Ethan Kane sat cross-legged on the floor of his one-room apartment, the eviction notice trembling in his hands like it was alive. The cheap paper, already smudged from his sweaty fingers, screamed in red ink: "FINAL WARNING: PAY $1,200 BY FRIDAY OR VACATE." It was Thursday, 6:47 PM, and Ethan's bank account held a pathetic $3.47. His fridge was a graveyard—half a ketchup packet, a wilted lettuce leaf, and a lone beer he'd been saving for a day when life didn't feel like a punch to the gut. That day hadn't come. At 22, Ethan wasn't just broke; he was a shipwreck, splintered and sinking in a sea of bad luck.
The apartment reeked of mildew, its walls yellowed from years of neglect, peeling like skin after a sunburn. A stack of unopened bills—electric, water, internet, all past due—teetered on a cardboard box that served as his coffee table. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. Ethan's last job, delivering pizzas on a bike older than he was, ended two weeks ago when a punk swiped it outside a dive bar. He'd chased the thief for three blocks, lungs burning, shoes slapping wet pavement, only to watch his livelihood vanish into an alley. The pizzeria fired him the next day. "No bike, no job," his boss had said, scrolling on his phone like Ethan was invisible.
"Another day in paradise," Ethan muttered, tossing the notice onto the bill pile. It fluttered, mocking him as it landed. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, fingers snagging on knots. His reflection in the cracked TV screen stared back—pale, bags under his eyes, a three-day stubble that screamed defeat. Two years ago, he'd been different. A college freshman, studying computer science, dreaming of coding an app that'd make him the next tech prodigy. Then his mom got sick—cancer, the kind that didn't care about dreams. Hospital bills devoured his savings, and he dropped out to care for her, working odd jobs to keep them afloat. She passed last year, leaving him with $15,000 in debt, a hole where hope used to be, and a nagging voice in his head: You failed her.
His phone buzzed on the couch, its screen so cracked it looked like a mosaic. A notification glowed—an app he didn't recall installing. The icon was a gold coin, spinning hypnotically, with two words: Cash Machine. No reviews, no developer name, just a tagline that hit like a taunt: Play to Pay. Win to Live. Ethan snorted. "Another crypto scam? Hard pass." He'd been burned before—MLM schemes that cost him $200 for "starter kits" he never sold, NFT drops that crashed overnight, a "freelance gig" that demanded $50 in "processing fees" and ghosted him. But the app's design was too sleek, its animation too fluid for a cheap rip-off. Curiosity gnawed at him. He was broke, not brain-dead.
Tapping the icon, his screen flickered, static crawling like ants. A loading bar appeared—no terms of service, no permissions, just a progress meter hitting 100% in seconds. Ethan's thumb hovered over the home button, a prickle of unease creeping up his spine. Before he could swipe away, a voice—smooth, metallic, and unnervingly alive—blared through his earbuds. "Welcome, Ethan Kane, to Cash Machine. Your starting balance is zero. Survive, earn, dominate. Ready to play?"
He yanked out an earbud, heart pounding. "How the hell does it know my name?" The room spun, his vision blurring like a cheap VR headset. Static roared, drowning out the drip of his leaky faucet. The mildew stench vanished, replaced by a sharp tang of ozone. Ethan's stomach lurched, like he'd been sucked through a vacuum, and then—pop—reality snapped back.
He stood in a bustling marketplace, the air thick with scents of sizzling street food, molten metal, and something electric, like a storm brewing. Towering skyscrapers loomed, their glass facades reflecting a kaleidoscope of neon signs—stock tickers scrolling numbers, crypto values spiking and crashing, gold prices pulsing like heartbeats. The ground vibrated, a hum of energy beneath the cobblestones. Players swarmed the streets, a chaotic mix of futuristic and fantastical. A man in obsidian armor, his sword crackling with plasma, haggled with a vendor. A woman in a sleek suit, eyes hidden behind holographic shades, tapped a device spitting data like a slot machine. A kid, maybe 16, hawked "Data Shards" promising game lore, his voice lost in the crowd's roar. The sensory overload hit Ethan like a wave—sights, sounds, smells so vivid his brain stuttered. This wasn't a game; it was a world.
His sneakers crunched on grit, the sensation jarringly real. A translucent screen materialized, floating like a sci-fi hologram:
Player: Ethan KaneLevel: 1Cash Balance: $0.00System: WealthCore v1.0 (Glitched)Objective: Earn $1,000 in 24 hours or face deletion.
Ethan's throat tightened. "Deletion? Like my account gets banned?" The word carried a weight that made his skin crawl, like a guillotine hovering. A new message pinged:
Tutorial Quest: First DollarTask: Sell an item in the Neon Market.Reward: $10 real-world transfer + WealthCore Skill Unlock.
He patted his pockets—empty, naturally. No inventory, no gear, just his tattered jacket and jeans, carried over from his apartment. "Sell what, my charming personality?" The market's chaos mocked him. Vendors hawked glowing swords, virtual real estate, "Quantum Stocks" with "1000% returns, guaranteed!" A woman in a hooded cloak sold "Memory NFTs," claiming they let you relive a billionaire's vacation. A grizzled man in a trench coat offered "Risk-Free Bonds," his shifty eyes screaming scam. Ethan had nothing but lint and desperation.
The crowd parted, revealing a towering statue at the market's center—a golden figure holding a coin aloft, its eyes glowing red like embers. A plaque read: Overlord, Architect of Wealth. Ethan shivered. The statue felt alive, its gaze boring into him. A player nearby, a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek, whispered to his friend, "They say Overlord watches every trade. Screw up, and you're gone—poof, like you never existed." Ethan's pulse quickened. Was Cash Machine just a game, or something… darker?
His screen glitched, static flickering, and a heat prickled his left forearm. Pulling back his sleeve, he gasped—a tattoo: a golden coin, etched into his skin, pulsing like a heartbeat. The WealthCore's voice hissed: "Glitch detected. Activating Hidden Skill: Junk to Jackpot." His screen updated:
Junk to Jackpot (Rank F)Convert any worthless item into a sellable asset.Cooldown: 24 hoursSuccess rate: 10%
Ethan's lips twitched. "Okay, game, you're weird, but I'm listening." He knelt by a trash pile near a noodle stall—bent bottlecaps, cracked circuit boards, a soggy ramen wrapper. The stall's cook, a burly man with a cybernetic arm, glared. "No scavenging, kid. Buy or beat it." Ethan grabbed a bottlecap, its edges rusted, and backed away, muttering an apology. The cook's glare followed him, but Ethan focused on the bottlecap. "Here goes nothing." Activating Junk to Jackpot, he felt a jolt, static surging through his veins. The bottlecap shimmered, its metal melting into a sleek, silver coin with runes carved along its edge. A notification popped up:
Item Created: Crypto Token (Common)Value: $10 in Neon Market
Ethan's heart raced. "No way…" The coin's weight was solid, its surface catching the neon glow. It wasn't pixels—it felt like money. He turned it over, runes glinting, and a memory flashed: his mom, counting change for groceries, smiling despite their empty pantry. The memory stung, grounding him. This coin could buy a meal, maybe keep the lights on. But the market's chaos reminded him he was a minnow in a shark tank. A hulking player in obsidian armor, his screen flashing Level 15, shoved past, nearly knocking Ethan over. "Watch it, newbie," he growled, his voice a low rumble. Ethan tucked the coin into his pocket, eyes darting for a safe vendor.
He approached a stall run by a grizzled man with a mechanical eye that whirred as it scanned him. The vendor's booth was cluttered with glowing chips, data drives, and a holographic sign: Honest Hal's Trades. "What's a Level 1 doing here?" Hal grunted, polishing a chip. "Got something worth my time, or you just gawking?"
Ethan hesitated, the coin heavy in his hand. "Interested in this?" He held it out, half-expecting rejection. Hal's eye clicked, projecting a hologram analyzing the runes. "Crypto Token, huh? Ten bucks. Take it or leave it."
"Deal," Ethan said, a grin breaking through. Hal tapped a wrist device, and Ethan's screen updated:
Cash Balance: $10.00Quest Completed! Reward: $10 transferred to real-world account.
His phone buzzed, the cracked screen lighting up with a banking app he hadn't checked in weeks. Ethan's jaw dropped—a deposit: $10, timestamped seconds ago. Real money. His mind spun. He pictured paying a bill, buying groceries, maybe keeping his apartment. A flicker of hope sparked, the first in months. But the WealthCore chimed, its voice colder: "Warning: 23 hours, 55 minutes remain to earn $990. Failure is not an option."
Ethan's grin faded. A commotion nearby stole his attention—a player screamed as two others in black masks dragged him into an alley, knives flashing. Hal muttered, "Idiot didn't pay his debts. Neon Market eats fools." Ethan's stomach twisted. This wasn't a goldmine; it was a battlefield. His tattoo pulsed, and his screen glitched, a single word flickering: Overlord. A shadow moved in the crowd—a player in a hooded cloak, watching silently. Ethan didn't notice, but his heart pounded. Cash Machine wasn't just a game. It was a shark tank, and he was bait.