Duke pounded on the door of the apartment in Queens.
His fist was heavy, his arm numb from the cold.
He was shivering so violently his teeth were chattering, a rhythmic clicking sound inside his head.
The hallway smelled of cabbage and old cigarettes.
The door swung open.
Gus stood there, wearing a faded band t-shirt and boxer briefs, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.
His eyes went wide.
"Jesus, Duke," Gus mumbled, spitting toothpaste into his hand. "You look like you swam across the East River."
He grabbed Duke by the arm and hauled him inside.
The apartment was small.
Claustrophobic.
Stacks of pizza boxes leaned against the wall like the Tower of Pisa.
A TV was blaring a rerun of Friends in the corner.
Duke collapsed onto the beige sofa.
The fabric was rough and smelled of dust.
Gus threw a towel at his head.
It was scratchy and smelled like mildew, but it was dry.
Duke buried his face in it.
"She signed it?" Gus asked, his voice low.
Duke nodded into the towel.
"And the prick?"
"He offered me a job," Duke said, his voice muffled. "As a doorman."
Gus swore.
A long, creative string of profanities that involved Simon, a cactus, and several uncomfortable anatomical locations.
"Forget them," Gus said, pacing the tiny living room. "You crash here. As long as you need. My couch is your couch."
Duke lowered the towel.
"Thanks, G."
Gus went to his room to find a spare blanket.
The apartment went quiet, save for the laugh track from the TV.
Duke lay back.
His bones ached.
The exhaustion was a heavy blanket, pressing him down into the sagging cushions.
He pulled his phone out of his wet pocket.
The screen flickered.
The battery icon was red.
4%
But the icon was still there.
Midas Protocol.
It pulsed.
A slow, rhythmic golden glow that seemed to breathe.
Duke stared at it.
It looked like one of those stupid mobile games that advertised on Instagram.
Build your empire! become a billionaire!
He let out a dry, bitter laugh.
"Why not," he whispered to the empty room. "I've got nothing else to lose."
He tapped the icon.
The screen went black.
Then, gold text scrolled across the glass, elegant and sharp.
Welcome, User 001.
Poverty is a disease.
I am the cure.
Duke rolled his eyes.
"Great," he muttered. "A philosophy app."
The screen shifted.
A massive roulette wheel appeared.
It was beautifully rendered, the graphics sharper than anything his phone should be able to display.
New User Bonus: Spin to Initialize Capital.
The wheel spun before he even touched it.
Colors blurred.
Numbers whizzed by.
$10.
$500.
$50.
The wheel slowed.
It clicked.
Click. Click. Click.
It stopped on a sliver of gold.
$1,000,000.00 (Pending)
Duke stared.
He blinked.
"Right," he said, tossing the phone onto his chest. "And I'm the King of England."
The phone vibrated against his sternum.
He picked it up again.
A prompt box had appeared.
Please link a valid bank account to activate the funding channel.
Duke hesitated.
This was the scam.
This was the part where they drained your account.
He thought about his balance.
$42.18.
If they stole it, he wouldn't even be able to buy a bus ticket out of town.
But a strange, nihilistic urge took over him.
He was at the bottom of the well.
What did it matter if he dug an inch deeper?
His fingers moved on their own.
He typed in his Chase routing number.
He typed in his account number.
He hit Enter.
Verifying...
Integration Complete.
Funds will be cleared within 24 hours.
Duke snorted.
"Sure they will."
He hit the back button.
The main interface loaded.
It was sleek. Dark mode. Minimalist.
At the bottom, there was a tab labeled Inventory.
A red dot sat on it.
He tapped it.
A single digital card flipped over on the screen.
It looked like a tarot card, but instead of a magician or a fool, it depicted a woman with a sword and scales, her eyes blindfolded with barbed wire.
Nemesis Card
Rarity: Common
Description: Input the name of an enemy. The System will generate a customized vengeance algorithm.
Duke felt a chill that had nothing to do with his wet clothes.
The cursor blinked in the text box.
Name of Target.
Duke's thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He shouldn't.
It was a game.
A stupid, cruel game.
But the image of Simon's hand on Linda's shoulder burned in his mind.
The smell of that expensive cologne.
The offer to be a doorman.
Duke typed.
Simon Thorne.
He hit Execute.
The screen flashed red.
Target Locked.
Analyzing social graph...
Analyzing financial vulnerabilities...
Analyzing psych profile...
Algorithm generating...
The phone screen went black.
Dead battery.
Duke stared at the dark reflection of his own face in the glass.
He felt a strange sensation in his chest.
It was fear.
But underneath the fear, coiled like a snake in the dark, was excitement.
He tossed the phone onto the floor.
He pulled the scratchy blanket up to his chin.
Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the distance.
Duke closed his eyes.
That night, he dreamed he was standing on the roof of the Empire State Building.
The rain was falling, but it wasn't water.
It was gold coins.
And down on the street, far below, Simon Thorne was drowning in them.
