Story code: ST-000019
Part 1: The Price of the Grind
Success isn’t handed to you. You have to crawl through the mud, bleed for your vision, and never accept defeat. I typed the words on the pristine screen of a gold-plated smartphone, making sure to add a fire emoji next to a photo of a matte-black Lamborghini. Grind your way out of the mud. Build your empire today.
A vibration buzzed hard against my thigh. I pulled my own cracked Android from my pocket, the shattered glass scraping my thumb. A text from an unlisted number flashed on the lock screen. It was a photo of a small, faded Spider-Man backpack sitting on a chipped wooden porch step. My porch. My six-year-old son’s backpack. The text beneath it was blunt. Five thousand by sunset.
I swallowed the metallic taste in my mouth, locked my broken phone, and handed the heavy gold device across the glass coffee table.
Julian took his phone without looking up from his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse. He adjusted the lapels of his custom silk suit. “Tell me you added the part about waking up at four in the morning.”
“I put it right at the top.”
Julian smiled, admiring himself. He had never been awake at four in the morning in his entire life, unless he was still drinking from the night before. His father’s real estate empire had paved every inch of his life in velvet. Family money bought the penthouse, the cars, and the verified social media badge. My job was to spin that inheritance into a narrative of relentless struggle and self-made triumph.
“Good,” Julian said, hitting publish. “The followers eat that mud stuff up. It makes them feel like we are all the same.”
I stared at the back of his head. My leg bounced against the couch cushion. The image of the Spider-Man backpack burned in my retinas. The local crew I borrowed from three months ago to cover my wife’s hospital bills did not send reminders. They sent warnings. The photo was a promise. I had exactly six hours before they walked through my front door and found my family.
“Julian,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I need that advance we talked about. Just the five thousand. You promised it would clear by Friday, and it is now Monday.”
Julian sighed, dragging a hand down his face as if I were exhausting him. He walked over to the mahogany wet bar and poured himself a glass of sparkling water.
“Marcus, we discussed this. Cash flow is incredibly tight right now. I have all my liquid assets tied up in that new commercial development project.”
He didn’t have assets tied up in anything. His father’s accountants handled every penny. Julian just liked the sound of the word assets.
“It is a medical emergency,” I said, leaning forward on the white leather sofa. “I have a situation at home. I need the cash today. Right now.”
Julian leaned against the bar, taking a slow sip. He pointed a manicured finger at me. “You are falling into a scarcity mindset, Marcus. You need to read the caption you just wrote for me. Grind your way out of the mud. Find a hustle. I pay you a very fair rate for these posts.”
Three hundred dollars a week did not cover rent, let alone the five thousand I owed the men currently watching my porch.
“I need the advance,” I repeated, my hands curling into fists on my knees. “You owe me for the ghostwriting on the e-book. That alone is worth ten grand.”
“The e-book is a passive income stream,” Julian corrected, waving his hand in the air. “We agreed you get a cut of the profits once it recoups the marketing costs. You just have to be patient. Success is a marathon.”
He set his glass down and picked up his gold phone again, scrolling through the instant flood of likes and admiring comments from people desperate to learn his fake secrets. He was entirely disconnected from reality. He was playing a character I invented for him, using it as a shield to deny me the money I actually earned.
My shattered phone vibrated again in my pocket. I pulled it out. Another text from the unlisted number. A photo of my front door, taken from the sidewalk. A shadow of a man was visible in the foreground, bleeding onto my lawn. Tick tock.
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. I looked around the penthouse. There was a bronze statue on a pedestal near the entryway that cost more than my life. There was a stack of unopened designer watches on the desk. Julian had everything, built on a foundation of nothing.
“I am going to hit the gym,” Julian announced, grabbing a towel and tossing his keys onto the glass table. “Draft the afternoon post. Make it about loyalty. How you have to cut off toxic people who drain your energy.”
He walked toward the private elevator. The heavy metal doors slid open.
“Julian, I am begging you,” I said, standing up. “I just need five grand.”
Julian paused inside the elevator. He gave me a condescending smile.
“Manifest it, Marcus. Stop relying on handouts.”
The elevator doors slid shut. The quiet hum of the machinery faded, leaving me alone in the massive, echoing penthouse. I stood in the silence, listening to the frantic pounding of my own heart. I looked at the glass coffee table. Julian had left his thick leather briefcase sitting on the rug next to the sofa. The gold clasps were unlatched. I stepped closer, seeing the stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound in bank bands resting right on top of his gym clothes. My hand reached out, hovering inches above the leather flap.
Success isn’t handed to you. You have to crawl through the mud, bleed for your vision, and never accept defeat. I typed the words on the pristine screen of a gold-plated smartphone, making sure to add a fire emoji next to a photo of a matte-black Lamborghini. Grind your way out of the mud. Build your empire today.
A vibration buzzed hard against my thigh. I pulled my own cracked Android from my pocket, the shattered glass scraping my thumb. A text from an unlisted number flashed on the lock screen. It was a photo of a small, faded Spider-Man backpack sitting on a chipped wooden porch step. My porch. My six-year-old son’s backpack. The text beneath it was blunt. Five thousand by sunset.
I swallowed the metallic taste in my mouth, locked my broken phone, and handed the heavy gold device across the glass coffee table.
Julian took his phone without looking up from his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse. He adjusted the lapels of his custom silk suit. “Tell me you added the part about waking up at four in the morning.”
“I put it right at the top.”
Julian smiled, admiring himself. He had never been awake at four in the morning in his entire life, unless he was still drinking from the night before. His father’s real estate empire had paved every inch of his life in velvet. Family money bought the penthouse, the cars, and the verified social media badge. My job was to spin that inheritance into a narrative of relentless struggle and self-made triumph.
“Good,” Julian said, hitting publish. “The followers eat that mud stuff up. It makes them feel like we are all the same.”
I stared at the back of his head. My leg bounced against the couch cushion. The image of the Spider-Man backpack burned in my retinas. The local crew I borrowed from three months ago to cover my wife’s hospital bills did not send reminders. They sent warnings. The photo was a promise. I had exactly six hours before they walked through my front door and found my family.
“Julian,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I need that advance we talked about. Just the five thousand. You promised it would clear by Friday, and it is now Monday.”
Julian sighed, dragging a hand down his face as if I were exhausting him. He walked over to the mahogany wet bar and poured himself a glass of sparkling water.
“Marcus, we discussed this. Cash flow is incredibly tight right now. I have all my liquid assets tied up in that new commercial development project.”
He didn’t have assets tied up in anything. His father’s accountants handled every penny. Julian just liked the sound of the word assets.
“It is a medical emergency,” I said, leaning forward on the white leather sofa. “I have a situation at home. I need the cash today. Right now.”
Julian leaned against the bar, taking a slow sip. He pointed a manicured finger at me. “You are falling into a scarcity mindset, Marcus. You need to read the caption you just wrote for me. Grind your way out of the mud. Find a hustle. I pay you a very fair rate for these posts.”
Three hundred dollars a week did not cover rent, let alone the five thousand I owed the men currently watching my porch.
“I need the advance,” I repeated, my hands curling into fists on my knees. “You owe me for the ghostwriting on the e-book. That alone is worth ten grand.”
“The e-book is a passive income stream,” Julian corrected, waving his hand in the air. “We agreed you get a cut of the profits once it recoups the marketing costs. You just have to be patient. Success is a marathon.”
He set his glass down and picked up his gold phone again, scrolling through the instant flood of likes and admiring comments from people desperate to learn his fake secrets. He was entirely disconnected from reality. He was playing a character I invented for him, using it as a shield to deny me the money I actually earned.
My shattered phone vibrated again in my pocket. I pulled it out. Another text from the unlisted number. A photo of my front door, taken from the sidewalk. A shadow of a man was visible in the foreground, bleeding onto my lawn. Tick tock.
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. I looked around the penthouse. There was a bronze statue on a pedestal near the entryway that cost more than my life. There was a stack of unopened designer watches on the desk. Julian had everything, built on a foundation of nothing.
“I am going to hit the gym,” Julian announced, grabbing a towel and tossing his keys onto the glass table. “Draft the afternoon post. Make it about loyalty. How you have to cut off toxic people who drain your energy.”
He walked toward the private elevator. The heavy metal doors slid open.
“Julian, I am begging you,” I said, standing up. “I just need five grand.”
Julian paused inside the elevator. He gave me a condescending smile.
“Manifest it, Marcus. Stop relying on handouts.”
The elevator doors slid shut. The quiet hum of the machinery faded, leaving me alone in the massive, echoing penthouse. I stood in the silence, listening to the frantic pounding of my own heart. I looked at the glass coffee table. Julian had left his thick leather briefcase sitting on the rug next to the sofa. The gold clasps were unlatched. I stepped closer, seeing the stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound in bank bands resting right on top of his gym clothes. My hand reached out, hovering inches above the leather flap.