December 31st, 1999 — 11:41 PM
The wind cut through his coat like it wasn't even there.
Julian Crest shoved his hands deeper into the frayed pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes low. His boots slapped the pavement in a slow, dragging rhythm — not tired, just done. Each breath fogged the air in front of him, but he didn't watch it fade. His gaze was fixed on the ground, dodging trash bags and shattered glass like he'd done a thousand nights before.
Behind him, two drunk men shouted Happy New Year at a passing car. Someone lit a bottle rocket. It shot up, hissed, and burst — blue sparks trailing like a dying comet. The cheers followed. So did the laughter.
Julian didn't flinch. Didn't look back.
A faded corner store loomed to his left, its steel shutters pulled halfway down. The neon "OPEN" sign above it flickered, buzzing like a dying mosquito. He passed it without slowing, the blue light crawling across his jaw for a second before vanishing behind him. The street stank of piss, burnt oil, and gasoline. Old gum crunched underfoot.
He turned a corner, quieter now. Just rows of cracked windows and graffiti-tagged doors. Somewhere behind one of them, someone was blasting music — something with synths and saxophones, upbeat and manic. It sounded like a party for people who thought life would magically restart at midnight.
Julian exhaled through his nose. Kept walking.
In his pocket: one crumpled bill. A hundred dollars. All of it. Severance from a job he didn't even get to finish. Fired for showing up late after his train stalled — again. No backup plan. No second chance. Just one last bill, a stiff wind, and a coat he hadn't washed in weeks.
He passed a group of teens huddled around a fire in a trash can. One of them looked up, smirked, then turned back to their drink. They didn't speak. Julian didn't either.
The cold bit harder as he reached the end of the block. He slowed. Stopped.
To his right, a glass storefront — long shut down. Inside, mannequins still stood in cracked poses behind a fogged window. Someone had spray-painted a smiley face across the glass. Julian caught his reflection there — smeared across the cartoon grin.
Unshaven. Hair matted under his hood. Pale eyes sunken in. No glow. No sharpness. Just a man-shaped shadow with no destination.
He stared for a second. Maybe more.
Then moved on.
Down the next alley, a bent streetlamp buzzed above a pile of melting snow. Someone had left an old shopping cart parked beside it, stacked high with garbage bags and worn blankets. A torn teddy bear dangled from the metal handle, one eye missing, the other stained red.
Julian didn't stop. Just looked. Then looked away.
The wind kicked up again. His coat flared open. He gripped it closed, jaw clenched, the taste of copper and dry wind on his tongue.
He passed a flower stand. Closed, obviously. Metal grate rolled down. Yellow tulip petals were stuck in the slats, frozen there, browned at the edges.
His step faltered.
He looked at them.
His mother used to say yellow flowers made winter feel like spring.
He hated that memory. It came uninvited.
Julian walked on.
At the end of the block, a bus rolled by, belching smoke. Its headlights flared across him, bleaching the world white for a split second before vanishing. The silence it left behind was worse than the engine.
Up ahead, the skyline pulsed — bursts of red, gold, and green popping like war in slow motion. People were shouting somewhere. Singing. Counting down.
Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out the hundred-dollar bill. He unfolded it, stared at it in the dark.
Cold air burned his fingertips.
A car drove by, slow, music thumping from rolled-down windows. The people inside wore glitter and gold hats, cheering, drunk and warm and alive.
He didn't curse them. Didn't envy them.
He just whispered.
"Please… make me rich."
The wind stopped.
Not completely. But something in it shifted — like the city had drawn in a breath and forgot to let it out. The fireworks didn't stop. A car still honked in the distance. Somewhere, a bottle shattered. But none of it reached Julian.
His fingers froze around the hundred-dollar bill.
A sound bloomed behind his eyes — soft, electric, not quite a tone, not quite a word. Then:
Click.
Light.
It wasn't from above, or behind, or any direction he could name. It was just there — hanging in the air two feet in front of him. A perfect rectangle, pulsing pale blue, faintly transparent, like a hologram from a movie with a real budget.
Julian blinked. Once. Twice.
The bill dropped from his hand, fluttering to the sidewalk like it didn't matter anymore.
"What the hell…"
No one answered. The light just hovered, motionless, like it had been waiting.
He took a step back.
"Am I in a manhwa right now?"
Another step. The light followed. No movement, no sound, but it was closer.
"No. Wait. This is—this is a prank." He glanced left. A pair of girls walked past, giggling. One of them caught his stare, frowned.
"Freak," she muttered, dragging her friend away.
Julian turned back to the light.
It hadn't moved.
Just shimmered there. Waiting.
His mouth was dry. Legs tense. Every nerve buzzed, ready to sprint, but his feet held firm.
Then the blue rectangle blinked — once, like an eye.
Text spilled across it, bold and clinical.
[SYSTEM INITIATED: WEALTHBOUND]
[You wished to be rich.]
[Now earn it.]
He didn't breathe. Didn't move. His heart was hammering so hard it made his ears ring.
Another line appeared beneath the first. The light pulsed brighter.
[MISSION #001 – ACTIVE]
[Give $100 to the man sitting outside 12th Street Deli.]
[Time Limit: 10 Minutes]
Complete the task and receive a special reward.
Fail and lose this opportunity forever.
He stared.
Then blinked hard and looked away — back toward the street, the cars, the flickering signs.
Nothing. No one else was reacting. No glowing windows in front of other people. No hidden cameras. No whispers in his ear.
He turned a full circle.
It was still there.
"You've got to be kidding me."
His voice came out hoarse. Dead in the cold.
He looked at the ground — the bill was still there, half-folded, twitching in the breeze.
A hundred dollars.
The last of it.
A quiet streetlamp buzzed above, flickering like it might die too.
Julian picked up the bill. Held it between two fingers.
Then glanced toward the end of the block.
The red sign of 12th Street Deli buzzed faintly, tilted at a crooked angle above a rusted storefront. In the shadows beneath it, a hunched figure sat — barely a shape in the dark, bundled in layers, unmoving.
The screen flickered again.
[00:09:56...]
Julian's breath caught.
The countdown had begun.
Julian stared at the number.
[00:09:53...]
The glow pulsed against his face, cold and silent. The wind pressed into him harder now, sharper, like it knew he was hesitating.
He looked at the deli again.
The man was there — real, not imagined. Curled beneath a mound of old jackets, his knees tucked to his chest, barely visible except for the glint of a foil coffee lid near his feet.
Julian's jaw tensed.
"This is a joke," he muttered. "It has to be."
But the number ticked.
[00:09:41...]
He didn't move.
People passed on the opposite sidewalk, laughing, shouting, firecrackers popping underfoot. No one noticed him. No one saw the screen. Just Julian, the glow, and the man wrapped in silence outside the deli.
The bill in his hand trembled slightly. His grip hadn't relaxed.
One hundred dollars.
His last.
He looked at the countdown again. Then the man. Then the street. Then back at the money.
Still frozen.
Still thinking.
[00:09:33...]