The hallways of Anthony's apartment building reeked of mold and boiled cabbage, the fluorescent lights flickering as if on their last legs. He pushed open his door to find the small space exactly as he'd left it—dishes in the sink, an unpaid electricity bill on the counter, and the faint smell of stale cigarettes clinging to every surface. This place had been his prison for three years, and he couldn't wait to leave it behind.
He stumbled to the tiny bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound against the tile floor for a full minute before stepping under the stream. The water ran brown at first, carrying away the thick stench of dumpster trash—rotting vegetables, spoiled meat, and something acrid he couldn't identify. As he scrubbed at his skin with a rough washcloth, his mind raced with the weight of everything he was leaving behind.
Scrub harder, he told himself, his knuckles white as he worked the cloth over his shoulders and chest. Get rid of every last trace. This dirt isn't just from the trash—it's from every lie I told, every bet I placed, every time I chose the tables over the people who loved me. He ran his hands over his torso, half-expecting to find bloodstains still there—from the alley, from the moments he'd thought were his last. But the water ran clear now, washing away only sweat and fear. I'm clean. Really clean. Inside and out, I need to stay this way.
He stood under the water until it turned cold, letting it shock him fully awake. When he stepped out, he wrapped himself in a threadbare towel and moved to his closet—the only furniture in the room that wasn't falling apart. He pulled out two plastic bins and began to pack: a few pairs of decent jeans and button-down shirts, his worn leather jacket, and a small wooden box he'd kept hidden under his bed. Inside was a single photograph—him, Sarah, and their mother Lucy, all smiling on Sarah's high school graduation day. He ran his thumb over his sister's face, his throat tight. I'll find you, he whispered. I'll make things right.
At exactly 6:00 AM, Anthony knocked on Mr. Harrison's door at the end of the hall. The old man opened it within seconds, his gray hair sticking up at odd angles and a cup of coffee in his hand. He was in his late seventies, with kind eyes that had seen more hardship than most, and he'd never once thrown Anthony out even when rent was months overdue.
"Anthony, son," Mr. Harrison said, his voice rough with sleep but warm with concern. "You look like you've been through hell and back."
"I have, sir," Anthony replied, holding out an envelope thick with cash—money he'd withdrawn from an ATM on his way home, still stunned that the numbers on the screen were real. "This covers everything I owe. Plus a little extra for all the trouble I've caused."
Mr. Harrison's eyes widened as he counted the bills. "Anthony, this is more than three months' rent. You didn't… you didn't do anything foolish to get this, did you?"
"No, sir. I promise. I'm starting over. Moving somewhere new, making better choices."
The old man sighed, handing back two of the bills. "Keep this. You'll need it for a fresh start. I'll miss having you around, you know. Sure, you were late on payments more times than I can count, but you were always the first to help when someone needed a hand. Fixed Mrs. Chen's leaky faucet, carried groceries for Mr. Torres when his arthritis acted up… this building won't be the same without you."
Anthony felt tears prick at his eyes. This is what I threw away, he thought. Good people who cared about me, even when I didn't deserve it. I'll never take kindness for granted again.
"I'll miss you too, Mr. Harrison," he said, shaking the old man's weathered hand. "If you ever need anything—anything at all—just call this number." He wrote down a new phone number he'd been assigned when his account was activated. "I mean it. I'll be there."
They stood in the hallway for a few more minutes, sharing stories of the years Anthony had lived there—like the time he'd helped Mr. Harrison plant roses along the building's entrance, or when they'd stayed up all night fixing the broken boiler before winter set in. Then, with a final wave, Anthony turned and walked out of the building, not once looking back.
The walk to the central business district was like moving between two worlds. Behind him lay cracked sidewalks and boarded-up storefronts; ahead rose towers of glass and steel that gleamed in the morning sun. Boston's skyline had never looked so grand—or so out of reach. He'd only ever come here to walk past the fancy restaurants and shops, dreaming of a life he'd thought he'd never have.
Then, without warning, the familiar blue screen materialized before him, glowing bright enough to make him stop in his tracks.
GOOD DAY, ANTHONY!
Here is your first task:
- SPEND A TOTAL OF 1 TRILLION DOLLARS
- Task must be completed within 24 hours
GOOD LUCK!
A trillion dollars? In one day? Anthony's mind reeled as he stared at the words, his heart hammering against his ribs. That's impossible. Even if I bought every car in the city, every piece of jewelry in every store—I couldn't spend that much in twenty-four hours. What if I can't do it? Will they take back my second life? Will I just vanish into thin air?
He paced back and forth on the sidewalk, running his hands through his hair. The message said to spend lavishly on good and worthwhile things. Necessities first—where am I going to stay? I can't keep living in a dump like my old place. If I'm going to do this right, I need somewhere secure, somewhere I can plan my next steps.
As if in answer to his thoughts, he looked up and saw it: a sprawling complex of fifteen gleaming towers that seemed to touch the clouds. Between the buildings lay perfectly manicured gardens, fountains that sparkled like diamonds, and a massive sign made of polished metal and glass that read:
REGALIA RESIDENCES
Condominium and Hotel Complex
★★★★★ Five-Star Rated – The Best of the Best
It was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Palm trees lined the winding driveway, and luxury cars—Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, even a few custom-built sports cars—were parked in designated bays. He'd read about Regalia Residences once in a magazine at the laundromat—it was where celebrities, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries stayed when they were in Boston. Each building had its own amenities: private spas, rooftop pools, gourmet restaurants, and even a state-of-the-art medical center for residents. It was the kind of place where a single night in the cheapest room could cost more than he'd made in a year at the factory.
This is it, he thought. If I'm going to spend money on something worthwhile, a place to call home—somewhere safe, somewhere I can build a new life—this is the right choice.
He walked toward the grand entrance, his worn sneakers crunching on the marble chips that lined the path. The moment he stepped onto the circular driveway, a security guard in a crisp black uniform stepped forward. The man—Jayden, according to the name tag on his chest—looked Anthony up and down, his lips twisting into a sneer as he took in his faded jeans and scuffed jacket.
"Good morning," Jayden said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Do you have any appointments today?"
Anthony shook his head. "No, do I need one?"
The guard let out a sharp laugh. "Yes, of course you do! If you're here for the cleaning staff interview with the general manager, you should have submitted your application online first—they send out appointment confirmations before you can even set foot inside. Did you not read the posting?"
"I'm not here to work," Anthony said, his voice steady despite the heat rising in his cheeks. "I'm here to book a room."
Jayden laughed harder this time, slapping his thigh as if he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. "Excuse me? Did I hear that right? You're here to book a room?"
Another guard—taller, with a square jaw and eyes that looked tired of dealing with trouble—stepped out from the security booth. "What's going on here, Jayden?" he asked, his name tag reading Lucas.
"Nothing important," Jayden replied, still chuckling. "This guy says he's here to book a room. Looks like a cleaner who didn't get his appointment but decided to try his luck anyway."
"I'm not applying for a job!" Anthony said, his patience wearing thin. "I'm serious—I want to stay here. In fact, I want to buy a condominium unit."
Lucas stepped closer, his expression hardening. "Look, I'm sorry, but we can't waste time on this. First off, you don't look like you can afford even a single night in our cheapest room—let alone a condo unit that starts at five million dollars. Second, the general manager will be here any minute, and we need to be ready to greet her. Now please, just move along—we have important people to take care of here, not strangers off the street."
"That's enough!" Anthony snapped, his voice rising. "Stop judging me based on what I'm wearing! You don't know anything about me—where I've been, what I can do, what I can afford. I'm asking you to treat me with some basic respect and let me speak to someone who can help me."
"Respect?" Jayden scoffed. "Respect is earned. And you haven't earned anything from us—except maybe a trip to the police station if you don't leave right now."
Before Anthony could respond, a sleek black limousine glided up the driveway and came to a smooth stop at the entrance. The rear door opened, and a woman stepped out—tall and elegant in a tailored navy suit, with dark hair pulled back in a neat bun and eyes that held a sharp intelligence. She surveyed the scene with a calm, analytical gaze before turning to Lucas.
"What is happening here?" she asked, her voice clear and commanding.
"Good morning, ma'am," Lucas said, straightening up immediately. "This man is refusing to leave. He claims he wants to buy a condominium unit, but as you can see—" he gestured at Anthony's clothes "—he doesn't look like he can afford our rates. We were just asking him to move along so we don't disturb your arrival."
The woman said nothing for a long moment, her eyes moving from Lucas to Jayden to Anthony. She took in his worn jacket, his scuffed shoes, the way he held himself—with a quiet dignity despite the guards' insults. Then she stepped forward, extending her hand.
"I'm Alexandra Vance, general manager of Regalia Residences," she said, her gaze never leaving his face. "Tell me, Mr…?"
"Carmichael," Anthony replied, taking her hand. "Anthony Carmichael."
She nodded slowly, her eyes still studying him as if trying to solve a puzzle. "Well, Mr. Carmichael," she said, her voice carrying just enough to silence the guards, "let's go inside and talk about what you're looking for. My office has excellent coffee—and I never judge a potential client by their wardrobe."