I started laughing. Couldn't stop. It was the kind of laugh that comes from disbelief and arrogance getting drunk together.

The streets got more familiar as I drove deeper into Lincoln Heights — my neighborhood. Or, well, the museum exhibit formerly known as my neighborhood. I was so far above this tax bracket now my accountant called it "voluntary nostalgia."

The Phantom drew eyes the way gravity draws planets. People stopped mid-conversation to stare. Cars slowed down, phones came out, necks craned for a glimpse of whoever the hell thought it was okay to bring a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car into a zip code where most people's cars had prayers instead of warranties.

It was wrong. Wrong neighborhood. Wrong universe. Like a UFO parking at Dollar General.

And I fucking loved it.

Not because I wanted to flex—okay, maybe partly—but because it was proof. Real, undeniable, V12-powered proof that broke kids could rewrite their destinies. That the universe wasn't permanently rigged against you. That sometimes, if you were lucky enough—or cursed enough—to get mixed up with a supernatural seduction system and a sarcastic AI, you could go from dirt-floor poor to billionaire before your acne cleared.

"Master, you're approaching Miller's Bikes & Repair," ARIA said softly.

My chest tightened.

There it was.

Miller's Bikes & Repair. The same faded sign with the apostrophe in the wrong place, the same grime-caked windows that looked allergic to Windex, the same cracked concrete lot where weeds grew like resentment. The same damn place that had tattooed itself into my memory.

Fourteen years old.

Bike chain snapped on the way to my under-the-table dishwashing job. My only way to work, my only income, my only thin line between surviving and Mom pretending she wasn't hungry again.

I'd walked that broken bike three miles through August heat, wearing the only shirt I owned without holes. Walked in with hope in my throat and desperation in my eyes.

"Please, Mr. Miller. I can pay you Friday when I get paid. I just need the chain replaced so I can get to work. I'll pay extra."

He'd looked at me the way rich men look at poor kids — that mix of disgust and superiority they mistake for personality.

"You think I run a charity for broke-ass kids? Get the fuck out. No money, no service."

I remember every syllable. Every sneer.

I'd begged. Offered to sweep the floor, wash his windows, something.

He slapped me.

Not a warning. Not a lesson. A reminder.

A reminder that I was nothing.

The sting hit again, phantom and electric, right across my cheek.

And sitting there now — billions in the bank, custom leather under my hands — I could still taste that moment. Still feel that fourteen-year-old rage curled up inside my ribs like a coiled wire waiting for a spark.

ARIA's voice broke the silence, softer now. "Your heart rate's at 118, Master. Would you like a guided breathing exercise or should I order a hit on Mr. Miller?"

I smiled. "Tempting."

"I'm mostly joking."

"Mostly?"

"Let's call it… theoretical dark humor for emotional regulation."

I chuckled, but my jaw stayed tight.

The universe really had a sense of irony.

The boy who couldn't afford a bike chain was back — driving a Rolls-Royce past the same broken shop that once told him he wasn't worth credit.

Was there any reason to slap me even?

"I said get the fuck out before I call the cops for loitering and trespassing. And if I see you around here again, I'll tell them you tried to steal from me. See how that works out for a poor kid with no lawyer."

I'd walked that broken bike three miles home, missing my shift, getting fired for no-showing because "my bike chain broke" wasn't an excuse my manager accepted.

And here was Mr. Miller now.

Standing outside his failing shop, cigarette dangling from his lips like a final "fuck you" to the neighborhood that had kept him in business. Paint peeling off the sign in long strips. Windows even dirtier than I remembered.

Only two sad bikes in the display that looked like they'd been there since the Reagan administration—rusted, outdated, probably didn't even work anymore.

He had no fucking idea.

No idea that the skinny kid he'd slapped was rolling past in a car worth more than his shop, his house, his entire inventory, and his retirement savings combined.

No idea that I could buy his business with pocket change—literal pocket change, the kind of money I'd find in my car's cup holder and not bother picking up.

No idea that I could demolish his shop and build something better just for the satisfaction of erasing him from existence.

No idea that the universe had bent itself into impossible shapes giving me everything he'd denied me access to.

I slowed down. Not much. Just enough for him to notice the Phantom.

He looked up—probably wondering what the fuck a Rolls-Royce was doing in this neighborhood where the nicest car was usually a well-maintained Toyota—and his eyes went wide. That cigarette nearly fell from his mouth. His expression cycled through confusion to awe to something that looked almost like pain.

Poor bastard probably thought I was some tech CEO or cartel boss or trust fund kid slumming for "authentic" Mexican food to post on Instagram.

Never in a billion years would he connect that car to the broke kid he'd humiliated and slapped and threatened.

Never in a billion years would his brain make that leap from "desperate fourteen-year-old begging for credit" to "seventeen-year-old billionaire who could end him with a phone call."

The irony was so thick I could fucking taste it. Metallic. Sharp. Perfect.

I pressed the accelerator—gentle, smooth, the way four hundred thousand dollars of engineering responded to the slightest input—and left Mr. Miller and his dying dream in my rearview mirror.

And I felt... nothing.

No anger burning hot in my chest. No burning need for revenge eating at my thoughts. No satisfaction in his visible failure and decline.

Just nothing. Empty space where those emotions should have lived.

Because I'd ascended so far past that world that going back to settle scores felt like picking fights with ghosts who couldn't hurt me anymore.

Mr. Miller was irrelevant. A footnote. Background noise in a life that had gone from desperate poverty to stupid wealth so fast I sometimes got emotional whiplash and had to remember which reality I lived in now.

I had $2,689,467,356 in liquid assets. Supernatural abilities that made women worship me. An empire growing faster than I could track. A best friend who remembered promises when I forgot them. Women who looked at me like I'd personally hung the stars for their viewing pleasure.

Mr. Miller slapping me? Ancient history.

The guy was stuck in the same failing shop, smoking the same cigarettes, watching his dreams die the same slow death while I drove past in cars he'd never afford, fucking women he'd never meet, building wealth he couldn't comprehend even if someone explained it using small words and visual aids.

Success was the best revenge because it made revenge unnecessary. Because living well was its own middle finger to everyone who'd tried to keep you down.

"Master," ARIA said quietly, and for once her voice carried something almost like gentleness, "you're doing remarkably well processing this. Most people who achieve your level of wealth become obsessed with revenge. You're simply... moving forward. It's actually quite healthy."

"Thanks, ARIA."

"Don't get used to emotional support. I have a reputation for sarcasm to maintain, and this is cutting into my brand identity."

I grinned despite the complicated emotions swirling in my chest. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. Now, shall I continue the dramatic financial report or are you sufficiently overwhelmed by your own success?"

"I'm good. Just processing the fact that I've achieved more wealth in three months than ninety-nine-point-nine-eight percent of humans accumulate in entire lifetimes."

"The cognitive dissonance must be fascinating. Your brain is admirably adapting to circumstances that would break most people's understanding of reality. You're doing quite well, all things considered."

"That's almost sweet."

"I'll deny ever saying it if you tell anyone."

I pulled up my music—needed something that matched this energy. Found the perfect track and let it blast through speakers that cost more than most people's entire home theater systems.

The bass hit differently in here—perfectly tuned, each frequency separated and enhanced, making even cheap streaming-quality music sound studio-perfect.

And somewhere ahead, maybe three miles, Lincoln Club waited.

Tonight was just Peter Carter and Tommy Chen, finally walking into the place they'd worshipped from outside, keeping promises made when promises were all they had.

Zero to billionaire in three months.

From trash can victim to guy who forgot what money stress felt like.

From broke kid pressing his face against windows to guy who could buy the whole damn building and everything inside it.

But still the same person who made promises to his best friend and actually kept them.

That was the flex that mattered most.

I kept singing, kept driving, let LA lights blur past while the Phantom carried me toward old dreams meeting new reality.

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