I woke up inside a cutthroat underworld novel, cursed with a family of irredeemable supervillains.

My mother was the syndicate queen who held the shadow economy of the continent in an iron grip.

My father was an elusive spymaster pulling the strings of the world’s most terrifying private intelligence network.

My older sister was a predator in bespoke tailoring, a Wall Street titan who chewed up multinational conglomerates before lunch.

According to the original plot, every single one of us was destined for a bloody, horrific demise—sacrificial lambs slaughtered to pave the golden path of the righteous main characters.

So, the moment I arrived, I launched a desperate crusade.

I cited federal statutes like scripture, threw tantrums, went on hunger strikes, and dragged my murderous family kicking and screaming into legitimacy.

To scrub the blood from our family ledger, I threw myself into grassroots charity.

Every day, I pedaled through the city on a squeaky shared commuter bike, hammering together roadside relief kiosks and heated rest stations for sanitation workers out of my own pocket.

Until today. Until the female lead’s fragile little lapdog brought a bulldozer and flattened the shelter I had spent three weeks building for the street sweepers.

Fury flared in my chest. I stepped directly in front of him, demanding he pay for the damage down to the last cent.

Dorian clutched his pristine linen shirt, his delicate brow knitting into a picture of wounded innocence. "I’m so sorry," he murmured, his voice trembling like a bruised flower. "They were just so loud, and... the smell was making me dizzy.

I couldn't even enjoy my cold brew on the patio." Before I could speak, Helena arrived.

A thick stack of hundreddollar bills hit my chest, fluttering down through the freezing air like filthy green confetti. "A broke college kid on a rented clunker playing savior?" Helena’s voice was pure ice. "Listen closely: in this city, capital is god.

Keep your hands off my man." I looked down at the money scattered in the slush—an amount that wouldn't have covered the sales tax on my family's dinner tab—and let out a slow, quiet sigh.

I tried so damn hard to give this world peace. Why did they insist on digging their own graves?

I really, truly, just wanted to be a good person. 1 "That should be enough for you to build ten more of those eyesores." Helena Langford stood tall in a sharply tailored charcoal suit.

She didn't even cast a glance at the bills on the asphalt.

Instead, she pulled a monogrammed silk handkerchief from her breast pocket, meticulously wiping the tips of the fingers that had brushed against my jacket.

Her expression made it clear: to her, I was an unspeakable stain. Dorian leaned against her shoulder, angelic in an oversized ivory sweater.

His eyes were wide pools of liquid clarity. "Helena, please don't be so harsh," he whispered, tugging gently on her sleeve. "He had good intentions.

His methods were crude, but he was only trying to help." He turned toward me, his expression radiating a suffocating, saintly pity. "I'm truly sorry," Dorian said softly. "I didn't realize that little shack meant so much to you.

I only wanted the block to look clean, so everyone could enjoy a prettier skyline. Helena didn't mean any harm by giving you the money. Please take it.

Don't catch a cold out here." I stood motionless, looking at the dead presidents staring up from the frozen slush. Then I looked at the twisted debris behind him.

The city’s street sweepers had spent freezing mornings huddled there, pouring boiling water into thermoses to thaw their cracked hands.

Now, it was just a pile of sheared steel pipes and shredded blue tarp.

I inhaled deeply, forcing the ancestral venom coiled in my veins back into its cage. "This isn't about money," I said, meeting Dorian’s guileless gaze. "That was public infrastructure.

You don't get to demolish it with heavy machinery just because it offended your aesthetic sensibilities. That’s destruction of public property.

It’s a crime." A dry, patronizing chuckle slipped from Helena’s lips. "A crime?" She looked at me as if I had just recited a fairy tale. "In this city, my word is the law." She dropped the soiled silk handkerchief.

It floated down, landing squarely over a damp hundreddollar bill at my feet. "You’re still in school, aren't you?" Her tone softened into that unbearable, condescending cadence elders use on difficult children. "The real world isn't an ivory tower.

Clinging to petty moral crusades will only ruin your future. I didn't stop here to debate ethics with you. Dorian found that shack offensive, so it had to go.

The money is an act of grace—a tip for your meager, inconsequential benevolence.

Don't mistake my manners for weakness." Looking at her polished, immaculate face, a laugh bubbled up in my throat. "An act of grace?" I pointed at the rubble. "Do you have any idea how many elderly workers relied on that station to survive the snowstorms?" Dorian’s hand fluttered back to his sternum, his lips parting in soft despair. "Please, don't raise your voice," he pleaded. "I know things must be tight for you financially, which is why you cling to these small, desperate gestures.

But the world doesn't run on raw sentiment. Helena’s foundation donates tens of millions to accredited institutions every single year. Shacks like that are unpermitted fire hazards.

Tearing it down was a matter of public safety." Every syllable out of his mouth was smooth as honey, positioned from an unassailable moral pedestal.

He painted me as the bitter, unstable radical resisting civic progress. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. Memories of three years ago surfaced like ghosts.

The week I woke up in this reality, realizing my family was barreling toward total destruction, I had starved myself in my bedroom for seventytwo hours.

I used my own pulse as leverage to force my mother—the ruthless syndicate matriarch who ruled the shipping docks—to dissolve every offshore cartel she commanded.

I still remembered the terror on her face, kneeling by my bed with a silver bowl of broth, begging: "Jesse, my boy, no more hits! We won't kill anyone, I swear!

Just eat something, please!" To balance the karmic scales, I forced myself to walk the pavement.

I pedaled a creaking bicycle through sleet and rain, scrubbing the bloodline clean through thankless public service. And now?

Now, the shining protagonists of this world were wiping their boots on my hardearned grace.

Helena slipped her arm around Dorian's waist, turning toward the curb. "Pick up your money," she said over her shoulder, her voice an suffocating blend of pity and dismissal. "True charity requires capital.

Don't let your pride starve you." I stood in the biting wind, my hands clenching into fists inside my pockets. "What if I rebuild it?" 2 Helena’s leather heels halted on the sidewalk.

She didn't turn back, but the private security guard trailing her immediately stepped between us.

His posture was deceptively polite as he dipped his chin. "Sir, please refrain from harassing Ms.

Langford." Dorian peeked around Helena’s shoulder, a look of genuine sorrow clouding his porcelain features. "Jesse, why must you be so stubborn?" he murmured softly. "Obsessing over this will only poison your mental health.

If you truly want to make a difference, I can arrange an internship for you at Helena's foundation.

You’d learn from industry professionals instead of fumbling around out here in the cold." His concern was thick and cloying, like syrup poured over broken glass.

I met his gaze deadon. "I don't want your handouts. I want the shelter rebuilt." Helena turned around completely.

The look in her eyes had shifted from annoyance to clinical pity—the way one looks at a stray dog snarling at its own reflection. "Some people," she said softly to Dorian, as if delivering an educational lecture on the lower classes, "are destined to rot in the mud.

You offer them sunlight, and they curse you for the glare. Come, Dorian.

Engaging with people at this level only cheapens your spirit." She guided him into the waiting RollsRoyce Phantom.

Before the tinted window rolled up, Dorian cast one last wistful glance my way. "Think about what I said, Jesse.

We all have to grow up eventually." The heavy door sealed with a vacuum thud.

The engine purred, and the luxury sedan dissolved seamlessly into the midday traffic, leaving me alone with the twisted wreckage.

I crouched down and began hauling away the broken sheet metal.

A small crowd had gathered on the perimeter, their hushed voices carrying over the wind. "Kid should've just pocketed the cash. That's a few hundred grand right there." "Right?

That's more than he'll make in his first five years out of college." "Young guys these days... too proud.

No sense of how the world actually works." The murmurs pricked like needles, but I kept my head down, dragging a bent iron conduit to the curb.

My mother had nearly ended up tied to a cinderblock at the bottom of the bay three years ago because she operated outside the lines of civilization. I had to endure this.

I had to stay clean. The next morning, I refused to concede.

I cracked open my personal savings, purchased raw lumber and insulated sheeting, and headed out toward the decaying industrial fringe on the city's West Side.

It was an forgotten pocket of the city where elderly cancollectors dragged their handcarts between shifts.

I had barely raised the timber framing when three immaculate white Mercedes vans pulled up to the curb.

Several men in matching tailored uniforms stepped out, their hands encased in pristine white gloves. "Pardon the intrusion. Mr.

Vaughn?" The man at the front wore a razorsharp smile, extending a thick folder stamped with gold foil. "What's this?" I asked, keeping my grip on my hammer. "A municipal urban renewal easement," he said smoothly, unfolding an architectural rendering. "Langford Enterprises recently acquired the revitalization rights for this corridor.

Mr. Dorian found this district dreadfully bleak.

At his personal request, the foundation will be breaking ground on an openconcept, glasswalled contemporary art pavilion." I froze, looking around at the cracked brick facades, the peeling paint, the frail, stooped figures shivering beneath worn coats. "An art pavilion?" I demanded, wondering if I had suffered auditory hallucination. "These people don't have heat, and you're building them an art pavilion?" The representative maintained his flawless corporate grin, his eyes cold and superior. "Mr.

Vaughn, visionaries like Mr. Dorian operate on a plane ordinary citizens struggle to comprehend. He believes spiritual enrichment takes precedence over material handouts.

The gallery will be free to the public.

It is an act of immense philanthropy." His eyes dropped to my halffinished wooden frame. "Regrettably, your installation does not align with the master plan.

We must ask that you dismantle it within the hour.

Otherwise, our contractors will be forced to 'remediate' the site on your behalf." Behind him, a crew of broadshouldered laborers carrying power tools stepped forward, encircling my frame in complete silence.

They didn't raise their voices or lift a finger, but the suffocating weight of institutional power pressed down like lead. This was capital at work.

They didn't need to throw an insult; they simply bought the air you were breathing and billed you for the privilege. "This is a public sidewalk," I said through gritted teeth. "As of this morning, it is under Langford stewardship." The man handed me an embossed business card. "Ms.

Langford noted that if you harbor any legal objections, our corporate litigation team is always available for tea.

We welcome your counsel." 3 I looked at the card reading "General Counsel, Langford Enterprises" and felt a bitter surge of disbelief.

This was the textbook methodology of the story’s golden couple.

They cloaked cruelty in the pristine vestments of progress, engineering a gilded dystopia while demanding universal applause.

In silence, I tore down the frame I had spent six hours erecting. The elderly ragpickers watched from the far corner of the alley, their faces etched with weary resignation.

An old woman with a hunched spine shuffled over, pressing two bruised clementines into my palm. "Let it go, son," she rasped softly. "You can't fight people who own the pavement." I gripped the fruit, the faint warmth of her weathered hands stinging against my freezing skin.

My eyes burned.

I had held my family’s monstrous instincts at bay for three long years, all so the socalled righteous rulers of this city could trample on basic dignity without batting an eyelash?

Over the next two weeks, I learned what it truly felt like to be drowned in velvet.

The campus volunteer collective I had founded was abruptly disbanded by the university administration.

The official announcement was a masterclass in bureaucratic eloquence: "To optimize institutional synergy, all studentled outreach initiatives will be consolidated under the Pure White Light Foundation, established by Mr.

Dorian." Soon after, the community centers and elderly hospices I had partnered with began declining my calls. "Jesse, it’s not that we don't appreciate you," the director of a youth shelter sighed over the phone, sounding deeply burdened. "Mr.

Dorian’s foundation just donated a stateoftheart sensory therapy wing.

But a stipulation of the grant was..." "That I be barred from the premises?" I supplied calmly. "Oh, he didn't phrase it like that at all!" the director rushed to correct. "Mr.

Dorian said you were running yourself ragged and needed rest. He insisted on shouldering the burden for you. Truly, he is an angel in human form." I hung up the receiver.

It was a brilliant, bloodless siege. Dorian never threw a punch.

Instead, he assumed the mantle of a selfless martyr, systematically cutting off every avenue of service I had carved out.

He cast me as an unstable, tragic soul who needed to be saved from his own delusions, while he played the saint shouldering my cross. Everyone lauded his boundless compassion.

Everyone whispered about my petty ingratitude.

The following Tuesday, I was wheeling my squeaking commuter bike toward the campus gates when a sleek obsidian Maybach glided to the curb, blocking the exit.

The tinted glass slid down, revealing Donna’s bored, patrician profile.

She was Helena’s childhood confidante, an aristocratic socialite who treated Dorian like an endangered pet. "Well, well.

If it isn't our local Mother Teresa," Donna drawled, resting a Frenchmanicured hand against the steering wheel. "Still pedaling that rust bucket?

Didn't Helena give you enough cash to buy an actual engine?" I ignored her, shifting my weight to steer around the hood.

With a flick of her wrist, she cut the wheel, the bumper sweeping across my path with terrifying precision, trapping my front tire against the curb without leaving a scratch. "Don't run off just yet," Donna said, tapping the horn lightly.

Several students stopped to stare. "Tomorrow night, Helena is hosting a blacktie gala at the Grand Hyatt to celebrate Dorian's foundation surpassing one hundred million in donations." She slid a thick, giltedged card through the cracked window. "Dorian was adamant that I deliver this to you personally.

He said that despite your unfortunate friction, he still considers you a kindred spirit.

He wants you there to witness what true, scalable philanthropy looks like." I stared at the invitation, my hands remaining at my sides. "I'm busy." Donna didn't blink.

She reached out and tucked the heavy card securely between my bike's brake cables. "Dorian has an enormous heart, Jesse.

Don't spit on his kindness." Her smirk vanished, replaced by an icy, razorsharp edge. "Helena has an abundance of patience for stray dogs. I do not.

In our circles, when people reject an olive branch, they tend to lose the hand that pushed it away. Be there tomorrow. Don't make Dorian cry.

Because if you do, you'll discover that I lack Helena's gentle touch." She punched the gas, the Maybach roaring into the twilight.

I stared down at the gold leaf gleaming under the streetlights, took a long, steady breath, and pocketed the card. Fine.

Let’s see what kind of circus they’ve arranged. 4 The grand ballroom of the Grand Hyatt was an ocean of crystal chandeliers, bespoke silk, and vintage champagne.

I stood near the entrance in a pair of faded denim jeans and a simple white buttondown, looking like an ink stain on an ivory rug.

The private security guards at the door had moved to intercept me, but the moment I produced the goldembossed invitation, their expressions contorted into baffled deference, and they had no choice but to let me pass.

The moment I stepped inside, the ambient chatter dropped half an octave. "Is that the kid from the campus protests?" "The one who’s been harassing Dorian over those homeless tents?" "Good lord, the audacity.

Dorian had to beg Helena to let him attend just to broaden the boy's horizons." The whispers brushed against my ears like dry leaves.

I found an unoccupied cocktail table in the shadowed perimeter, watching the spectacle unfold.

On the elevated stage, bathed in soft golden spotlights, Dorian stood like an ethereal prince in a bespoke chalkwhite tuxedo.

His eyes shimmered with theatrical moisture as he addressed the microphone. "What little I do is merely a drop in the ocean," he murmured, his voice cracking with rehearsed vulnerability. "I only pray for a world with less pain and more grace.

Even when my intentions are misunderstood... even when I am attacked... I will never stop giving." Thunderous applause broke out across the hall.

Helena stood a halfstep behind him, her gaze so fierce with adoration it bordered on molten. When the keynote concluded, the room dissolved into low hums of networking.

I turned toward the exit, ready to leave, when the crowd parted.

Dorian was gliding directly toward me, flanked by a court of admiring socialites, a flute of vintage champagne balanced delicately in his fingers. "Jesse!

You actually came," he beamed, his tone radiant with warmth. "I’m so happy." The surrounding guests tightened their circle, eager for the confrontation. "Thanks for the invite," I said evenly. "Please, there's no need for formality," Dorian sighed, his smile turning faintly wistful. "I know you've harbored resentment toward me.

You felt I took away your platform. But giving shouldn't be about personal glory, Jesse. If you're open to it, I can speak with Helena tonight.

We can find you a paid coordinator role inside my foundation.

That way, you won't have to ride that bicycle through the freezing rain anymore." It was delivered with such flawless, paternalistic charity that a soft murmur of approval rippled through the guests. "Look at Dorian, so forgiving." "If it were me, I would have had security throw this bum onto the street." I looked at Dorian’s glowing, saintly mask, and the dam finally broke. "Do you actually believe your own lies, Dorian?" My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a razor through silk. "You bulldozed a winter heating shelter so you could build a private taxwriteoff gallery.

You dumped obsolete hospital surplus into an orphanage on the condition that they ban independent oversight.

You monopolized civic aid through corporate leverage, branding every scrap of misery with your personal logo. That isn't charity.

It’s an extortion racket dressed up as a PR campaign." A collective gasp swept through the ballroom. Dorian’s face drained of color.

His eyes instantly brimmed with tears, his slender frame trembling as if struck by a physical blow. "How could you... how could you say that about me?" He took a dramatic, unsteady step backward.

His shoulder caught the edge of a dessert tier. His hand tipped.

The dark vintage champagne cascaded down the front of his pristine white tuxedo, splashing crimson across his lapels like fresh arterial spray. "Ah!" he cried out, covering his face. "What is happening here?!" Helena shoved through the circle like a freight train, gathering the trembling Dorian into her arms.

When she looked up at me, her eyes were black with murderous intent. "Jesse," she said, her voice dropping into a register of terrifying calm. "I have tolerated your insolence once, twice, three times.

Did you truly believe I was incapable of crushing you?" "Helena, please, don't blame him!" Dorian sobbed into her neck. "I lost my footing!

He’s just bitter... please don't hurt him because of me!" The room was primed to explode. "Arrest him!" someone shouted. "Call the authorities!" Helena stripped off her suit jacket, draping it over Dorian’s shoulders.

Then she stepped toward me, stopping inches away, the scent of expensive perfume and absolute authority radiating from her skin. "Two choices," she whispered, her voice vibrating with authority. "First: get on your knees right now and beg Dorian for forgiveness in front of every person in this room.

Second: refuse, and I guarantee that before the sun rises tomorrow, your existence in this city will be completely erased.

Along with that pathetic, bankrupt pride of yours." I looked into her eyes, an ironic smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Before I could open my lips to reply— "BOOM." The tenfoot, handcarved mahogany double doors of the grand ballroom blasted open with the force of an explosion.

Beyond the threshold, an endless convoy of matteblack armored tactical SUVs was parked across the hotel plaza, their front grilles blazing with blinding highbeams.

Every single license plate was a sequence of cold, identical zeroes. The blinding white light poured into the hall, bleaching the color from every terrified face.

Through the glare, three figures strode in, their footsteps measured, heavy, and dripping with absolute dominion.