《Trying For Failure》 Chapter 1: Rock Bottom with Wi-Fi Alex Hartman lay flat on his lumpy twin-sized bed, his face illuminated by the pale blue glow of his ancient phone. It wasn¡¯t just a bad day. It was the bad day¡ªthe kind of day that could single-handedly represent all of his worst decisions and dumb luck rolled into one. He groaned and scrolled through his feed, watching the curated success of people he hadn¡¯t spoken to in years. There was Darren Monroe, posing in front of a Porsche with a scantily dressed girl grinding on him who was hopefully 20, with some vague caption about ¡°grinding for greatness.¡± A scrolling ad appeared next, boasting, ¡°You won¡¯t believe how I made $500k last month working from home!¡± Alex scoffed. ¡°Yeah, and I won¡¯t believe anyone actually clicks on this garbage.¡± His thumb hovered for a moment, though. The universe had been mocking him all day, so why stop now? First, he¡¯d been fired from his office job at Ridgewood Insurance because he ¡°didn¡¯t fit the company culture,¡± which was code for ¡°didn¡¯t laugh hard enough at Gary¡¯s dad jokes.¡± Then, on his way out, his car battery had died in the parking lot, leaving him stranded for an hour while the office receptionist loudly reminded him that ¡°Triple-B is really easy to call!¡± When he finally made it home, dripping wet from an unexpected rainstorm, he stepped into his living room and discovered that his upstairs neighbor had overflowed their washing machine. Again. Water dripped ominously from the ceiling onto Alex¡¯s TV. ¡°Perfect,¡± he muttered, watching the screen blink and die. With a small string of smoke making the place smell of burnt wire. Now, here he was¡ª34 years old, lying in a shit box duplex with his mom, unemployed, broke, and eating off-brand CheezZips puffs straight from the bag. He sighed, swiping through Instagram again. How is everyone else winning? he thought, staring at a perfectly angled photo of a high school classmate¡¯s new bakery. ¡°What even is a gluten-free macaron?¡± he muttered, shoving another handful of CheezZips puffs into his mouth. One more swipe, and his mood dropped lower. There was Kelly Roberts¡ªwho once accidentally stapled her hand in science class¡ªsmiling on a yacht somewhere in Santorini. ¡°Of course, you¡¯re on a yacht, Kelly. You couldn¡¯t spell ¡®Mediterranean¡¯ in 10th grade, but now you¡¯re living it.¡± Alex tossed the phone onto his chest and groaned loudly. ¡°Why does everyone else get to be lucky? I¡¯ve been doing the same dance for a decade, and look where it got me.¡± To be fair, Alex¡¯s life hadn¡¯t been an outright disaster¡ªit was more like a series of absurdly bad coincidences. There was the time he tried to buy into a carpool group, but the other members just¡­ moved away. Or the time he won a gift card to a steakhouse but then lost it in a laundromat fire (don¡¯t ask). Even his relationships had been comedies of errors, including a brief stint dating someone who turned out to be his boss¡¯s niece. The worst part was, that Alex wasn¡¯t stupid. He had a college degree in communications, and a minor in puppetry of theater a ¡°solid¡± C+ average, and at least two recommendations from professors who¡¯d called him ¡°passably reliable.¡± He even had ambition once¡ªhe¡¯d spent weeks applying for jobs at ad agencies, only to end up selling insurance. ¡°Life¡¯s a rigged game,¡± Alex said to the ceiling. ¡°Some people are just born with cheat codes, and the rest of us get¡­ this.¡± He gestured vaguely at his room, with its fading posters, mismatched furniture, and a pile of unopened mail threatening to tip over. His phone buzzed beside him, breaking the moment. Alex glanced at his phone, half another notification about ¡°exclusive deals¡± on 20-packs of socks or a spam text about car warranties. Instead, it was a headline from one of the doomscroll rabbit holes he subscribed to: ¡°10 Things You¡¯re Doing Wrong If You¡¯re Still Poor After 30.¡± ¡°Gee, thanks for the reminder,¡± he muttered, swiping it away. The phone buzzed again. ¡°How I Turned My Life Around After Hitting Rock Bottom¡ªRead More.¡± Alex stared at it for a moment, then snorted. ¡°Turned it around? How? Win the lottery? Find a wealthy benefactor with a thing for sad, unemployed guys with student loan debt?¡± He rolled his eyes, but the words lingered in his mind. He reached for the half-empty bag of cheese puffs and stuffed a few more into his mouth. Crumbs dusted his fingers and fell onto the bedspread that hadn¡¯t been washed in¡­ a while. His mom had commented on it earlier that week with a subtle, ¡°You know, Alex, it might be nice to freshen things up in here.¡± The universe wasn¡¯t the only one mocking him. His mom had taken to offering ¡°helpful¡± suggestions ever since he moved in with her in the duplex she owned. After dad died she needed the help, or at least that¡¯s what I told myself. Today¡¯s gems had included: ¡°Why don¡¯t you reach out to some old classmates? Networking is everything!¡± ¡°Have you thought about going back to school? People love hiring older alumni these days.¡± And the most cutting of all: ¡°It¡¯s okay, sweetie. Your cousin Max took years to find his passion too.¡± Max. The same cousin who once built a ¡°robot¡± for a middle school science fair that was just a toaster with googly eyes glued to it. He was now a successful app developer in Silicon Valley.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Alex rubbed his temples and groaned again, louder this time, hoping the universe¡ªor at least his mom¡ªwould hear it and take pity. The phone buzzed once more, but he ignored it, choosing instead to toss the bag of cheese puffs onto his cluttered nightstand. The room fell silent, save for the occasional creak of the bed springs as he shifted uncomfortably. ¡°What am I even doing?¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Is this it? Thirty-four years, and my greatest achievement is¡­ not choking on a cheese puff today?¡± The phone buzzed yet again. Alex sat up with a groan, crumbs cascading off his shirt like some sad confetti of failure. His stomach grumbled loudly¡ªa cruel reminder that cheese puffs didn¡¯t exactly qualify as dinner. ¡°Fine,¡± he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. ¡°Let¡¯s see what gourmet options await in the fridge.¡± The walk to the corner of his room was only a few steps, but even that felt like too much effort. His legs were stiff from lying down all day, and his socks clung uncomfortably to his feet in the humid room. As he shuffled toward the mini-fridge, his left foot caught the edge of his bed frame. ¡°AHHHHH!¡± Pain shot through his foot like a bolt of lightning. Alex hopped on one leg, clutching his toes and cursing everything from his bed to gravity itself. ¡°Of course! Of course, I stub my toe now! Why not? Let¡¯s just pile it on!¡± Glaring at the offending piece of furniture. ¡°Stupid bed. Stupid fridge. Stupid everything.¡± He squeezed his foot, wincing as the pain throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. After a minute of wallowing, Alex saw his reflection in this old mirror he had since high school, looking at his newly balding, potbelly, and stained undershirt. Alex sighed shook his head, then tried his best not to look at his horrible state. He limped the last step to the mini-fridge. He yanked open the door with more force than necessary, only to be greeted by a chilling void. The light inside flickered weakly, illuminating a barren wasteland of condensation and disappointment. ¡°No. No, no, no.¡± He crouched down, peering inside as if the fridge might be hiding something in the corners. The only occupants were a single packet of ketchup and half an ice cube tray. Alex sat back on the floor and stared at the empty fridge as if it had personally betrayed him. ¡°This is it. This is rock bottom,¡± he whispered. ¡°I¡¯ve stubbed my toe on the way to an empty fridge. This is where it all ends.¡± For a moment, he just sat there, letting the absurdity of his situation wash over him. His toe throbbed, his stomach growled, and the faint hum of the fridge felt like it was mocking him. ¡°Why does life hate me?¡± he said aloud to no one in particular. ¡°What did I do? Was I a war criminal in a past life? Did I steal candy from orphans?¡± He leaned back against the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. His phone buzzed again on the bed, breaking the silence. He ignored it, too defeated to even check. But then it buzzed again. And again. ¡°Fine!¡± he snapped, dragging himself off the floor and grabbing the phone. ¡°What now? Another email telling me how I can ¡®be my own boss¡¯? A text from Mom reminding me that my older sister is giving a TED Talk?¡± But this time, the notification was different. Alex squinted at the notification, its garish neon colors standing out against the dim screen. ¡°Congratulations! You¡¯ve been chosen for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reshape your destiny! Click here to get started.¡± He stared at the words, his first reaction a snort of derision. ¡°Yeah, right. Probably just another scam trying to sell me protein powder or cryptocurrency.¡± His thumb hovered over the dismiss button, but he hesitated. Reshape your destiny. The phrase dug into him, uncomfortably earnest. The kind of phrase he might have mocked a few months ago but now sounded like a desperate plea from the universe itself. ¡°What do I even have to lose?¡± he muttered. ¡°Worst-case scenario, they steal my credit card info and buy a better life than mine.¡± With a resigned shrug, Alex tapped the notification. The screen went black for a moment, and Alex frowned, shaking the phone. ¡°Great. My luck strikes again.¡± Just as he considered giving up, a new screen appeared. It was sleek, minimalist, and entirely too professional-looking for a scam. At the top, bold letters read: Welcome to the Tycoon Project Below, a wall of text scrolled automatically, filled with fine print, legalese, and phrases like ¡°compliance required¡± and ¡°performance-based evaluation.¡± ¡°Ugh, who has time to read all this?¡± Alex muttered, scrolling down to the bottom. His thumb stopped at a glowing button that simply said: ¡°Accept¡± The moment Alex hit ¡°Accept,¡± the screen didn¡¯t vibrate or flash. Instead, he felt an odd wave of dizziness wash over him. ¡°Huh?¡± he muttered, gripping the edge of the bed as the room seemed to tilt slightly. His vision blurred at the edges, colors swirling like someone had messed with the TV¡¯s contrast settings. A strange warmth spread through his chest, followed by a faint buzzing in his ears. ¡°Okay, this is¡­ weird,¡± Alex said, blinking rapidly to steady himself. His limbs felt heavy like he was wading through water, and the air around him thickened, taking on an almost syrupy quality. He tried to stand, but the floor beneath him seemed to ripple, his knees buckling as a sudden wave of exhaustion hit. ¡°What the hell did I just agree to?¡± he mumbled, his voice slurring like he¡¯d just come out of anesthesia. The light from his phone intensified, not blinding but all-encompassing, as if it were seeping into his skin. His breathing slowed, each breath deep and deliberate, as though his body were no longer under his full control. The sensation wasn¡¯t painful¡ªit was¡­ surreal. Like falling asleep while wide awake. ¡°Okay, okay,¡± Alex said weakly, trying to fight the pull of whatever was happening. But the heaviness grew stronger, his limbs refusing to cooperate. His head lolled to the side, and the last thing he saw was his phone screen glowing brighter and brighter before everything faded to black.
When Alex came to, the world felt¡­ different. He blinked, squinting against the daylight streaming through an unfamiliar¡­ no quite familiar window. His head throbbed faintly, but the buzzing sensation in his ears was gone. Slowly, he sat up, his senses sharpening. The bed wasn¡¯t his¡ªtoo firm, too clean. The room smelled faintly of old socks and cheap deodorant. ¡°What the¡­¡± Alex muttered, scanning the space. The walls were adorned with band posters he hadn¡¯t seen in over a decade. A gaming console sat under a tiny flat-screen TV, and his old high school backpack leaned against a desk. His eyes locked onto a calendar pinned to the wall. The bright red date circled in Sharpie read: June 12, 2010. ¡°No. No, no, no,¡± Alex stammered, standing and nearly tripping over a pair of sneakers he hadn¡¯t worn since his early twenties. A framed picture on the desk caught his attention. It was of him¡ªgrinning awkwardly in a cap and gown, high school diploma in hand. ¡°What the actual hell is going on?¡± Alex whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. His gaze landed on a phone sitting neatly on the desk. It wasn¡¯t the ancient model he¡¯d had in 2026. It was sleek and new¡ªwell, new for 2010. The screen lit up, displaying an unread notification: ¡°Welcome, Alex Hartman. Let¡¯s get started.¡± Chapter 2: Welcome to the Game "Welcome, Alex Hartman. Let¡¯s get started." The words on the phone¡¯s screen glowed faintly, throwing an eerie light across Alex¡¯s room. He stared at them, a thousand questions racing through his mind. His body still tingled faintly from the strange lightheadedness that had overtaken him earlier. Everything felt sharper, clearer¡ªlike his mind and senses had been fine-tuned overnight. But in reality, it was just because he was 18 again and healthy. But none of it made sense. He had woken up in 2010, years younger, in his childhood room, with a bizarre app claiming he was now part of some mysterious project. And for what? To build a business? To achieve ¡°greatness¡±? A new line of text appeared on the screen: ¡°The Tycoon Project: Your role is to build and sustain a thriving business empire. Success metrics will be monitored. Resources provided. Rewards commensurate with performance.¡± Alex narrowed his eyes. ¡°This is some SCP shit if I''ve ever seen one, What kind of rewards?¡± The phone hesitated for a moment before displaying: ¡°Successful completion of objectives unlocks incremental control over project parameters, personal autonomy, and optional resource withdrawal.¡± Personal autonomy. The phrase set off alarm bells in Alex¡¯s head. ¡°And if I fail?¡± The screen flickered before responding: ¡°Failure metrics vary. Consequences range from loss of resources to permanent exclusion from Project privileges.¡± Alex frowned. The vague, clinical phrasing only deepened his suspicion. This wasn¡¯t some benevolent opportunity¡ªit was a test. A trap he had already fallen into! ¡°Alright, fine,¡± he muttered. ¡°Let¡¯s say I play along. What¡¯s stopping me from just¡­ failing immediately?¡± For a moment, the screen stayed blank, and Alex thought he¡¯d stumped it. Then a line of text appeared: ¡°Involuntary termination of Project status is irreversible. Consequences cannot be disclosed prior to initiation.¡± ¡°Of course not,¡± Alex muttered. It was becoming clear to him: this wasn¡¯t a game where failure was a free option. There were stakes¡ªserious ones. But what if¡­ what if winning was worse? What if the system wasn¡¯t testing him to see if he could succeed, but rather how far he¡¯d go? The next screen appeared, snapping him out of his thoughts: ¡°Initial resources generated: $1,000 starting capital, a commercial property deed, and partner selection.¡± Below it, a map appeared, pinpointing the location of his new business: a run-down storefront in a semi-decent area. The screen showed a picture of the building. ¡°Fantastic,¡± Alex muttered. ¡°Looks like a foreclosure waiting to happen.¡± The final prompt caught his attention: ¡°Choose a partner to manage operations.¡± A list of names and faces began scrolling on the screen, each accompanied by a short bio. Alex¡¯s eyes skimmed the entries¡ªsome were decent, some mediocre, but all came with an ominously vague ¡°Potential Contribution Score.¡± Then this thought struck him. If the system wanted him to succeed, then every candidate on this list would, in theory, have some redeeming qualities. But what if Alex¡¯s goal wasn¡¯t to succeed? What if his best shot was to exploit the system¡¯s desire for control by creating as much chaos as possible? If he could turn his "success" into something absurd, maybe the system would reveal its true intentions. A slow grin spread across his face. I¡¯ll give you a tycoon, alright. Let¡¯s see how far we can push this. Alex thought he was grinning like the Grinch. That¡¯s when he spotted the options Recommendations Amanda Carlisle Age: 28 Bio: A marketing graduate with three years of experience in a mid-tier advertising firm. Amanda¡¯s biggest achievement was spearheading a social media campaign that went semi-viral, increasing her previous employer''s brand engagement by 15%. Currently freelancing after being laid off due to company downsizing. Depressed enough to work for a 18 year old nobody :) Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.Strengths: Weaknesses: Potential Contribution Score: 68% Kenneth ¡°Kenny¡± Ramirez Age: 35 Bio: A former truck driver with a knack for logistics. Kenny has never managed a business before, but he¡¯s good with numbers and has been praised for his problem-solving skills in high-pressure situations. Recently unemployed after an accident left him unable to drive. Strengths: Weaknesses: Potential Contribution Score: 59% Marcus Billings Age: 42 Bio: A retired accountant who left his career early to ¡°live off the land.¡± Marcus has been running a modest organic farming business but is looking for new opportunities to ¡°reconnect with the modern world.¡± His expertise lies in finances and budgets. Strengths: Weaknesses: Potential Contribution Score: 72% As Alex scrolled through the ¡°Recommendations list¡± pausing at each description in bafflement¡­ mommy issues and depressed? Low class birth? Alex stared extra hard at the hot pink letters with little hearts floating around the text. ¡°This is super suspicious¡± Alex muttered, ¡°And why is the system talking like that?¡± Amanda and Marcus seemed like obvious choices if he were taking this seriously. Amanda had enough experience to manage day-to-day operations, but she seems to be in a dark place, and it would be wrong to take advantage of her. While Marcus¡¯s financial acumen could keep the business solvent, Alex really didn¡¯t like how the system was presenting Marcus. Alex squinted his eyes and thought This feels like a classic Hobson¡¯s choice. When you are given multiple options but only one real option. Kenny is an instant no for now at least. Alex needed someone who could help bring chaos and not be a system pawn. He looked around his dirty room for a possible idea. Then his eyes focused in on the new graduation yearbook that has (most likely) been thrown on his desk right after coming home after book signing. Alex hopped over all the dirty clothes and random nicknacks on the floor to his desk. ¡°Perfect! This should refresh my memory.¡± He cracked it open not recognizing many faces, till he saw his own picture. In the middle of the book after last names ending with M, the pages turned to club pictures, and in the background of some of the pictures was the school mascot doing goofy things. After a few more pages a whole page was the Cheer team with the mascot lined up with them and its head off showing a young man standing about 5¡¯9 with a mop of messy long-Ish brown hair and dark eyes with an off-kilter grin. Under each person in the lineup was a name and under the mascot was Brian T. Alex had a feeling he had promise, he looked for more mentions of B.T. The next mention of him was in the student voting section. The image was Brian in really baggy jeans with a tie used as a belt, and a Hawaiian shirt with a clearly disheveled backpack over one shoulder covered in patches all on his lankly frame. From what Alex saw Brian¡¯s appearance was giving a chaotic, whimsical, and utterly unbothered by the opinions of others vibe. He pulled off his look very well. He was holding a bored saying ¡°Least Likely to Succeed¡± mid-laugh next to a Black girl in a clean and professional-looking suit jacket and pants holding a bored saying ¡°Most Likely to Succeed¡± trying to look serious but clearly failing to keep a professional look next to Brian. The more Alex saw the better Brian looked! (for his plans of course) After the group pictures, it went back to head shots of all the students. Alex combed through the pages till he saw the last names starting with T, then he went name by name. When he landed on Brian Thompson, he looked up to the photo to see a picture of Brian in a powdered wig and a Victorian fan that was clearly made minutes before the picture. Alex looked back at his phone and said ¡°Show me, Brian Thompson¡± The phone only delayed for a second as if it was processing the request thinking if it would listen but after a few seconds, Brian¡¯s Profile appeared. After reading all of Brian¡¯s Profile Alex couldn¡¯t stop grinning. Brian was perfect: an unreliable, overconfident, barely employable disaster. If anyone could turn a fledgling business into a flaming wreck, it was Brian. And better yet, the system wouldn¡¯t stop him from picking Brian¡ªit was his choice. ¡°Let¡¯s see how badly we can break this system¡± Alex muttered, selecting Brian¡¯s profile. Brian Thompson Age: 18 Bio: Brian just graduated high school, while in high school Brian was the school mascot, known as the guy who managed to burn ramen in the Home Econ microwave. Famously bombed a presentation in Economics class by confusing ¡°profit¡± with ¡°prophet.¡± Voted ¡°Least Likely to Succeed¡± in the senior yearbook. He is currently at a shaman having his bones read to see what college he should go to. Strengths: Weaknesses: Potential Contribution Score: 18% Chapter 3 Breakfast with the Hartmans Alex stared at the screen, the confirmation of his choice glowing back at him: "Partner Selected: Brian Thompson." He squinted at the screen. That was it? No fanfare, no dramatic entrance? He half-expected Brian to appear out of thin air, materializing in the corner of the room wearing one of his atrocious Hawaiian shirts, probably holding a half-eaten hot pocket. But nothing happened. Alex cleared his throat and glanced around his room. ¡°Uh, Brian? You here?¡± The silence was deafening. He tapped the screen again, expecting some explanation. ¡°Hey, system, where¡¯s Brian? I just picked him. Shouldn¡¯t he, I don¡¯t know, pop out of the ether or something?¡± The screen flickered, and the reply appeared with maddening calmness: "I am not God, Mr. Hartman." Alex¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°What do you mean you¡¯re not¡ª" He paused, waving his hand toward the empty air in front of him. ¡°You¡¯re running this whole show! I thought you¡¯d at least summon him or something!¡± More text appeared as a glowing screen could manage: "Partner recruitment requires standard human interaction. Brian Thompson resides at 112 Walnut Street, Apartment 3B, 1.4 miles from your current location." Alex blinked at the address, dumbfounded. ¡°Wait. You¡¯re telling me I have to go find him? You can rewind time and throw me into 2010, but you can¡¯t Uber a person here?¡± "Correct. Proceed with recruitment." It paused for a moment then continued. "Please remember that ride-sharing services are still in their infancy." Alex groaned and flopped back onto his bed, the springs creaking under him. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, utterly exasperated. He¡¯d picked Brian because he thought it would be a quick and easy way to throw the game into chaos¡ªnot because he wanted to ACTUALLY talk to the guy again. ¡°Unbelievable,¡± Alex muttered, pulling a pillow over his face. The screen buzzed, drawing his attention; Taking the pillow off his face to glance at the screen. "Noted." Alex stared at the phone for a long moment, silently cursing the smug little shi-. Swinging his legs off the bed. ¡°I guess we¡¯re doing this. Brian Thompson, 2010 version Here I come¡­¡± After that declaration to the world, it was silent. as if the System was quietly laughing at him. He scowled and rolled off the bed, stuffing the phone into his pocket. He walked across the cluttered floor and stopped in front of the mirror. Slouched shoulders and poor posture made his 5¡¯10¡± frame look closer to 5¡¯8¡±. Noticing the way he carried himself, Alex rolled his shoulders back and stood straighter, trying to project more confidence than he felt. ¡°The first thing to fix is this bad posture,¡± he muttered to himself. With his head lifted, he could see himself more clearly. The word ¡°ugly duckling¡± came to mind immediately. He had just hit another growth spurt, but his body hadn¡¯t caught up to itself yet. His limbs were gangly, his torso thin but softened by a slight belly from years of avoiding anything remotely athletic. His angular features only exaggerated his frail appearance, making him look like he¡¯d been stretched out without filling in. Ironically all he owned was athletic clothing. His dark, curly brown hair was a chaotic mess, the kind of hair that teenage Alex had never figured out how to manage. It stuck out at odd angles, as though rebelling against any attempts at control. The one feature he couldn¡¯t criticize was his deep blue eyes. They were startling, even now. The irises were a rich, dark blue at the center, fading to almost black at the edges, like staring into the depths of the ocean. The longer Alex looked at them, the more they seemed to pull him in, full of potential and untapped depth. His gaze was steady.
I sigh, staring at the mirror. My reflection stares back¡ª18-year-old me. It¡¯s surreal. The face is familiar but almost foreign, like looking at an old video from the past. I run my fingers through my full hair, and there¡¯s that annoying hint of teenage acne on my chin & chest. Alright, Hartman. Blend in. Act natural. Just be... you, but younger. I¡¯ve got to navigate this circus of life without tipping anyone off. But I need to focus. Right now, it¡¯s all about blending in¡ªmaking sure no one notices anything too strange about me. I¡¯ve got to look like I¡¯m still just Alex. The Alex they know. I hear the TV flickering on downstairs and the sound of pots clanging together. So, that means Grandpa Joe¡¯s up, which is probably a sign that Mom¡¯s starting breakfast, and if she¡¯s up, Dad¡¯s probably already settled into his chair, ready to complain about something. I can¡¯t delay much longer. I¡¯ve got a mission to accomplish¡ªbut before I even think about recruiting Brian, I¡¯ve got to face my family. Dad¡­ A lightning bolt hit me hard. ¡°Dad is alive again¡­ I know everything, I can save him or at least I can lower the chances of him dying early.¡± My thoughts started to race. There¡¯s nothing I can do for now¡­ I need to get my priorities straight. Make a list and check them off. Dad still has a few years but the clock is ticking. I need to get medication for my ADHD to help me focus. Damn it I¡¯m not diagnosed yet, that wouldn¡¯t happen till my sophomore year of college. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Focus Alex! While having these thoughts I stand there in front of the mirror, debating whether or not to take a shower. I¡¯m not exactly filthy, but I can feel the stink of yesterday, the lingering smell of hotdog if I lift my arm. It¡¯s not even the body that bugs me. I rub the temple of my forehead in frustration. Ugh its morning and I can¡¯t have yesterdays B.O. I take one more look at my body before heading to the shower I share with my little brother. The hormonal horny late night mood swings are going to suck, just need to go to sleep before 10. The warm water will help me clear my head. At least for a few minutes, it¡¯ll feel like I¡¯m not completely out of place in this new, old skin. Plus, the real task starts later. Right now, I need to get into the right headspace. Finally, I strip down and step under the stream of lukewarm water, letting it wash over me. The rusty showerhead sputters a bit, The shower¡¯s got one of those old designs, that only sort of works, but it¡¯s warm enough to get the job done. I let the water pour over me. The water helps clear my head, but it doesn¡¯t wash away the weirdness of it all. You¡¯re not some awkward high school kid anymore, I tell myself, scrubbing at my face. You¡¯re a grown-ass man with a mission. A ridiculous mission, but still... a mission. After a couple of minutes of standing there, lost in thought, trying to shake off the nerves that have been clinging to my bones ever since I woke up in 2010. I¡¯m not some confused 18-year-old anymore. At least, I shouldn¡¯t be. I¡¯m not just dealing with the past¡ªI¡¯m holding the future in my head. I¡¯ve got to remember that. I take a deep breath, letting the water soothe me as I deeply scrub my skin. I need to make myself a skincare routine ASAP. After A deep cleaning, I rinse off and grab the only towel (Damp). I¡¯m not going to waste time thinking too much about the "why" or the "how" just yet. One step at a time.
Back in my room, I rifle through my closet. Everything¡¯s exactly how I left it¡ªor rather, how my younger self left it. The band T-shirts, the crumpled hoodies, the baggy gym shorts that were never quite the right fit. It¡¯s all here, staring at me like a time capsule I didn¡¯t ask to open, posters I thought were cool but now make me cringe. Still, it¡¯s my stuff. I take a quick stock of what¡¯s clean. My options are slim. I pull on a worn band T-shirt that fits a little loose, ¡°I wish I had some pair of jeans that fit just right,¡± I said, drawing out the words in a playful, twangy country accent. I put on some basketball shorts that I¡¯ve had for way too long, and a hoodie to throw over the top. Simple. Low-key. Nothing too flashy, nothing to draw attention nothing that screams, ¡°Hey, I¡¯m a 34-year-old man pretending to be 18.¡±. I don¡¯t want to stand out¡ªnot yet. I need to observe, adjust, and get a feel for this version of life before I do anything too radical. I hope getting a new wardrobe isn¡¯t radical, that thought makes me chuckle. I pause as I try to swallow down the rush of confusion that threatens to creep up on me again. I¡¯ve got to make it work. I¡¯ve got to get familiar with my surroundings before I start making any big moves. Satisfied, I head to my door, bracing myself for the inevitable chaos of breakfast with the Family.
I step out of my room, hearing the sounds of my family already moving through the house. My brother''s door is still closed so he''s probably sleeping in. The TV¡¯s still on downstairs, and I can tell Grandpa Joe¡¯s probably glued to some random show about history like he always is. His voice¡ªloud and off-color¡ªwill be booming any minute now. I make my way down the stairs, trying to stay calm. I can hear my mom humming something¡ªprobably a Missy Elliott song she¡¯s been obsessed with recently¡ªand the distinct sizzle of bacon frying. Mom¡¯s up. And if she¡¯s up, Dad¡¯s already in his chair, probably nursing a cup of coffee and preparing to complain about everything. The smell of frying bacon hits me as I take my first step on to the stairs, a scent so familiar it almost knocks me off balance, the creak of each step under my feet reminding me just how old this house is. The TV is already blaring in the living room¡ªsome history documentary narrated by a guy who sounds like he smokes three packs a day. Grandpa Joe is seated in his usual spot at the kitchen table, his oatmeal sitting untouched in front of him as he shouts at the screen. ¡°Wrong again!¡± he hollers. ¡°That¡¯s not how you negotiate with a dictator! You think charm works? You¡¯ve gotta offer incentives. Incentives!¡± I slowly walk down the stairs my heart pounding in my chest, my stomach tight. It¡¯s like stepping back into a world I don¡¯t quite fit into anymore. step into the kitchen. Mom¡¯s at the stove, humming Work It under her breath while flipping bacon with the precision of a surgeon. She¡¯s still wearing her old bathrobe, her hair tied back in a messy bun. The radio on the counter crackles with static, a soft beat playing in the background. The kitchen is alive with the sound of sizzling bacon and Mom humming Get Ur Freak On under her breath. ¡°Morning,¡± I say, my voice steady. ¡°Morning, Alex,¡± Mom calls without looking up. ¡°Breakfast¡¯ll be ready soon. Grab a seat.¡± She glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re up early. Got something important today?¡± ¡°Not really,¡± I reply, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. ¡°Just felt like getting a head start.¡± Her eyes linger on me for a moment, as if she¡¯s trying to figure out what¡¯s different. ¡°Well, whatever it is, you look more put together than usual. Maybe I¡¯ll finally stop hearing your dad complain about you wasting the day away.¡± Speak of the devil. Frank¡¯s sitting in his recliner at the far end of the room, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the paper. He doesn¡¯t even look up as he grumbles, ¡°If only he¡¯d start the day with a plan instead of a whim.¡± Past me would have bit back a retort; but all I could do was nod my head in supplication of his words. As much of a hard ass as he is I love him, and I just know if I say anything now I¡¯ll just start to cry and then tackle him with a hug. This is the man I¡¯ve grown up with¡ªhard, cold, and always ready to criticize. I know how much harder life gets for him after 2010. But right now, he¡¯s still Frank Hartman: a man stuck in his ways and doing his best to hold it all together. It¡¯s hard to look at him. To know what¡¯s coming. But I can¡¯t let it show. Not now. It¡¯s strange being here, knowing how much will change. Knowing that Dad has only a few more years left. Knowing how hard it¡¯s going to be for Mom when he¡¯s gone. ¡°I¡¯m figuring things out,¡± I say simply, pouring myself some orange juice, Grandpa Joe, oblivious to the tension, looks up from the TV and grins. ¡°Figuring things out, huh? That code for something?¡± he bounces his big white bushy eyebrows. I chuckle. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s code for drinking orange juice instead of coffee and thinking about life.¡± He laughs, slapping the table. ¡°There¡¯s my boy! Keep drinking that OJ¡ªyou¡¯ll solve all the world¡¯s problems in no time.¡± Mom shoots him a look. ¡°Joe, don¡¯t hurt yourself please.¡± ¡°What? The kid¡¯s got potential!¡± Grandpa Joe winks at me, then leans in conspiratorially. ¡°And speaking of potential, Alex, I¡¯ve got some old army buddies who swear by this thing called ¡®success by stamina.¡¯ It¡¯s all about pacing yourself¡ª¡± ¡°Dad!¡± Mom cuts him off, flipping the bacon onto a plate. ¡°Not at breakfast!¡± Grandpa throws his hands up in mock surrender. ¡°Fine, fine. I¡¯ll save the wisdom for later.¡± The banter makes me smile probably harder than it¡¯s meant to. The usual chaos continues around me as I sip my OJ, not really paying attention to the conversation anymore. I get my breakfast in silence, letting the rhythm of family life swirl around me. Grandpa Joe is now arguing with the TV, something about supply chains and military logistics. Mom is humming again, dancing a little as she moves between the stove and the sink. And Dad¡­ Dad just keeps flipping through the paper, ignoring it all. After breakfast, I grab my sunglasses and head for the door. ¡°See you guys later,¡± I say, my voice steadier than it¡¯s been in years. Mom waves me off with a smile, Dad doesn¡¯t look up from his paper. Grandpa waves me off with a grin. ¡°Bring back a girlfriend while you¡¯re at it!¡± As I step outside, the humid morning air hits me like a slap to the face. I take a deep breath, shoving my hands into my pockets. The family warmth of the house lingers behind me, but out here, it¡¯s all sharp edges and uncertainty. ¡°I can do this,¡± I mutter to myself, starting down the street. But as I walk, I can¡¯t shake the feeling that no matter what I do, everything is going to get a whole lot more complicated before it gets better. Chapter 4: Co-Founders I start walking down the street, the same street I¡¯ve walked down a thousand times before, yet it feels different now. Every detail seems sharper. The cracked sidewalk beneath my sneakers. The smell of wet grass. The faint hum of the streetlights flickering to life as the sun creeps higher in the sky. This place looks exactly like it did when I was a kid, but for some reason, it doesn¡¯t feel like my home anymore. It feels... foreign. I pull the collar of my hoodie up as I stroll, trying to ignore the gnawing sense that I¡¯m being pulled into something bigger than I can understand. I¡¯ve got a mission to accomplish, sure, but I still can¡¯t shake the feeling that something¡¯s just off about all of this. The whole time travel thing. The system. Me. I force myself to focus. My brain¡¯s buzzing with a hundred thoughts, but I¡¯ve got to keep a clear head. This isn¡¯t the time for second-guessing. Not when I¡¯ve got Brian to recruit. 1.4 Miles later ¡°This walk sucks¡­ youthful vigor my ass! my legs hurt, and the mosquitos will eat me alive if I give them any quarter.¡± I huffed ¡°Why is it so steep!?¡± I said exasperated Brian¡¯s house comes into view¡ªa run-down bungalow apartment complex at the end of the block. It¡¯s the kind of place that always looked like it should¡¯ve been renovated years ago, but somehow, it¡¯s still standing. The yard is overgrown, with weeds poking through the cracked concrete of the driveway. A rusty bike leans against the porch, and I can hear the faint sound of music playing inside. I got hit with a wave of d¨¦j¨¤ vu. I remember this place! I remember Brian¡¯s mom yelling at him to get inside when he¡¯d stay out too late, his little brother running around the yard, and Brian¡¯s incessant ¡°New ideas¡± that always seemed more like bad jokes than anything serious. With that wave came a bunch of butterflies in my stomach seeming to have a cage match. ¡°What the hell am I even doing here?¡± This is supposed to be the easy part¡ªjust walk in, pitch the idea, and recruit Brian. But now that I¡¯m here, I¡¯m realizing how absurd this whole thing sounds. Hey, Brian, want to build a business empire with me? Sure, I¡¯ve got zero experience, no resources, and a supernatural app controlling my every move, but what could go wrong? As I approach the front door, my stomach twists. My nerves are starting to hit. I¡¯ve been thinking this whole thing would play out like some kind of business meeting¡ªme walking in like a professional, handing Brian a pitch and getting him to join me in my crazy, no-lose scheme. At least people running a pyramid scheme are hot, How can I compete with that? But the reality of it is, I have no idea how this is supposed to work. No clue how to sell this to Brian. How to make him think this whole ¡°business empire¡± thing isn¡¯t the most absurd idea ever. I stand at the door of Brian¡¯s house, my heart thumping in my chest. This is it¡ªthe moment I¡¯ve been dreading and looking forward to in equal measure. Why Brian? That¡¯s the question I keep asking myself. The guy¡¯s a mess. A good-hearted mess, but a mess all the same. But then again, that¡¯s the point, right? This whole Tycoon Project is a test, and if I can create chaos out of success, maybe the system will finally show its true hand. But there¡¯s no time for second-guessing now. The door swings open before I can even knock. ¡°Alex!¡± Brian¡¯s voice rings out with that unmistakable enthusiasm. ¡°No way, man, what¡¯s up?¡± I blink. I haven¡¯t even said anything yet, but Brian¡¯s already acting like we¡¯re long-lost buddies. Not that I mind. In fact, this is exactly what I need right now. Did we know each other in high school? Am I that old in my head? We make eye contact and I noticed why the yearbook didn¡¯t pick up his eyes well, they are a vivid dark green that the shitty school camera couldn¡¯t pick up on. The longer I looked the more the light seemed to glitter in them. It was clear he was a pure soul. ¡°I, uh, didn¡¯t expect you to answer so quickly,¡± I say, smoothing my hands down the front of my hoodie. ¡°But hey, I was in the neighborhood and thought I¡¯d drop by.¡± ¡°Come in, come in!¡± Brian steps aside, waving me in like I¡¯m a VIP. ¡°Totally cool you¡¯re here, man. You want some chips or something? Or like, maybe a soda? You hungry?¡± I step into the living room, momentarily stunned by the chaos. The couch is buried under a pile of mismatched blankets with trippy patterns, and a big circular coffee table is covered in snack wrappers and miniature nude statues. A ton of lava lamps bubble ominously around the room seemingly the only form of lighting, casting a weird green glow over the room. Around the table are bean bags, expensive-looking metal bowls, then the clear smell of weed and incents. Wow I think to myself Hippie heaven I¡¯m taken aback by his hospitality. This must just be Brian in a nutshell. ¡°Nah, I¡¯m good for now,¡± I say with a smile, walking into his living room. ¡°I actually need to talk to you about something... kinda important.¡± Brian plops down on the couch, clearing a spot by shoving a stack of magazines to the floor ¡°Important?¡± Brian perks up immediately, his eyes lighting up. ¡°Like, ¡®let¡¯s start a band¡¯ important or ¡®let¡¯s buy an island and live like kings¡¯ important?¡± I chuckle ¡°Kind of, but a little more business-y than that.¡± He plops down on the couch and pats the seat next to him. ¡°Ooooh, I like business. What¡¯s the deal? You got an idea for a new app? A new flavor of potato chips?¡± I sit down, my communications major instincts kicking in. Hearing Francis Underwood¡¯s smooth, calculated drawl echoing in my mind, I thought, I need to sell this, and I need to sell it well. This wasn¡¯t just about convincing him¡ªit was about planting the idea so deeply in his head that he¡¯d believe it was his all along. If I played this right, he¡¯d not only take the bait but also start tugging the line himself. Make him the hero of his own story, I told myself, channeling Underwood¡¯s razor-sharp sense of control. Frame it so he sees the path ahead as something only he can lead. People don¡¯t like being told what to do¡ªthey like being inspired.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Brian wasn¡¯t hard to read; his enthusiasm could be weaponized with just the right touch of flattery and urgency. All I had to do was give him a stage and enough spotlight to feel important, and he¡¯d run with it. That was the beauty of someone like Brian: his energy could bulldoze any doubts if I gave him the impression he was in charge. I adjusted my tone and posture, steadying my voice with a deliberate calmness. This wasn¡¯t just a conversation; it was a performance. And if I nailed it, Brian wouldn¡¯t just agree¡ªhe¡¯d believe he was the one leading the charge. Snap out of it Alex that¡¯s political science, not communications! ¡°Well,¡± I start smoothly, ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking a lot about... opportunities. You know, ways to build something big. Something that could change everything. Not just waste our life with the common 9 to 5 for the next 40 years of our life.¡± Brian¡¯s eyes narrow with interest, but he still looks pretty confused. ¡°Like... a car wash but with robots?¡± I suppress a grin. ¡°That¡¯s... interesting. But not exactly. No, this is bigger than that.¡± ¡°Bigger?¡± Brian repeats. ¡°Like, are we talking worldwide, or, like, just a really cool local thing?¡± ¡°Worldwide,¡± I say, keeping my tone calm but full of promise. ¡°I¡¯m talking about building a business empire, Brian. One that changes the game.¡± Brian¡¯s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°Wait, so like... you and me? Building an empire?¡± I nod. ¡°We build something that lasts. We don¡¯t just make money¡ªwe change the way things are done. Can you see it, Brian?¡± Brian looks at me, clearly thinking it over. ¡°Okay, okay, I¡¯m into it. I mean, I did always want to be, like, a CEO of something, you know? Even if it¡¯s, like, a weird thing.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no such thing as ¡®weird¡¯ if it works,¡± I say, leaning forward. ¡°And trust me, this will work. We just need the right person¡ªsomeone who¡¯s not afraid to throw caution to the wind.¡± Brian grins widely, his eyes sparkling. ¡°Dude, I am so down. I¡¯ve always thought business was like... the ultimate game. So, what¡¯s the first step? We get a logo? Do we have to wear suits? ¡®Cause I¡¯m not wearing a tie around my neck. Sensory stuff and all.¡± I laugh, feeling more at ease. ¡°No suits. Just... well, we figure it out as we go. We start small, but we build fast. We think big, and we make it happen.¡± Brian jumps up, excited. ¡°I¡¯m in! I¡¯m totally in! Let¡¯s do this! First step: figure out what the heck we¡¯re doing!¡± I smile, knowing this is exactly how I want it. Brian¡¯s whimsical, unpredictable energy will be the perfect catalyst for whatever chaos I need to stir. This is it¡ªthe first step toward turning this whole system on its head. In my head, I can almost hear the System buzzing, watching, waiting to see what happens next. Your move, System, I think to myself. Let¡¯s see how you handle a little chaos ¡°Okay B let me explain the main idea I have so far¡­¡±
How did I expect Brian to react? I¡¯d just told him I had acquired a building as if I were some seasoned business tycoon. But instead of the rational questions any sane person would ask, Brian just grinned and nodded like this was all perfectly normal. ¡°So, we¡¯re like¡­ co-founders?¡± Brian asked, his voice full of unrestrained excitement. ¡°Yeah, exactly,¡± I replied, trying to sound as confident as possible. ¡°We¡¯re building an empire. No one¡¯s gonna see it coming.¡± His eyes widened. ¡°Like¡­ our empire? Like, we¡¯ll get a giant building, fancy offices, and everything?¡± I nodded. ¡°That¡¯s the plan.¡± Brian leaned back in his chair, his mind already running wild. ¡°Dude, do we get our own jet? Like, a private jet? Oh, or a boat¡ªno, wait! A helicopter! A helicopter would be so cool! WAIT NO a helicopter that has a boat and on that boat is a jet ski!¡± I had to suppress a chuckle. The guy¡¯s energy was infectious, but also completely out of touch with reality. We had a dilapidated storefront in a run-down neighborhood, not a sprawling corporate HQ with a fleet of private jets. But no, I couldn¡¯t burst his bubble yet. ¡°Uh, sure, we¡¯ll look into that,¡± I said. ¡°But first, we need to focus on the basics. You know, get the business rolling before we start buying jets.¡± Brian was practically vibrating in his seat. ¡°Right, right. You know what we need? A subscription service for socks. Like, people get fresh, clean socks every month. We¡¯ll call it ¡®Sock-of-the-Month¡¯¡ªnobody¡¯s doing that!¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Brian, I¡¯m pretty sure people would just go buy socks at Walmart for like five bucks¡­¡± ¡°But that¡¯s the genius of it!¡± he countered, completely missing the logic. ¡°We make ¡®em special. What if they were edible socks? Like, you get hungry and bam, snack time! And they¡¯re biodegradable, so it¡¯s like¡­ green.¡± I blinked, trying to process the sheer absurdity of what he was saying. ¡°Edible socks?¡± ¡°Yeah, man!¡± Brian leaned forward, eyes practically glowing. ¡°Think about it: everyone loves snacks. And socks! We combine them into one! People will eat them during work, on the go, or when they¡¯re bored in class. Think of the viral marketing potential!¡± I wasn¡¯t sure if I wanted to laugh or run screaming from the room. But I couldn¡¯t help myself¡ªthis was exactly the kind of ridiculous nonsense I needed for this to work. Maybe it would fail. Scratch that¡ªit would fail. But that was the point, right? I forced a smile and nodded along. ¡°Okay, okay. That¡¯s a creative idea. What about something a little more practical? Just for now, we don¡¯t have much.¡± Brian looked momentarily deflated, but then his face lit up once more. ¡°Wait! I¡¯ve got it! We could make a phone case that¡¯s also a charger and self-protection brass knuckles! It¡¯s the ultimate multitasker. You¡¯re out, your phone¡¯s dead, but you¡¯re in danger? Bam, you¡¯ve got everything in one. We¡¯ll call it¡­ the ¡®Hydra-Case.¡¯¡± I stared at him for a moment, my mouth slightly agape. Was that a actually a good idea?¡­ this might be harder than I thought to make sure he only has bad ideas. ¡°Dude, it¡¯s genius,¡± Brian said with absolute confidence. ¡°I swear, we¡¯re gonna be rich. I can feel it.¡± I took a deep breath, trying not to let my disbelief show too much. It didn¡¯t matter if any of these ideas would ever work. The system had given me a mission: to recruit Brian. To get him involved. ¡°Alright,¡± I said, ¡°let¡¯s write all this down. We¡¯ll brainstorm tomorrow. But first, we¡¯ve got a building to take a look at. Let¡¯s see what we¡¯re working with.¡± Brian grinned, practically bouncing in his seat. ¡°Oh, hell yes. We¡¯re gonna take over the world, Alex. First stop: edible socks. Second stop: empire!¡± As ridiculous as it was, something about Brian¡¯s sheer enthusiasm made me think, Maybe this isn¡¯t as crazy as it sounds. But deep down, I knew it was. This was going to be a disaster. A hilarious, beautiful disaster. And I was ready for it. Just as Brian was about to launch into another grandiose plan for our future empire, the front door swung open, and in walked Brian¡¯s mom¡ªCarolyn, a short woman with a no-nonsense demeanor and an Atypical sense of humor. ¡°Brian!¡± she called out in that tone that left no room for argument. ¡°You need to go pick up your little brother from Bible camp. They¡¯re wrapping up, and I¡¯m not going to drive all the way over there myself.¡± Brian froze mid-sentence, eyes widening as if he¡¯d just been snapped out of a trance. ¡°Oh, right! Totally forgot about that.¡± I raised an eyebrow, surprised at the sudden shift in his attention. ¡°what is she talking about?¡± "Yeah, Ethan. He¡¯s twelve. He¡¯s at that camp out in the sticks for the week," Brian said, his voice a bit deflated now that his whirlwind of business ideas had been interrupted. Carolyn demanded, hands on her hips. ¡°I¡¯ve got dinner to make, and guests coming over for the party¡± Brian groaned dramatically. ¡°Mom, I¡¯m literally in the middle of planning our empire¡ªthis is going to change the world! You don¡¯t understand, we¡¯ve got things to brainstorm!¡± Carolyn didn¡¯t seem too impressed by the mention of ¡°things¡±. She raised an eyebrow and gave him a pointed look. ¡°You¡¯re not too busy to help out your family, are you?¡± Brian slouched in his seat, clearly defeated by the inevitable. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll go pick him up.¡± He sighed heavily before standing up, stretching like he was about to embark on a great journey. "Alright, alright. But when I get back, we¡¯re going full throttle on the ¡®Hydra-Case.¡¯¡± Carolyn shot me a look as Brian walked out the door. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you two are up to, but he better get back here and help around the house later. He¡¯s already late on chores.¡± I smiled smoothly, knowing I needed to make a good impression while I had her attention. "I¡¯ll make sure he stays focused, Mrs. Thompson. Don¡¯t worry." She raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but not interested in pressing further. ¡°Well, you two figure things out, and don¡¯t let him skip his chores.¡± She walked into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the whirlwind of ideas that Brian had just dropped on me. I took a deep breath, trying to recenter myself. This had taken an unexpected turn, but it didn¡¯t matter. The plan was still on track. Brian wasn¡¯t going to let something like Bible camp get in the way of our empire. And now, I had a little more time to figure out how to make sure that empire ended up being nothing more than a failure. Chapter 5: Rules The walk from Brian¡¯s house was just long enough for Alex to feel the weight of the situation he¡¯d been thrown into. The sun was fully out and it was relentless in the heat department. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at the rows of weathered houses and cracked sidewalks. Each step felt surreal. Hearing the cicadas turn into background noise made him contemplate. It wasn¡¯t just the fact that he¡¯d traveled back in time¡ªit was the bizarre mission laid out in front of him. The building the System had mentioned was supposedly on the edge of downtown, a couple of miles away. Too far to walk without arriving drenched in sweat and looking ridiculous. He sighed, weighing his options. He paused at a corner where a faded sign for the local bus route was tacked to a pole. Pulling a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket, Alex waited. When the bus arrived, it groaned to a halt, spitting out a cloud of exhaust. Alex climbed aboard, the air inside smelling faintly of worn vinyl and pine-scented cleaner. The driver, a black man in his fifties with a cap tilted back on his head, gave him a nod. ¡°Where to?¡± the driver asked. ¡°Downtown,¡± Alex replied, dropping his money into the slot. The bus rattled forward, and Alex grabbed the nearest pole to steady himself. The ride was bumpy, the seats mismatched and well-worn. A woman with a stroller sat near the front, while two teenagers whispered loudly in the back. Alex stared out the window, watching as the scenery shifted from quiet residential streets to the busier downtown area. His mind wandered to Brian¡¯s enthusiasm. Of course, he thought with a grin, Brian didn¡¯t even question how I got a building. That guy is riding the roller coaster of life with no seatbelt. It is odd though just how friendly he is¡­ and he clearly already knew me from high school but I don¡¯t have a recollection of him. This troubled Alex Is my mind that bad at memory? Next time I have the time I''ll probe him about our interactions in high school. 1 hour later The bus lurched to a stop, jolting Alex out of his thoughts. His stop was still a block away from the building, but he figured he could use the walk to clear his head. He hopped off, the 12 o¡¯clock sun beating down on him. The closer Alex got, the more the town¡¯s gritty charm came into focus. Brick buildings with faded advertisements painted on their sides. A record store with a chalkboard sign out front that read, ¡°Vinyl Revival Sale!¡± A donut shop he vaguely remembered driving past every time he came back home for the holidays. He considered being nostalgic and grabbing a coffee from there, but the thought of burning through his remaining cash stopped him. He needed to make the thousand dollars last as long as possible. As he rounded the final corner, his destination came into view. The building stood at the edge of downtown, set back slightly from the road. It looked even worse than he¡¯d imagined¡ªa boxy structure with grime-streaked windows and peeling paint. Alex stopped a moment, taking it in. ¡°Well,¡± he muttered to himself, ¡°it¡¯s not the Taj Mahal, but it¡¯s mine. Sort of.¡± The System¡¯s voice chimed on his phone. This property meets the minimum standards for your venture.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Structural integrity: adequate. Location: acceptable. Potential: variable. Alex rolled his eyes. ¡°Gee, thanks for the pep talk.¡± He stepped up to the building¡¯s entrance, his shoes crunching over broken bits of concrete on the sidewalk. The lock on the front door was already broken, swinging slightly with the breeze. He pushed it open, the hinges squealing in protest. As someone who¡¯d grown up in a blue-collar home, Alex knew the warning signs of a building that screamed, "Stay out, or you¡¯ll regret it." This place, though? It looked wrecked at first glance, sure¡ªbut nothing vital seemed outright dangerous. The roof had no gaping holes, which was a win in his book. The walls weren¡¯t leaning ominously, and there weren¡¯t any loose, sparking wires hanging around like death traps. It was as if the place had been neglected for decades but somehow avoided the catastrophic failures that would¡¯ve made it truly unsafe. But, wow, was it filthy. Dust blanketed every surface, thick enough to write a novel in. Broken furniture, shattered glass, and debris cluttered the floors. A faint smell of mildew clung to the air, though it wasn¡¯t unbearable. It was the kind of place where everything screamed, "Replace me." Every fixture, every counter, every inch of flooring¡ªit all needed to go. Still, under all the grime, there was something¡­ solid. The bones were there. He stepped carefully across the uneven floorboards, the sneakers leaving visible trails in the dust. This wasn¡¯t a death trap¡ªit was a fixer-upper. A really big fixer-upper. The system had done me a favor in its own backwards way. I wasn¡¯t walking into a condemned building; I was walking into potential. All it needed was vision, elbow grease, and probably a small fortune to turn into something usable. Alex thought to himself. I let out a low whistle as I surveyed the space. ¡°system,¡± I muttered, shaking my head, ¡°let¡¯s see if your idea of ¡®resources¡¯ comes with a cleaning crew.¡± His phone buzzed in his pocket, the familiar glow of the Tycoon Project screen lighting up his hand. Tutorial Completed. ¡°Congratulations, Alex Hartman. You¡¯ve completed the introductory phase of the Tycoon Project.¡± Alex blinked. ¡°That was the tutorial?¡± The text continued, ignoring his commentary. ¡°System parameters are now fully operational. Primary objectives will be revealed, and you may now independently engage in decision-making.¡± ¡°Primary objectives?¡± Alex asked, half to himself. The phone vibrated again, more insistently this time. Objective: Establish a sustainable, scalable, and community-impactful business. A line of smaller text followed: The phone answered as if it could hear his thoughts. ¡°The Tycoon Project aligns to encourage holistic success.¡± ¡°Alright, System,¡± Alex said, I hope that doesn¡¯t become my catchphrase his voice steady but tired and understanding that he has no real control here yet. ¡°What are the rules?¡± The screen flickered before new text appeared: Rule 1: Capital Allocation ¡°Initial seed capital will be provided for your use. Profitability will trigger additional funding at a 1:100 ratio, incentivizing growth.¡± ¡°Alright, so you¡¯re rewarding success,¡± Alex muttered, pacing the room. ¡°Wait every $100 the business makes I only make $1! That¡¯s robbery! That¡¯s extorsi¡± Alex was cut off. Rule 2: Performance Metrics ¡°Success is not determined solely by profit. Community impact, customer satisfaction, and innovation are all factors.¡± ¡°Great,¡± Alex said with a laugh. ¡°So I can¡¯t just run a scam?¡± The response appeared immediately: ¡°Correct.¡± Rule 3: Expenditure Oversight ¡°All expenditures must align with the business¡¯s operations. Misuse will result in penalties.¡± Alex rubbed his temple. ¡°Penalties? Like what?¡± The System didn¡¯t elaborate, which only made him more suspicious. Rule 4: Public Scrutiny ¡°All business activities may attract public interest and evaluation.¡± ¡°Translation: Don¡¯t embarrass myself,¡± Alex muttered. Rule 5: If the business becomes unprofitable funding will be changed to 10:1 to discourage morale from dropping. As the rules sank in, Alex felt his suspicion morph into something else. For the first time, the pieces began to align in his mind. Maybe he didn¡¯t need to destroy the System or fight against it. Maybe he could use it. If he played along¡ªand played smart¡ªhe could make sure his family never had to suffer again. No more financial struggles, no more broken appliances his dad couldn¡¯t fix, no more sleepless nights for his mom trying to balance the budget. The thought lit a fire in Alex¡¯s chest. For the first time since waking up, he didn¡¯t feel like a pawn in someone else¡¯s game. This was his life, his family, and he¡¯d use every ounce of this bizarre opportunity to secure their future. He just had to make sure his business was as unprofitable as possible without getting caught! looking around the building; Alex couldn¡¯t wipe the smile off his face. ¡°Let¡¯s get to work.¡± Chapter 6: First business idea Alex stepped further into the dimly lit building. Dust motes swirled in the morning sunlight filtering through a cracked window, and the faint smell of mildew hung in the air. He took a deep breath, his sneakers crunching on scattered debris as he surveyed the space. Alex rubbed his chin in thought. ¡°Okay, no openly sabotaging my own projects.¡± He glanced around the space, mentally noting the challenges of the room: peeling wallpaper, water stains on the ceiling, and a suspiciously warped floorboard near the entrance. ¡°With a dump like this, no way I can make a profit no matter what I do.¡± But small losses first. I have only $1,000 to play with, and I need to make an investment that looks like it will do well but won¡¯t make a profit¡­ Alex started to walk in a circle again, forming a large crop circle in the dust. His pacing created faint patterns on the floor, a physical representation of his spiraling thoughts. then the idea hit him! ¡°A VIDEO GAME!¡± he exclaimed, the words bouncing off the empty walls. He spun on his heel, throwing his arms wide as if announcing it to an invisible crowd. ¡°A video game is the perfect way to lose money! It¡¯s 2010, and gaming is growing fast, but it¡¯s not the Wild West anymore. You can¡¯t just code a dot, slap some lights on it, and call it a masterpiece like you could back in the early days. Those big dogs¡ªAAA franchises¡ªdominate the scene now. And it¡¯s still too early for indie games to have their renaissance.¡± He could already see the dollar signs evaporating into the ether. His grin widened, a mix of triumph and mischief. Then, like a bucket of cold water, a new thought doused his excitement. ¡°Wait,¡± he muttered, his grin faltering. ¡°What if I accidentally make a masterpiece?¡± Alex¡¯s pacing resumed, faster now, as panic crept into his tone. ¡°What if my future knowledge makes me too good? What if I accidentally create the next big thing?¡± He ran a hand through his messy hair, leaving it even more disheveled. ¡°Damn it, I need to be careful!¡± He stopped, took a deep breath, and plopped himself onto the dusty floor, crossing his legs. The chill from the concrete seeped through his jeans, grounding him. His phone felt heavy in his hands as he opened it to reveal the System interface. His account balance¡ª$1,000¡ªglowed on the screen in bright, mocking digits. ¡°Not a penny more,¡± Alex muttered, staring at the number like it was taunting him. The realization hit him again: I don¡¯t know how to code. He opened a search tab, typing furiously. How to make a video game with no budget. Dozens of results flooded his screen. Tutorials, forums, indie dev blogs¡ªit was a goldmine of information. Alex skimmed through, making mental notes. Free game engines, royalty-free assets, and bizarrely amateur design tips filled his vision. As he read, a wave of nostalgia hit him like a truck. ¡°Oh God, I forgot how the internet was back in 2010, Feels like I need a VPN for every website I click on.¡± he muttered. ¡°Half the websites look like they were designed by someone who just discovered WordArt.¡± One forum post had a glittery GIF of a spinning skull next to the title: ¡°FREE GAME ASSETS!!!111!!!¡± Another site blasted music from some ancient MIDI file the moment he clicked on it, causing Alex to jolt and fumble to mute his phone. ¡°This is torture,¡± Alex groaned, but he couldn¡¯t help a chuckle. ¡°I swear, back in 2026, even scammers have better web design. At least they could past for real ads¡± He kept scrolling, marveling at the sheer chaos of the early internet. A blog promised to teach him coding basics in ¡°Just 7 Days¡ªNo Experience Needed!!!¡± The writing was in Comic Sans, and the background was a tiled image of a smiling cartoon frog. I feel john Connor''s dad right ow ¡°No wonder half the projects back then never saw the light of day,¡± Alex muttered. ¡°How did we even survive this era?¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Despite the hilarity, Alex¡¯s research started to pay off. He discovered free game engines like GameMaker and Unity¡¯s earlier iterations, both of which had clunky but functional versions available for no cost. He bookmarked links to royalty-free asset sites, though many of them had broken download buttons or required some obscure, ancient plugin. ¡°Okay, here¡¯s the plan,¡± Alex said, speaking more to himself than the System. ¡°I¡¯ll make a game. A bad one. Something cheap, frustrating, and impossible to win. If I play my cards right¡­¡± He paused, tapping his fingers on the phone screen. ¡°No half-assing the rage game. People will hate it so much they¡¯ll buy it just to prove they can beat it.¡± He smirked. ¡°That¡¯s my selling point to Brian¡ªor the System¡ªif anyone objects. But it¡¯ll definitely crash and burn spectacularly.¡± He started drafting the concept. A skiing game. Players would navigate a pixelated skier down a mountain riddled with obstacles¡ªtrees, rocks, random snowmen. The controls would be intentionally clunky, and every crash would trigger a snarky voiceover insult. ¡°It¡¯s perfect,¡± Alex muttered, a grin spreading across his face. ¡°Now, I just need someone to make it.¡± That is as long as Brian likes it, we are partners after all. But first I should clean this place up a little. He stretched his arms overhead, his fingers brushing the low-hanging light fixture string. ¡°Alright, now it¡¯s time to make this place look like something other than a condemned building.¡± Alex got to his feet, brushing dust off his shorts. He surveyed the room again, his eyes narrowing with a mix of determination and dread. The debris on the floor, the peeling wallpaper, and the mysterious dark stain in the corner all seemed to mock him. First things first. He grabbed a broom he¡¯d spotted near the door¡ªa relic that looked like it had been through a war¡ªand started sweeping the floor. The dust rose in clouds, making him cough and wave his free hand in front of his face. ¡°Great,¡± Alex muttered, his voice muffled by his shirt collar. ¡°I¡¯m gonna die of black lung before I even lose any money.¡± It took him nearly an hour to clear the worst of the debris. Old newspapers, broken glass, and what looked suspiciously like the remains of a bird all went into a garbage bag he¡¯d found crumpled in a corner. By the time he was done, his arms were sore, and his shirt was damp with sweat. He stood back and surveyed his work. The floor was still scuffed and uneven, but at least it was visible now. Progress. Next, he turned his attention to the walls. The peeling wallpaper hung in sad, drooping strips, revealing patches of discolored plaster beneath. Alex grabbed one of the loose edges and gave it a tentative tug. The wallpaper came off in a long, satisfying strip, and he grinned despite himself. ¡°Okay, this part¡¯s kinda fun,¡± he admitted, tossing the strip onto the growing pile of trash. By the time he finished, the walls were bare, and the room looked even worse than before. The exposed plaster was cracked in places, and the water stains on the ceiling seemed even more prominent now. Alex sighed, wiping a hand across his forehead. ¡°Well, Rome wasn¡¯t built in a day,¡± he muttered. ¡°And neither was¡­ whatever this is gonna be.¡± Leaning against the broom, Alex let his thoughts wander. If not a game studio, what else could this place become? He racked his brain for ideas, focusing on businesses that could theoretically turn a profit but would still be destined to fail under his deliberate mismanagement. ¡°How about a cat caf¨¦?¡± he mused aloud. ¡°But instead of cats, it¡¯s, like¡­ ferrets. Yeah, a ferret caf¨¦. Nobody wants ferrets running around while they¡¯re drinking coffee. It¡¯ll smell terrible.¡± He snorted at the thought and kept going. ¡°What about a VHS rental store? In 2010. People are barely using DVDs anymore. I could probably find some old tapes at a thrift shop and charge a buck per rental.¡± Another idea struck him, and he couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°A store that only sells left shoes. Just the left ones. I could market it as some kind of avant-garde art project. Or maybe like take it very seriously and have it be a super high-end female shoe store, but they are only high heels and they are massive but still only for the left foot.¡± The more he brainstormed, the wilder his ideas became. ¡°What about a haunted doll repair shop? People mail in their creepy porcelain dolls, and I¡­ I don¡¯t know, glue their heads back on or something. Guaranteed to lose money, but it¡¯d make for some hilarious reviews online.¡± He paused, tapping the broom handle against his shoe as another thought occurred to him. ¡°What if I made it a fitness center? But, like, all the equipment is from the 80s, and none of it works properly. It¡¯d be a liability nightmare.¡± Alex shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. ¡°Man, I¡¯m a genius at being terrible.¡± Finally, Alex opened the System interface again. ¡°Alright, System, I need some answers. What¡¯s the zoning situation for this building?¡± A moment passed before the familiar robotic voice replied: "This building is part of the historic district. Zoning regulations prohibit any modifications that would significantly alter or damage its structure." Alex groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°Of course. Historic district. Just my luck.¡± He glanced around at the sagging walls and cracked ceiling. ¡°This place barely qualifies as ¡®historic.¡¯ It¡¯s more like ¡®ancient and falling apart.¡¯¡± ¡°Fine,¡± Alex said, exhaling sharply. ¡°What was this building used for before?¡± "This building was previously a restaurant." Alex¡¯s eyebrows shot up. ¡°A restaurant, huh? Makes sense. The layout¡¯s got that weird open-yet-cramped vibe. And the grease stains in the corner were a dead giveaway.¡± He tapped his chin, a new idea forming in his mind. ¡°Alright, maybe I can work with that. Restaurants have great potential for failure¡­¡± Just need to think on that. Alex then noticed his phone showing the time, 6:43 PM ¡°Oh F%ck! I''m gonna miss my first dinner back in 2010!¡± Chapter 7: What to do with 1k Alex laughed when the idea first formed, but now, with each step toward home, after hopping on the bus back to home, he couldn¡¯t shake the nagging feeling that it might work. Not the way the System wanted, of course¡ªhe had no intention of creating a masterpiece. If anything, this game would be a disaster so spectacular it might derail the entire Tycoon Project. He opened the door quietly, the house dim except for the soft glow of the television in the living room. Grandpa Joe had fallen asleep in his recliner, a blanket draped haphazardly over his lap. Alex smiled faintly. As he climbed the stairs to his room, he felt the weight of the day pressing down. The familiar creak of the wooden steps under his feet, the faint smell of old varnish¡ªit was all so... normal. Too normal for someone who had just been handed the keys to rewrite their life. Inside his room, Alex kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The System hadn¡¯t chirped in since he left the building, but he knew it was there, watching, waiting. ¡°Tomorrow,¡± he muttered to himself, closing his eyes. ¡°Tomorrow, we start this madness.¡± Not tonight. He drifted off to sleep. The Morning After The knock on the door came too early, rapping like a swarm of bees on his skull. "Alex!" Brian¡¯s voice rang out, too cheery for the hour. "Wake up, man, we¡¯ve got work to do!" Alex groaned, peeling himself from the bed, the sheets clinging to his body like a second skin. It had barely been 7 hours since he¡¯d laid down for sleep, but the adrenaline was already coursing through him, at the insistent banging on his bedroom door. He rubbed his face, trying to clear the fog from his brain. He had somehow taken his pants and shirt off in his sleep leaving him only in his underwear. He quickly looked around his floor for something, yanking on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. He opened the door to find Brian standing there, his wild hair practically bouncing with excitement. He looked like a kid who had just won the lottery and was about to spend every penny on candy. ¡°You still look half asleep, dude,¡± Brian observed, eyes twinkling with that infectious enthusiasm. Alex ran a hand through his hair, still trying to wake up. ¡°Yeah, well, I don¡¯t exactly have a team of baristas making me macchiatos first thing in the morning, Brian.¡± Brian let out a laugh so loud it echoed down the hall, causing Alex to wince. I hope that didn¡¯t wake anyone up. ¡°I was up all night, thinking about our empire, man! Think about it! We¡¯ve got it all: edible socks, subscription-based air fresheners... we¡¯re gonna be billionaires!¡± ¡°Uh huh,¡± Alex said, rubbing his temple. ¡°Look, Brian, I¡¯ve got a cheaper idea. Forget the socks for a second. Hear me out.¡± Brian¡¯s face lit up. ¡°Oh man, you got something? Hit me with it!¡± ¡°We are making a game,¡± Alex said, his voice low but confident. Brian blinked, obviously not expecting that. ¡°A... game? Dude, we¡¯ve got like, zero game development experience. You know that, right?¡± Alex grinned. ¡°I know. But that¡¯s kind of the point. I¡¯m gonna make it a disaster. A rage-inducing, impossible game that people will love to hate.¡± Brian¡¯s eyes widened in shock. ¡°What?! A rage game? Like, how? I mean, I¡¯m down for some chaos, but this is... different.¡± Alex nodded, faux solemnly agreeing. The plan had formed on the walk home last night ready to convince Brian. Before Alex could start his sales pitch The closest door swung open to Alex¡¯s room.
Dylan walked out clearly peeved that a stranger was in his home and making a racket. Looking to murder the source of the sound. Persona 3 music plays from his room, Alex''s vision goes into a cut screen of Dylan. Dylan Hartman (16): The Sharp-Tongued Spectator The screen glitches, flickering between static and streaks of neon green. A figure emerges: Dylan Hartman, slouched in a well-worn chair, a smirk playing on his lips. A gaming controller dangles from his hand, glowing faintly in the dim light. "Always in the player seat, never in the game." The background sharpens¡ªpixelated skyscrapers and a grid of binary code swirl behind him, the numbers tumbling like falling rain. Dylan leans forward, fingers dancing over imaginary keys. The sound of a sarcastic chuckle echoes as if daring anyone to challenge his sharp wit or quicker comebacks. A voice echoes through the void: ¡°Player 2? Not my style. I¡¯ve always been the one calling the shots.¡± With a flick of his wrist, the scene glitches again, fading into static.
Alex shook his head as reality snapped back in an instant. Not even a second had passed. ¡°Who the fuck is this guy?¡± Dylan asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking about the weather. Brian blinked, clearly struggling to process the situation. Alex pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. ¡°Language, Dylan,¡± Alex said, mustering as much authority as he could. ¡°This is Brian Thompson, my unexpected guest and new business associate. We¡¯re sorry for waking you. Go back to¡­ whatever it is you do in your room.¡± He waved a hand dismissively, trying to shoo his brother away. Dylan recoiled, his face scrunching as if Alex had just sucker-punched him. ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡± he snapped, glaring at Alex and completely ignoring Brian. Oh no, Alex thought, panic prickling at his spine. I just talked to him like an adult. Damn it, it¡¯s way too early in the morning for this. Dylan¡¯s expression hardened, a mix of confusion and anger written all over his face. Alex quickly rolled his eyes and shifted gears, making his voice as snarky as possible. ¡°God, I try to act all mature for once, and you go and throw a tantrum. Just get back to your sweat cave, play your games, and jack off your teammates.¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Dylan fired back without missing a beat. ¡°I¡¯m not playing COD, you ugly cow!¡± He stormed off, slamming his door with enough force to rattle the walls. Alex stood there for a moment, pretending to be furious. In truth, his heart was pounding. That was way too close. It was still morning, but he doubted anything else today would top almost blowing his cover. In the silence that followed, Brian muttered, ¡°Man, I hope my little brother doesn¡¯t end up like that.¡± Alex sighed, brushing past Brian as he made his way downstairs, signaling for him to follow. Without much thought, he replied, a faint sense of obligation to defend Dylan¡¯s honor creeping in. ¡°He¡¯ll grow out of it. Puberty¡¯s kicking him like a mule right now, so yeah, he¡¯s going to be a dick for another couple of years. But that¡¯s normal.¡± Brian chuckled softly but didn¡¯t press further. As they descended the creaky staircase, Alex¡¯s thoughts wandered to Dylan¡ªnot the cocky, hormonal teen he was now, but the man he would eventually become. Dylan had always been obsessed with video games, to the point where they were more than just a hobby¡ªthey were his dream. He¡¯d once talked about going pro, imagining himself on big stages, competing in tournaments, and maybe even getting famous. It didn¡¯t pan out. Sure, Dylan had talent, but success in gaming required connections, sponsorships, and a lot of luck. Dylan hadn¡¯t been lucky. After college, the dream faded, and he settled into a more conventional path, earning a degree in computer science. Alex knew he¡¯d gone on to work in IT for some big company, but beyond that, Dylan¡¯s future was a blur. One thing was clear, though: Dylan¡¯s achievements were more impressive than Alex¡¯s had been. Then again, Alex mused bitterly, that wasn¡¯t exactly a high bar. Shaking the thoughts from his head, Alex glanced toward the living room as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Grandpa Joe¡¯s old recliner sat near the corner, a relic of the past that never quite matched the rest of the furniture. Alex half-expected to see the old man slouched there, snoring with his mouth wide open, but the chair was empty. A flicker of relief crossed his face. At least Grandpa had managed to get himself to bed for once. The kitchen was bathed in the pale glow of the morning sun streaming through the window. Alex pulled out a chair at the small, scratched-up dining table and gestured for Brian to sit. ¡°Take a seat,¡± he said. Brian obeyed, slumping into the chair with a tired groan. His eyes wandered around the kitchen, taking in its outdated appliances and mismatched cabinets. It was far from luxurious, but it had a kind of homely charm that Alex had always taken for granted. ¡°You want something to drink?¡± Alex asked as he headed toward the counter. ¡°Coffee,¡± Brian replied without hesitation. ¡°Figures,¡± Alex muttered with a smirk. He grabbed two chipped mugs from the cabinet, their mismatched patterns a testament to years of hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. He set them down on the counter and started brewing a pot. As the rich aroma of coffee filled the air, Alex leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the machine drip. The quiet hum of the kitchen filled the space until Alex finally broke it. ¡°We¡¯ve only got a thousand bucks to work with¡­¡± he said, his voice low but steady. Brian, who seemed to have drifted into his own thoughts, snapped back to attention. His brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn¡¯t have all the pieces for. ¡°That¡¯s why I think a game is the best idea,¡± Alex continued, his tone firmer now. ¡°And it needs to stand out. Paying some wannabe game developer who¡¯s hungry enough to prove themselves? That¡¯s our best shot.¡± Brian let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping nervously on the table¡¯s edge. His expression shifted to something heavier, more somber. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Alex. I¡¯m just¡­ hesitant. This is our one shot. If we mess this up, there¡¯s no do-over. It¡¯s everything or nothing.¡± Alex blinked, surprised by the sudden seriousness in Brian¡¯s voice. It was a rare thing to see him like this¡ªusually, he was cracking jokes or skating by with casual indifference. For a moment, Alex felt the weight of Brian¡¯s words pressing on his own shoulders. Matching his friend¡¯s tone, Alex nodded slowly. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong. It¡¯s a gamble. But, Brian¡­¡± He paused, his lips curling into a sly grin. ¡°I¡¯m a gambling man. And when I gamble, I cheat. I stack the deck in my favor.¡± Brian raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. ¡°Cheating, huh? That¡¯s your big plan?¡± ¡°Damn right,¡± Alex said, his grin widening. ¡°We need to make a mark. Something no one will forget. Something so wild, so bold, people won¡¯t just notice¡ªit¡¯ll smack them in the face.¡± With that, Alex turned back to the coffee maker, grabbed the full pot, and poured two steaming mugs. The rich, dark liquid swirled as he slid one across the table to Brian. Then, mug in hand, he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. Brian stared at the coffee for a moment, his fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. ¡°You make it sound easy,¡± he said, his voice quieter now. ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± Alex admitted, taking a slow sip of his coffee. ¡°But nothing worth doing ever is.¡± For a moment, the two sat in silence, the weight of their situation hanging between them like an unspoken challenge. But as Alex leaned forward, the faint gleam of determination in his eyes. He could create something that was so infuriating no one would want to play it. Brian doesn¡¯t need to look at it like that though. ¡°Think, People loved things that made them mad, especially if they couldn¡¯t put the controller down.¡± Brian grinned; knowing exactly what Alex was talking about Brian grabbed the mug and chugged the whole thing in one go, completely on board. ¡°I love it! Alright, alright, we¡¯ve got a game plan. So what¡¯s the game?¡± Alex paced the room, his mind churning through the details. ¡°Picture this: you¡¯re a skier. You start at the top of a snowy mountain, and the goal is simple¡ªget to the bottom. But the catch is, the controls suck. The skier¡¯s all over the place. Obstacles appear out of nowhere. And every time you crash, the game insults you.¡± Brian¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°You¡¯re gonna make the game insult people?¡± ¡°Yup,¡± Alex replied, sitting down at his desk and opening his laptop. ¡°The more you mess up, the more it taunts you. Like, ¡®Nice job, genius. Maybe try using your eyes next time,¡¯ or ¡®Who taught you to ski? Your grandma?¡¯¡± Brian slapped his leg, laughing so hard he almost knocked over a chair. ¡°I love it! People will either throw their controllers at the screen or cry with laughter!¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Alex said, grinning. ¡°It¡¯s gonna be an absolute disaster that people can¡¯t miss. Just what we need to kick this thing off.¡±
It didn¡¯t take long for Alex to find a freelance developer, someone just desperate enough to take the job for a measly $700. They agreed to deliver a basic version of the game within the next two weeks. The process was a whirlwind of activity. Brian and Alex scoured free asset libraries, finding pixelated skier sprites, basic snowy mountain textures, and tree images that looked like they¡¯d been taken straight from a low-budget 90s game. They weren¡¯t worried about quality¡ªthey were focused on the chaos. To save money Brian took over the voiceover work, recording a slew of taunts and insults with a mic that picked up his every word. He shouted at the mic, leaning into the role of a sarcastic commentator who mocked the player¡¯s every mistake. ¡°Oh, you missed the jump? Nice job, genius. You¡¯re about as graceful as a drunk giraffe. You dropped your pocket!¡± Alex couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ¡°You sound like a madman, but it¡¯s perfect.¡± Brian shot him a grin. ¡°Thanks, I try. But listen, I¡¯ve got a few lines of my own. Like, ¡®Wow, I haven¡¯t seen someone fail this badly since my uncle tried to fix his own car.¡¯¡± ¡°That¡¯s gold,¡± Alex said, his fingers typing out the game¡¯s description for the marketplace. They agreed to name it Slalom Struggle¡ªa nod to how ridiculous the whole thing was. As two weeks passed, the game slowly took shape. Alex and Brian constantly thinking of new things to add or take away. The controls were janky, the obstacles almost impossible to avoid, and the insults came faster and sharper. When the first test version was ready, Alex opened it on his laptop and watched as Brian gave it a try. ¡°Here we go,¡± Brian muttered, his hands shaking slightly. ¡°This is it. Our ticket to greatness.¡± The game began. The skier took off, speeding down the mountain at breakneck speed. Alex watched, barely containing his laughter as Brian struggled to control the character, crashing into trees and rocks with a sound that was almost comical. ¡°Whoa! Okay! I¡¯m... I¡¯m not ready for this!¡± Brian yelled, slamming into a rock and hearing the voiceover bark, ¡°Nice try, buddy. Maybe try skiing with your eyes open next time.¡± Brian grinned and nearly spat out his coffee. ¡°This is perfect!¡± With the game completed, Alex and Brian uploaded it to a basic indie game platform. They had no illusions¡ªit wasn¡¯t going to win any awards. But that wasn¡¯t the point. The point was to make something people couldn¡¯t ignore, even if they hated it. Alex leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. ¡°Alright, that¡¯s it. The first step in our ¡®empire.¡¯¡± Brian raised his cup of coffee in a mock toast. ¡°To success!¡± Alex laughed, his mind already thinking about the next move. Slalom Struggle might be a mess, but it was theirs. And in this strange new reality, it was all part of the plan. For now, though, it felt good to have something finished, ready for publishing. Interlude: The Freelancer Chris ¡°Gravy¡± Grayson slouched at his cluttered desk, squinting at the blinking cursor on his computer screen. The glow of the monitor illuminated the small room, revealing mismatched furniture and stacks of unopened mail shoved into every available corner. The faint hum of his ancient desktop fan struggled to drown out the sound of the upstairs neighbor stomping across the floor. Gravy leaned back in his creaky chair, letting out a long sigh. His wrist brushed against an empty PowerCraze can, sending it clattering to the floor to join the pile of its siblings. He stared at the mess with detached indifference. He¡¯d clean it later. Maybe. This wasn¡¯t how he thought his life would go. Gravy wasn¡¯t always a struggling freelance game developer. A decade ago, he¡¯d been Christopher Grayson, a bright-eyed college graduate with a degree in computer science and dreams of working for the biggest game studios in the world. Back then, his dorm room was plastered with posters of iconic games like Infinite Boundary, The Legend of Zariel: Twilight Symphony, and Epic Fight VIII. He wanted to be one of the names that showed up in the credits. But dreams and reality rarely align. His first job out of college was at a mid-sized studio that specialized in mobile games. For two years, he worked 14-hour days crunching on soulless match-three clones and freemium garbage designed to milk microtransactions out of bored office workers. When the studio eventually went under, no one even bothered to tell him in person. He found out when his keycard stopped working. That was when he started freelancing. At first, he thought it would be temporary¡ªa way to build his portfolio while waiting for his real career to take off. But weeks turned into months, and months turned into years. One mediocre job after another eroded his enthusiasm for game development. He still called himself a developer, but the truth was he was more of a one-man content mill for anyone willing to pay him enough to keep the lights on. ========= The email that had come in earlier was unlike most of the requests he usually received. No buzzwords like "synergy" or "revolutionary gameplay." No grand promises of shares in the company "once the game takes off." It was short, to the point, and upfront about the budget. Subject: Game Project Inquiry Hey, I need a simple skiing game developed on a tight budget¡ª$700. Think Insane levels of frustration and difficulty. I¡¯ll provide the assets and concept, but I need you to handle the coding. If you can deliver something playable in two weeks, we¡¯ve got a deal. Let me know. Alex Hartman Gravy re-read the email for the tenth time, still torn between incredulity and mild curiosity. On one hand, $700 for two weeks of work was insultingly low, even for someone in his situation. On the other hand, it was $700 for two weeks of work. He was behind on rent, his internet bill was due, and his fridge contained exactly three slices of pizza and a jar of pickles.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it He exhaled loudly, pushing his hair out of his face. ¡°Well, Gravy, you¡¯ve done worse for less,¡± he muttered, clicking "Reply." Two hours later, Gravy had a contract in his inbox and a deposit in his account. The client, Alex, seemed straightforward enough, if not a bit eccentric. Gravy couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that this wasn¡¯t some ambitious indie dev trying to make a name for themselves¡ªit felt more like a high school kid trying to turn a dare into reality. He didn¡¯t care. Money was money. Gravy worked best at night. He always had, even in college, when his roommates would stumble into their shared living room to find him typing away at his laptop with a bag of puffs in one hand and an open can of generic in the other. Now, though, the late-night grind wasn¡¯t fueled by passion but by necessity. He booted up ForgeWorks, his trusted game engine, and stared at the blank project file. ¡°Alright, skiing game,¡± he said to himself, cracking his knuckles. ¡°How hard can this be?¡± The first challenge was the physics engine. He needed the skier to move down the slope in a way that was just functional enough to feel like a real game but janky enough to frustrate anyone who played it. After some trial and error, he managed to get the skier to glide, albeit with a strange wobble that made every turn feel like steering a shopping cart with a broken wheel. ¡°Perfect,¡± Gravy muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Next came the obstacles. He imported a batch of assets Alex had sent over¡ªtrees, rocks, and, for some reason, a snowman wearing sunglasses. Placing them randomly across the slope, he adjusted the collision detection to be just forgiving enough to let players think they could make it through but punishing enough to ruin their momentum at the worst possible moment. By 3 a.m., Gravy had a prototype up and running. He leaned back in his chair, sipping the last of his energy drink as the skier on his screen slammed into a tree, triggering an error sound he¡¯d assigned as a placeholder. ¡°Yup,¡± he said with a satisfied nod. ¡°This game sucks. Exactly what they asked for.¡± Gravy saved his progress and shut down his computer, the adrenaline of productivity giving way to the exhaustion of reality. He glanced around his apartment¡ªthe mess, the overdue bills, the faint smell of burnt noodles from last week¡¯s failed experiment in cooking. He wondered, not for the first time, how he¡¯d ended up here. In another life, he could¡¯ve been working on blockbuster titles, collaborating with teams of talented developers to create the next great masterpiece. Instead, he was making deliberately bad games for people who probably didn¡¯t even know what they wanted. But as much as he hated it, there was something oddly freeing about this project. No pretension, no lofty goals¡ªjust a ridiculous, chaotic mess of a game that he could create without anyone breathing down his neck. For once, the stakes were low, and the expectations even lower. Gravy smirked to himself, imagining the reaction of whoever played this game for the first time. The rage, the confusion, the inevitable moment when they gave up and threw their controller across the room. ¡°Maybe this isn¡¯t so bad,¡± he muttered, heading to bed. ¡°It¡¯s not like anyone¡¯s gonna remember this thing in six months.¡± The next morning, Gravy woke up to a flood of emails from Alex¡ªmore assets, more voiceover clips, and even a detailed list of insults to incorporate into the game. He couldn¡¯t help but laugh as he read through them. ¡°Who taught you to ski? Your grandma?¡± ¡°Nice job, genius. Maybe try using your eyes next time.¡± ¡°Wow, you¡¯re about as coordinated as a drunk flamingo.¡± Gravy shook his head, pulling his chair up to the desk. Cracking his knuckles. ¡°Let¡¯s make something awful.¡± For the first time in years, he felt a flicker of excitement¡ªnot the passion he once had for game development, but something close enough to keep him going. Two weeks of chaos, frustration, and caffeine-fueled coding later, Slalom Struggle was ready to launch. Gravy submitted the final build, collected his payment, and leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-empty balance that would soon go toward rent. ¡°Here¡¯s to another piece of garbage made by my hands,¡± he said with a laugh, raising an invisible toast to the absurdity of it all. Chapter 8: Setting the Stage I handed Brian a crumpled piece of paper with the address scrawled on it. He squinted at it, holding it up like he was deciphering ancient runes. ¡°Our HQ?¡± ¡°Yup,¡± I said, tucking my hands into my hoodie pockets. ¡°Meet me there tomorrow around one. I¡¯ve got something to show you.¡± Brian¡¯s grin stretched ear to ear. ¡°Man, I can¡¯t wait! I¡¯ll bring snacks, my brainstorming notebook, and maybe a good-luck charm or something. You never know!¡± I smirked. ¡°Don¡¯t go overboard. It¡¯s not the Taj Mahal.¡± Brian laughed, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. ¡°Dude, that¡¯s what I love about you¡ªalways downplaying it. But seriously, I¡¯ve got a good feeling about this. Tomorrow, it all begins!¡± ¡°Sure does,¡± I said, smiling back. I watched him jog off, already mumbling to himself about marketing slogans and expansion plans. I turned and started walking home. The first week, we set up shop at Buckaroo¡¯s Diner, claiming the corner booth as our unofficial headquarters. Onion rings, soda-stained napkins, and Brian sketching bad logos on the backs of placemats. He called it "creative fuel." I called it an excuse to eat his weight in curly fries. Later, we shifted to the library. Brian hated it¡ªclaimed the silence made his brain itch¡ªbut it had Wi-Fi and no risk of spilling ketchup on my laptop. Brian was a whirlwind, bouncing between ideas like a pinball. One second, he was brainstorming a logo with flaming skis. The next, he was pitching a merch line called Struggle Swag. I spent most of my time reigning him in, nodding at the occasional good idea but mostly just letting him run. Our freelance dev, Gravy, was turning our chaos into a game, and I had to admit, the guy was weirdly efficient. The first test build was already playable. Brian loved it. I leaned back in my chair, watching him fail over and over, the game hurling insults at him every time he crashed. ¡°Dude,¡± Brian wheezed between laughter. ¡°This is gonna be huge.¡± I forced a grin. By the time I reached Hillside Heights, the sun was sinking, casting the town in burnt orange. The record store had its usual $2 Vinyl Revival bin sitting out front, chalk sign a little more faded than I remembered. Buckaroo¡¯s neon flickered faintly, glowing pink and blue against the cracked sidewalk. I passed a group of kids playing basketball in an alley, their makeshift hoop duct-taped to a fire escape. Someone had chalked a scoreboard onto the pavement. It was all so intact. I lingered outside Buckaroo¡¯s. Through the glass, a waitress in a retro uniform balanced a tray of milkshakes, the jukebox playing something scratchy but upbeat. A moment frozen in time. In 2026, places like this didn¡¯t exist anymore. It was replaced with a stupid data server. I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept walking.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. The Hartman house stood exactly as I remembered¡ªpale blue, mismatched shutters, driveway cracked like a spiderweb. The wind chime on the porch tinkled faintly in the breeze, rusted edges swaying. I climbed the porch steps, the wood creaking under my weight, and pushed open the door. Grandpa Joe was in his recliner, a half-finished crossword and a popcorn bowl balanced on his stomach. He glanced up from the black-and-white Western playing on the ancient box TV. "You look like a man who''s either seen a ghost or just realized he forgot to turn in a term paper." I snorted. From the kitchen, Mom¡¯s humming blended with the sizzle of frying chicken. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet as she turned, giving me a quick once-over. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± she said, flipping a drumstick. ¡°Where¡¯ve you been?¡± ¡°Working on that project with Brian.¡± She raised an eyebrow. ¡°Brian? The Brian?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡± She laughed. ¡°Well, at least you¡¯re getting out of the house. Just don¡¯t let him talk you into anything too ridiculous.¡± Dad was at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of him. He didn¡¯t look up when he spoke. ¡°Hope you¡¯re not wasting your time.¡± Dinner played out exactly as I remembered. Grandpa Joe talking about things no one should repeat in polite company, Dylan making snide remarks about everything from the food to his homework, Mom trying to steer the conversation into safe territory, and Dad grumbling about bills. I ate in silence, letting it all wash over me. It wasn¡¯t perfect. But it was mine. At least for now. Tomorrow¡­ Tomorrow, I¡¯d show Brian the building. Tomorrow, we¡¯d see just how far this could go. I had $50,000 in potential revenue. And I needed to make sure it never saw the light of day. By the time I got home, the house was quiet. Grandpa Joe had fallen asleep in his recliner, the soft hum of the late-night news droning on in the background. Mom had left a plate of leftovers on the kitchen counter, covered in foil with a sticky note that read, Eat. Don¡¯t just drink coffee. I smirked, peeling the foil back. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Classic. I ate standing up, my mind already drifting to tomorrow¡ªthe HQ, Brian, the next steps. But as I rinsed my plate and set it in the sink, my gaze wandered toward the hallway leading to my room. It was a mess. Not just a mess¡ªa time capsule of bad habits. Clothes piled in the corner, empty soda cans on my desk, a dresser covered in random junk. The laundry basket was overflowing, stuffed with crumpled jeans and hoodies I barely remembered wearing. I sighed. If I was really going to do this¡ªif I was going to live in this past like it was my present¡ªI needed to stop living like a damn teenager. Rolling up my sleeves, I grabbed the laundry basket and hauled it downstairs. An hour later, the washing machine hummed softly in the background as I stood in the middle of my room, hands on my hips. It already looked better. The floor was visible, the bed was made, and I had actually wiped down my desk for the first time in... probably years. I tossed an old shoebox full of junk under the bed and took a deep breath. Not bad. I wasn¡¯t some completely new person, but maybe, just maybe, I didn¡¯t have to be exactly the same either. Checking my alarm, I set it for 5:30 AM¡ªa stupidly early time, but if I was going to keep this momentum going, I might as well commit. Flopping onto my now clean bed, I exhaled, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I¡¯d introduce Brian to the HQ. Tomorrow, we¡¯d start. I shut my eyes.
Early Morning The alarm ripped me out of sleep at 5:30 AM sharp. For a moment, I hated my past self for setting it. Then, as I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I saw the clean floor, the folded laundry, the tiny sense of control I had given myself last night. That was enough motivation to get me moving. I grabbed the fresh clothes from the laundry room, tossed them onto my bed, and got to work. Folding. Organizing. Actually putting things away instead of shoving them into random drawers. By 7:00 AM, my room looked entirely different. I even dragged out the old vacuum from the hallway closet and ran it across the carpet, watching the dust disappear. No more random crumbs. No more mystery stains. As I dusted off the old bookshelf, I ran my fingers over the spines of books I hadn¡¯t touched in years¡ªtextbooks, sci-fi paperbacks, a few business books Sarah had given me but I never read. One caught my eye. A battered, dog-eared copy of Good to Great. I snorted. Irony at its finest. Tossing it back on the shelf, I stretched, glancing at the clock. Still plenty of time before I needed to meet Brian. For the first time since waking up in 2010, I actually felt ahead of schedule. I should go to the library to learn up on how to really run a company. Chapter 9: Business 101 The library was quiet¡ªtoo quiet for what Alex had planned. He sat hunched over a stack of business books, their spines crisp, their covers filled with promise for aspiring entrepreneurs. Alex cracked open a book at random. Skimming through the introduction. The author talked about how great companies weren¡¯t just lucky¡ªthey followed disciplined strategies, built strong leadership, and never strayed from a well-defined vision. "Alright," Alex muttered, running his fingers down the page. "So, if I want to fail, I need to do the exact opposite." ========
1. Solve a Real Problem A business must provide value by solving a real need or pain point for customers. 2. Know Your Market Understand your target audience, their needs, and your competition. Market research is key. 3. Have a Clear Value Proposition Be able to explain in one sentence why customers should choose you over competitors. 4. Manage Finances Wisely Cash flow is king. Track expenses, control costs, and reinvest wisely. 5. Focus on Customer Experience Happy customers lead to repeat business and word-of-mouth marketing. 6. Build a Strong Brand A recognizable and trustworthy brand creates long-term loyalty. 7. Hire the Right People Your team makes or breaks the business. Hire for skill, culture fit, and adaptability. 8. Adapt to Change Market conditions, customer preferences, and technology evolve¡ªso should you. 9. Master Sales and Marketing Even the best products fail without good marketing and sales strategies. 10. Prioritize Efficiency and Productivity Optimize operations, automate repetitive tasks, and eliminate waste. 11. Maintain Legal and Ethical Standards Compliance, fair treatment of employees, and honesty build a long-term, sustainable business. 12. Set Clear Goals and Measure Performance Track key metrics, adjust strategies based on data, and focus on results. 13. Embrace Innovation New ideas, products, and processes keep your business competitive. 14. Offer Exceptional Customer Support Great service builds loyalty and sets you apart from competitors. 15. Have Grit and Resilience Success doesn¡¯t come overnight¡ªpersistence and problem-solving are essential. "Alright," Alex muttered, running his fingers down the page. "So, if I want to fail, I need to do the exact opposite." He continued reading, his smirk growing wider as he flipped through chapter after chapter of corporate wisdom. Each rule, principle, and case study detailed the foundations of success: planning, diligence, adaptability, strong leadership. It was all so painfully predictable.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Alex grabbed his notepad and jotted down a fresh set of rules¡ªhis rules. The Anti-Success Manifesto No Clear Vision ¨C Never explain anything to employees. Confusion is the foundation of chaos, and chaos is the birthplace of spectacular failure. Terrible Leadership ¨C A strong leader fosters growth. A weak leader creates suffering. But an unhinged leader? Maybe I¡¯ll cultivate the personality of an eccentric artist, the kind that paints with his toes and talks in riddles. Reckless Spending ¨C Burn through money like it¡¯s cursed. Buy extravagant office furniture before there¡¯s an office. Sponsor a local rugby team before there¡¯s revenue. I can¡¯t afford to make a profit. Solve No Real Problems ¨C A good business addresses a real need. A bad business forces customers to buy things they never wanted, at prices they can''t justify, through a process they don''t understand. Ignore the Market ¨C Market research is for cowards. My gut feeling, the vague advice of a guy I met at a gas station, and the unverified claims of internet forums are all the guidance I need. Vague Value Proposition ¨C Why should customers choose my business? That¡¯s their problem to figure out, not mine. Mismanage Finances ¨C Keep cash flow unpredictable. Never track expenses. When in doubt, ignore it. Ignore Customer Experience ¨C The customer is never right. In fact, they should be grateful we even acknowledge their existence. No Branding Consistency ¨C Every logo should be a different color. The company name should change every fiscal quarter. If customers don¡¯t recognize us, that means we¡¯re unpredictable. And unpredictability is exciting. No one should ever know that I run the different companies. Hire the Wrong People ¨C Recruit only for personality quirks, preferably the kind that cause internal conflict. A team that despises each other is a team that... well, I¡¯ll figure that out later. Resist Change ¨C The world might evolve, but my business strategy will be a monument to stubbornness. Disregard Sales and Marketing ¨C If the product is good, it should sell itself, right? And if it¡¯s bad... well, marketing won¡¯t save it anyway, so why bother? Maximize Inefficiency ¨C Automate nothing. Paper trails should be labyrinthine. The fewer tools employees have, the harder they¡¯ll work out of sheer desperation. Have No Grit ¨C Give up at the first sign of struggle. Blame everyone but myself. And when things really go south, pivot into something even dumber. Alex leaned back in his chair, admiring his work. If the goal was to fail spectacularly, he had just created a blueprint for disaster. And now, he needed to put it into action. The Perfect (Worst) Business Idea Now that he had the anti-strategy nailed down, the real question was: What kind of business should I start? It needed to be something doomed from the start¡ªan idea so fundamentally flawed that success would be impossible. But at the same time, it had to be just believable enough that investors might actually throw money at it. That way, when it inevitably crashed and burned, he¡¯d get to enjoy the schadenfreude of watching people defend their terrible investment choices. He grabbed another sheet of paper and started brainstorming. Pet Rental Service ¨C People love pets, but they don¡¯t always want the responsibility. Rent a dog for the weekend! What could go wrong? Liability issues? Emotional attachment problems? Logistics? Bah, details! Luxury Dirt ¨C Farmers buy regular dirt. But rich people would pay for exclusive, handcrafted, premium artisan soil. Maybe package it in tiny glass jars and call it "Earth¡¯s Essence." Silent Alarm Clocks ¨C Some people hate waking up to loud noises. So why not an alarm clock that doesn¡¯t make a sound? How would it wake people up? Unclear. Maybe it just sits there, judging you. Single-Use Umbrellas ¨C Tired of carrying an umbrella around all day? Just buy a disposable one! Environmental concerns? That¡¯s Future Alex¡¯s problem. Reverse Auction House ¨C Instead of bidding up, customers bid down. Whoever is willing to pay the least gets the product. Great way to sell literally anything at a loss! Gourmet Ice Cubes. Rich people love pointless luxury. Fancy water brands already existed, but what about ice? Organic, free-range, hand-carved artisanal ice cubes sourced from the purest Alaskan glaciers. Maybe throw in a ridiculous backstory, something about being ¡°aged to perfection.¡± He stopped writing down his ideas. He leaned back, tapping his pen against the table. This was shaping up to be a business model so bad it could serve as a case study. And the best part? If anyone questioned him, he could point to real-life companies that had done well for these exact reasons. Alex flipped the book shut, satisfied. He¡¯d come to the library to study how to build a business. Instead, he had created the perfect blueprint for disaster. The System wouldn¡¯t see this coming. He gathered his notes, slipped the book back onto the shelf, and checked the time, he needed to head to the building if he was going to meet Brian on time for their first business meeting, and publish their game. Alex took a deep breath as he stepped out of the library, gripping his notebook tightly. It was time to put his plan into action. He made his way through town, weaving past familiar storefronts and old landmarks, his mind racing with possibilities. The sun hung high in the sky, and for the first time in a while, he felt genuinely excited. Not because he was building a successful business¡ªbut because he was about to orchestrate the most spectacular failure imaginable. He arrived at the bus stop, waiting as a few old folks chatted amongst themselves about the weather. The bus pulled up with a sigh, the doors opening with a hiss. Alex climbed aboard, paid his fare, and took a seat near the window. The ride through town gave him time to reflect¡ªon the past two weeks, on his absurd plan, and on what lay ahead. The moment the bus stopped near his destination, he hopped off and took a deep breath. The building loomed ahead, the worn-down structure standing defiantly against time. It was his now¡ªat least in name.