The sun was starting to sink behind the skyline, casting a dusty orange hue over the half-finished buildings. Jaxon wiped the sweat from his brow, the back of his hand blackened with concrete dust. Another long day on site. His hands were calloused, back sore, boots heavy, and his mind fried—but that was life now.
Construction wasn't what he wanted to do with his life. It was where he ended up.
He clocked out and gave a tired nod to the foreman before heading toward his apartment complex a few blocks down. As he rounded the corner, he immediately spotted Mr. Ramírez—his landlord—waiting by the staircase with that familiar look: sympathetic but firm.
"Jaxon," he started, voice calm but tight. "We need to talk."
Jaxon sighed. "I know. I'm behind. I haven't forgotten."
"You're not just behind, mijo. You're two months late—and that's already me bending the rules."
Jaxon winced. "I'm trying. I've picked up extra shifts."
Ramírez nodded slowly, arms crossed. "I get it. I really do. But I've got mouths to feed, too. I can't keep covering for you."
There was no anger in his voice—just tiredness. The same kind Jaxon carried in his own bones.
"Eight months ago," Jaxon began, voice low, "my dad… you remember?"
Ramírez nodded. Everyone on the block knew.
"He was in critical condition. Needed surgery. I poured everything into that—overtime, savings, even sold my car. Thought it would save him."
Ramírez remained silent.
Jaxon looked down. "But when that rich kid crashed his daddy's sports car into a building, the surgeon left my dad on the table mid-operation. Handed him off to someone barely outta med school. All to earn favor with the Cross family. You can guess how that ended."
"I heard…" Ramírez said quietly.
"Yeah. Dad didn't make it. And when I tried to sue, guess who suddenly got blackballed from every firm and job in the city?"
Ramírez sighed. "You got dealt a shit hand, Jax. But I still need the rent."
Jaxon nodded slowly. "You'll have it. Just give me another couple weeks. I swear."
The landlord studied him for a moment before nodding. "Alright. Two more weeks. But that's it."
When Jaxon finally stepped into his cramped apartment, the air was thick and stale. He kicked off his boots, dragged himself to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet like it was a throne at the end of a long, brutal war.
He pulled out his cracked phone. Notifications? None worth opening. His thumb hovered over his usual reading app. It had been a while since he'd read anything. Web novels used to be his escape—his guilty pleasure. Stories where nobodies clawed their way up to the top and slapped the faces of the arrogant rich.
He needed a win—even if it was fiction.
A newly uploaded title caught his eye: "From Poor Bastard to Ruthless CEO". Jaxon raised an eyebrow. Subtle. There were already a dozen novels with the exact same premise. Rags to riches. Some broke guy awakens a golden finger, slaps his ex, slaps the rich young master, slaps his boss, and opens seventeen companies in three chapters.
"Corny as hell," he muttered. "But whatever."
He tapped it and scrolled through the first few chapters. The writing was… passable. Nothing special. Same recycled scenes. The MC was poor, got humiliated, gained a system, got revenge. Yawn.
Yet, something pulled him in. Not the quality—God no. It was how bad it was. It was almost impressive.
He read and read until he hit chapter 173. Caught up. His expression soured. "You've gotta be kidding me."
He couldn't hold it in. He clicked "Write a Review" and unloaded:
"You really published this? This isn't just cliché, it's copy-pasted garbage. It's a Frankenstein mashup of better (still bad) novels with names swapped. The MC is a walking trope machine, and somehow you made the dumb rich family trope even dumber. No depth. No soul. You can't just toss in 'CEO' and 'slap' every chapter and call it storytelling. At least pretend to care. This is why web novels get clowned. This ain't catharsis. It's lazy escapism for people who think yelling 'You're courting death!' makes you deep. 1 star."
He flushed the toilet, put down his phone, and shuffled to the shower. As the lukewarm water hit his skin, he leaned against the wall, letting his thoughts spiral.
He hated people like the Cross family. The ones who acted like life was a game. Who ruined others and moved on like it meant nothing.
But over time, that hatred evolved. It wasn't just the rich he hated—it was those born into power who treated it like a toy. Who drifted through life on a golden cushion, racing luxury cars while others dug ditches.
If he had that kind of power, his dad would still be alive. If he had money, he wouldn't be slaving away in boots with holes in them. He wouldn't be begging his landlord for mercy.
He dried off, threw on a pair of shorts, and collapsed into bed. His muscles ached like they always did. His mind was exhausted, and oddly enough, so was his body. Unusually tired, in fact. Heavy, like lead.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Over and over.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
Jaxon groaned and reached for it, but his arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. "Not now," he muttered. "Too tired…"
More pings. Messages. Notifications. The reading app going nuts.
His eyes fluttered. He tried to focus, but his vision blurred. Then… stillness.