The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a fortress of culture, but tonight, it had been rented out to the vultures. The "Founder's Circle Gala" was the annual high-mass for New York's old money and the new predators who had fed on their remains.
Liam Whitmore pulled the Koenigsegg Jesko into the circular drive, the golden accents of the car shimmering under the museum's floodlights. The valet, a young man who looked like he'd seen everything, actually fumbled the door handle. Liam stepped out, and for a moment, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi—who were there to catch the "fall" of the city's elite—went silent.
He wasn't wearing just any suit. He had commissioned a midnight-blue velvet dinner jacket from a tailor who only saw five clients a year. His shirt was spun from Sea Island cotton, and his cufflinks were raw black diamonds.
[Host Status: Predator.] [Mental State: Cold Logic.] [Current Mission: The Prodigal's Return (Progress: 15%).]
Liam didn't hand the valet a tip. He didn't even look at him. He simply walked toward the stairs, his stride possessing a lethal weight that felt like the tolling of a funeral bell.
The Great Hall was a sea of black ties and floor-length gowns. The air was thick with the smell of lilies, expensive perfume, and the rot of hypocrisy. As Liam entered, the conversation shifted. It wasn't the frantic whispering of a cafeteria; it was the calculated, low-frequency buzzing of a boardroom.
"Is that... Whitmore?" "I heard he was working in a warehouse." "Look at that watch. That's a Patek Grandmaster Chime. It's worth a small fortune."
Liam ignored them. He walked through the crowd, his Eye of Insight scanning the room like a tactical HUD.
[Target: Senator Sterling. Net Worth: $40M. Vulnerability: Illegal offshore accounts.] [Target: CEO of Miller & Co. Net Worth: $800M. Vulnerability: Seeking a buyout.]
Liam was looking for one man. He found him at the center of a circle of sycophants near the Egyptian Temple of Dendur.
Marcus Vance.
Marcus was a large man, his face flushed with the pink hue of expensive scotch and unearned confidence. Beside him stood his son, a carbon copy of his father's mediocrity, and Julian Thorne, who looked like he'd seen a ghost.
"Marcus," Liam said, his voice cutting through the laughter like a blade through silk.
The circle parted. Marcus turned, his glass of Macallan 25 freezing halfway to his lips. He blinked, his eyes traveling from Liam's handmade shoes to his face. For a split second, a flash of genuine terror crossed Marcus's eyes—a reflex from a man who knew he had built his house on stolen ground.
"Liam," Marcus said, recovering quickly. He forced a jovial smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, look at you. I heard you'd... fallen on hard times. I'm glad to see you've managed to scrape together enough for a decent rental. It's good to have you here. It's important to see the 'Whitmore Legacy' officially pass into more... capable hands tonight."
"Rental?" Liam stepped into Marcus's personal space. "You're still thinking in pennies, Marcus. That's why your shipping company is currently $400 million in the red."
The color drained from Marcus's face. "I don't know what you're talking about. Vance Global is stronger than ever."
"Is it?" Liam pulled a thin tablet from his inner pocket. He tapped the screen, and a graph appeared, showing a sharp, jagged decline in maritime logistics. "You've been using Whitmore Real Estate's rent rolls to cover your interest payments at Deutsche Bank. That's a violation of your fiduciary duty. In fact, it's a criminal misappropriation of assets."
"You're a child playing at games you don't understand," Marcus hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I own the banks. I own the board. You're a ghost, Liam. A bankrupt ghost."
"Actually," Liam said, turning to address the crowd, his Negotiator's Tongue skill amplifying his presence until the entire hall was listening. "I'm the new majority creditor of Vance Global."
A ripple of shock went through the room. Julian Thorne stepped forward, his face twisted in a sneer. "Creditor? You? With what money, Liam? You haven't had a bank account in six months."
"I took your advice, Julian," Liam said, not even looking at him. "I looked into my retirement fund. It turns out, I'm quite good at the market. Specifically, the 'vulture' market."
Liam tapped the tablet again, and a series of documents appeared on the large screens surrounding the Temple of Dendur—screens that were supposed to show a tribute to Marcus Vance's "achievements."
"Eighty-five million dollars," Liam announced. "That was the debt Vance Global held against the Whitmore Plaza. As of 4:00 PM today, I purchased that debt through Sterling, Stone & Finch. At 5:00 PM, I issued a margin call. Marcus, you have exactly twelve hours to produce eighty-five million in liquidity, or I seize the Plaza. And since you've used the Plaza as collateral for your shipping lines, the whole house of cards collapses."
Marcus laughed, a desperate, raspy sound. "You're bluffing. You don't have that kind of capital. No one gives a hundred million to a pariah."
"I don't need 'someone' to give it to me," Liam said. "I have it. And I didn't stop there. I also bought the 12% stake held by your former partner, Mr. Henderson. I believe he was quite happy to sell once I offered him double the market rate."
"You... you bought Henderson out?" Marcus's voice cracked.
"I'm now the 51% shareholder of the holding company that owns your life, Marcus," Liam said, his voice dropping to a chilling, conversational tone. "I'm not here for a gala. I'm here to fire you."
The room went deathly silent. The "Prince of Brooklyn" wasn't just back; he had come with a guillotine.
Julian Thorne tried to interject, "This is illegal! The feds—"
"The feds are currently at Marcus's office in Midtown, Julian," Liam interrupted. "I sent them a very interesting file this morning. It seems Marcus hasn't been paying the payroll taxes for the Whitmore employees. He's been pocketing them to pay for his son's polo ponies."
Liam turned back to Marcus, who was now sweating profusely, his silk tie suddenly feeling like a noose.
"You betrayed my father for a building," Liam said, stepping closer. "I'm destroying you for the sport of it."
Marcus Vance was a man who had spent his life winning through intimidation. Seeing his empire vanish in a single news cycle, in front of the very people he had spent years trying to impress, snapped something inside him.
The scotch glass shattered on the floor.
"You little brat!" Marcus roared, his face turning a dark, apoplectic purple. "I built this city! I broke your father, and I'll break you!"
Marcus lunged. It was a clumsy, desperate attack—a wild haymaker from a man who had never had to fight for anything.
In the old days, Liam would have been caught off guard. He would have been the victim.
But the System Store had been thorough.
Liam didn't even move his feet. He saw the punch coming in slow motion, the 'Combat Mastery' skill highlighting the trajectory in red light.
He caught Marcus's wrist with his left hand, the grip like a steel vise. With a fluid, practiced motion, Liam stepped into the man's guard. He didn't use a wild swing. He used a precise, short-range jab to Marcus's solar plexus, followed instantly by a crisp right hook that caught the man perfectly on the point of his chin.
The sound of the impact was like a wet leather bag hitting the floor.
Marcus Vance, the "Titan of Brooklyn," didn't just fall. He folded. He hit the marble floor with a heavy thud, unconscious before he even landed.
Liam stood over him, his breathing steady, his suit not even wrinkled. He reached down and picked up a stray napkin from a waiter's tray, wiping a single drop of Marcus's sweat from his cuff.
Julian Thorne and the others backed away, their faces masks of pure, unadulterated fear. They realized then that the "Prince" was gone. In his place was something far more dangerous.
"Security," Liam called out calmly.
Two large men in black suits—men Liam had hired earlier that day through his own private firm—stepped forward.
"Get this trash out of this building," Liam said. "The gala is over. And Julian?"
Julian jumped, nearly knocking over a champagne tower.
"I'm buying your father's shipping lanes on Monday," Liam said, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory light. "Tell him to start looking for a smaller house."
Liam walked out of the museum, the cool night air hitting his face. Behind him, the sound of sirens began to wail—the SEC and the FBI arriving to collect the remains of Marcus Vance's career.
He stepped into the Jesko and closed the door. The silence of the cabin was absolute.
[Ding! Mandate Mission: The Prodigal's Return.] [Objective: Reclaim Whitmore Real Estate.] [Status: SUCCESSFUL.] [Rewards Issued:] [1. $500,000,000 USD.] [2. Eye of Truth Upgrade: 'The Soul's Ledger' (See people's secrets and deepest desires).] [3. Reputation: 'The Inevitable.']
Liam looked at his hands. They were steady.
"System," he said. "How much is the Thorne family worth?"
[The Thorne Group Net Worth: $4.2 Billion.]
"Good," Liam said, shifting the car into gear. "I was worried I'd run out of things to buy by next week."
As he accelerated away from the museum, the golden lights of the city reflected in his eyes. He wasn't just a tycoon. He wasn't just a son seeking revenge. He was the architect of a new world, and he had only just finished the foundation.
[Current Balance: $1,495,824,267.50.]
He had spent over a hundred million today, and he was now nearly a billionaire. The "Idle Life" was no longer about luxury. It was about absolute, unchecked sovereignty.
"Daily Sign-In for Day 3," Liam whispered. "Make it something big."
[Day 3 Sign-In available in 6 hours.]