other end was controlled, professional, and extremely careful. Every word seemed chosen in advance.
"Mr. William Rowan has instructed me that, effective immediately, I am to serve as your lead personal representative and handle any private matter you may require attended to in Manhattan."
He continued without wasting a breath.
"Per Mr. Rowan's instructions, I have already completed the preliminary arrangements. Your time is considered too valuable to be spent on procedural inconvenience. A top-tier private banking structure has been prepared for you through J.P. Morgan, and the necessary legal and asset-separation framework is already in place. The one hundred million dollars is fully available for your use at any time."
"I see," Leon said.
"Thank you, sir. If this call is in any way intrusive, I will keep future communication to a minimum. If you need anything—real estate, vehicles, art, discreet problem-solving, or any other form of logistical support—you may contact me directly. I am currently less than three miles away and available immediately."
Leon gave a quiet acknowledgment and ended the call.
...
After hanging up, he got out of bed.
He washed up, changed into a casual button-up shirt and cropped khaki trousers, then put on a pair of clean white sneakers. Finally, he adjusted his thin gold-rim glasses in front of the mirror.
He picked up his backpack.
Inside were two documents:
Time Sale Contract
and
Time Purchase Contract
A young man stood in the mirror—clean-cut, composed, sharp-looking, with the polished restraint of someone who no longer belonged to the life around him, even if he still happened to be standing inside it.
Leon straightened his cuff, opened the door, and left.
He didn't call a car.
Instead, he headed for the subway entrance nearby.
He had missed the rush-hour crush, so the train wasn't too crowded.
Maybe it was his mood. Maybe it was the hundred million dollars now sitting in an account tied to his name.
But for the first time, even the subway felt almost enjoyable.
Before this, riding it had always been an ordeal. He would draw a long breath, brace himself, and force his way inside, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, the air thick with coffee, bacon, perfume, sweat, and whatever breakfast people had grabbed on the run.
But today was different.
Leon stood with one hand on the overhead rail, an easy smile at the corner of his mouth, and let his gaze drift across the car—faces, clothes, conversations, screens, fatigue, impatience, boredom.
The city was the same.
He was not.
And suddenly, there was something almost pleasant in watching it move.