The Unwanted Son's Millionaire System

The silence after Deke left was thick, broken only by the pounding of Ace's heart and the slow drip from the bathroom. He sat slumped against the motel room door, the rough carpet scratching his legs. The sharp smell of splintered pine cut through the usual musty air. His scraped elbows ached with every heartbeat. As the adrenaline wore off, a deep tiredness set in—along with the quiet hum of the Neural Interface in his skull.

[Wealth Consolidation: ACTIVE]

[Asset: Damaged Motel Door (Estimated Repair Cost: $80.00)]

[Action: Offer Repair Services to Management. Estimated Fee: $40.00]

[Steps: 1. Locate Wood Filler & Clamp. 2. Stabilize Frame. 3. Apply Filler. 4. Sand Smooth.]

The blue directives pulsed alongside the internal map of the simple instructions. Wood filler? A clamp? At midnight? In this dump? Ace almost laughed—a dry, broken sound that scratched his throat. The absurdity of it all clashed with the weight of the task ahead and the echo of Deke's promise.

Not over.

His gaze drifted to the splintered mess around the deadbolt. Long, jagged fingers of wood peeled away from the frame. It looked like a wounded animal. Fixing this felt as impossible as hacking that server had seemed an hour ago. But the Neural-Interface hummed, patient and insistent. And the $500 System dollars felt like a ghost limb – present, powerful, but utterly untouchable without cash for the ATM fee. He needed that $40. Badly.

Cleverness. Toughness. The words weren't just System prompts anymore; they were survival mantras etched into his exhausted mind. He pushed himself up, wincing as his hip protested – a deep, familiar ache from his father's final shove, flaring up after slamming the door. Every movement felt stiff, painful. He looked down at his hands. The knuckles were scraped, the skin around his thumbnail burned and raw from the steam repair, fingertips still slightly numb. Tools of a handyman? He snorted.

Resources. Seventy-six cents in wet coins. A dying phone. The cheap charger. The Neural-Interface humming directions. And the sour air of Room 7.

The System's internal compass tugged him – not towards the alley this time, but down the dim hallway. Towards the office. Towards Big Mike.

He scooped up the seventy-six cents, the metal cool and slightly greasy against his burned skin. He pocketed them. No sense leaving his small fortune behind. Limping to the door, he unlocked the damaged deadbolt and slid the chain free. The loose mechanism rattled. The hallway smelled of damp carpet and mildew. A faint glow came from the office window.

Ace took a shaky breath and tapped his knuckles on the plexiglass. Big Mike looked up from behind the counter, his heavy-lidded eyes wary under the fluorescent light. He didn't say a word—just raised an eyebrow and waited.

The magazine he'd been reading lay forgotten.

"Mike," Ace started, his voice rough. "The door… the frame's pretty busted."

Mike grunted. "Told ya. Comes outta deposit."

"Yeah," Ace swallowed. "But… I can fix it." The words felt alien in his mouth. "Right now. Tonight."

Mike raised his other eyebrow. Skepticism rolled off him like cheap cologne.

"You? Fix it?"

His eyes flicked over Ace—soaked, scraped up, and still wearing a shirt with a faint, crusty juice stain.

"With what? Wishful thinking?"

The Basic Haggling skill, amplified by the Neural-Interface, flared to life. It wasn't just about price now; it was about perceived value, credibility, leveraging Mike's pragmatism. Ace felt the angles, the pressure points.

"I saw what needs doing," Ace said, forcing his voice steady, injecting a confidence he didn't feel. The Neural-Interface fed him phrases, tones. "Splintered frame near the lock plate. Needs stabilizing, filling, sanding. Won't be pretty, but it'll be solid. Better than waiting for some overpriced handyman tomorrow who'll charge you eighty bucks." He paused, meeting Mike's gaze squarely. "I can have it functional in an hour. Forty bucks. Cash. You save fifty, I get paid, door gets fixed. Done."

Mike stared at him. The silence stretched, filled only by the buzz of the office lights and Ace's pounding heart. The Haggling skill whispered: He's calculating. Show the solution, not the doubt.

"Got the stuff?" Mike finally rumbled, doubt still heavy in his voice.

"Need wood filler and a clamp," Ace admitted. "Figured you might have basics lying around? Maintenance closet? Anything?" He gestured vaguely down the hall. The Neural-Interface subtly reinforced the suggestion, a gentle nudge towards the utility room Mike kept locked near the laundry machines.

Mike sighed, a long-suffering sound that seemed to come from his boots. He pushed himself off the stool with a groan. "Wait here." He lumbered out from behind the counter, keys jingling on a heavy ring. Ace watched him disappear into a side room near the end of the hall. He returned a minute later, holding a dusty, half-squeezed tube of beige wood filler and a rusty, screw-type bar clamp that looked older than Ace. He thrust them at Ace. "Forty bucks if it's fixed proper. And if it holds. You mess it up worse, you owe me for the whole damn door."

"Deal," Ace said, taking the offered tools. The wood filler tube felt stiff, the clamp heavy and cold. "Need some sandpaper too? Anything rough?"

Mike grunted again, disappearing back into the utility room. He emerged with a single, worn sheet of medium-grit sandpaper. "That's it. Don't push your luck, kid." He turned back towards the office. "Hour. Tick-tock."

Ace limped back to Room 7, the tools clutched in his aching hands. The hallway seemed longer. The splintered door awaited, a silent challenge under the flickering fluorescent light. He pushed it open, the damaged lock groaning.

Inside, he dropped the tools on the wobbly nightstand. The wood filler tube was stubborn, the cap crusted shut. He wrestled with it, his burned fingers protesting, until it finally twisted open with a dry crack. The smell was sharp and chemical, cutting through the room's sourness. He squeezed some onto a scrap of cardboard from the trash. It looked like gritty toothpaste.

The clamp was awkward. He fumbled with the mechanism, trying to position it around the splintered section of the door frame. The Neural-Interface projected ghostly lines – Apply pressure HERE. Align clamp jaws HERE. But translating the internal schematic to the physical world with shaky hands was another battle. His hip screamed as he crouched, trying to hold the splintered wood together while tightening the clamp screw. The wood groaned. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with the lingering dampness from the rain. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the rough fabric of his sleeve catching on the crusty juice stain.

Tighten incrementally. Avoid cracking adjacent wood, the Interface advised coolly.

"Easy for you to say," Ace muttered, gritting his teeth as he turned the screw another fraction. The splinters slowly pressed together, the gap closing unevenly. It wasn't perfect, but it was holding.

Next, the filler. Using his finger felt disgusting, but he had no putty knife. He scooped the gritty paste and shoved it into the cracks, packing it deep, smoothing it over the worst of the splinters. It was messy. Beige smears covered his fingers, the wood, the edge of the clamp. It looked terrible. Like a kindergartener's art project. Doubt gnawed at him. Would Mike accept this?

Filler application adequate. Requires curing time before sanding, the Interface reported, unmoved by aesthetics.

Ace slumped onto the edge of the lumpy bed, wiping his filthy hands on his already ruined jeans. He stared at his makeshift repair job. The clamp looked like a metal insect clinging to the door. The filler was lumpy. He reeked of chemicals. The seventy-six cents felt heavy in his pocket. The blue timer pulsed: [Wealth Consolidation: IN PROGRESS]. He had to wait. And hope.

He must have dozed off, the exhaustion finally overwhelming the adrenaline and fear. The Neural-Interface pinged softly in his mind, jolting him awake.

[Filler Cured Sufficiently. Proceed to Sanding.]

His body protested as he stood. Every muscle ached. He picked up the single sheet of sandpaper. It felt flimsy. He started rubbing it over the dried filler. Dust flew, tickling his nose, making him cough. It was slow, tedious work. The rough grit caught on the uneven surface. He focused on the worst lumps, smoothing them down as best he could. The dust settled on everything – his clothes, the carpet, the juice stain. The room smelled like sawdust and chemicals now, layered over the old sourness.

Finally, he stopped. It wasn't smooth. It wasn't pretty. But the gap was filled. The splinters were contained under the beige paste. The clamp had done its job holding it together while it set. He carefully loosened the screw and removed the rusty clamp. The frame held. He tested the deadbolt – it slid home with only a slight extra scrape. Functional. Barely.

He gathered the tools, the empty filler tube, the dusty sandpaper. The hour was up. Time to face Mike.

He walked back to the office, limping, the tools in his hands. Mike looked up, his expression unreadable. Ace held out the clamp and sandpaper. "It's done. It'll hold. The lock works."

Mike didn't speak. He stood up and walked down the hall to Room 7. Ace followed, his heart pounding again.

Mike examined the repair. He ran a thick finger over the rough, beige filler. Then he tested the deadbolt, locking and unlocking it a few times. He pressed against the door near the patch. It held firm. No groans.

He turned to Ace, his face still grim. "Looks like crap."

Ace's stomach dropped. But the Haggling skill flared, the Neural-Interface feeding him the counter. "Functional beats pretty at 2 AM," Ace said, keeping his voice level. "Saved you fifty bucks and a headache tomorrow. Solid. Like we agreed."

Mike stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into the pocket of his worn pants. He pulled out a worn leather wallet and extracted two crumpled twenty-dollar bills. He held them out. "Forty. Like agreed. Don't expect a tip for artistry."

Relief, sharp and sweet, flooded Ace. He took the bills. Real cash. Heavy. Warm from Mike's pocket. "Thanks, Mike."

"Just fixin' your own mess," Mike grunted, turning back towards the office. "Get some sleep. Door better hold." He paused. "And watch yourself. Deke ain't the forgettin' type."

Ace clutched the two twenties. Combined with his seventy-six cents, he had $40.76. Enough. More than enough.

Back in Room 7, the sour air felt almost bearable. He ignored the lumpy bed. He had one more errand. The Neural-Interface map lit up in his mind: the QuickCash ATM. Half a mile. Through the quiet, rain-washed streets. Deke could be anywhere. But he needed that System cash accessible.

He slipped back out into the night, the forty dollars and seventy-six cents a comforting weight. The walk was tense, every shadow a potential threat, the ache in his hip a constant companion. But the Neural-Interface hummed, a quiet sentinel scanning the periphery of his awareness, heightening his senses. He saw the ATM booth like a beacon.

Inside, the familiar hum. He inserted his card. Typed his PIN. Selected 'Other Transactions'. Typed the code the Neural-Interface supplied: [Access Code: 8T2R9P].

The machine whirred. Bills slid out. Ninety-seven dollars. The System's $500, minus the $3 fee. Real, physical cash. He grabbed it, adding it to Mike's forty. He was holding $137.76. More money than he'd had in… forever.

He shoved the thick wad deep into his pocket. The weight was incredible. Substantial. A shield. A lifeline.

He walked back to the Nite Owl, not limping as much now. The fear of Deke was still there, a cold undercurrent, but it was muted beneath the solid reality of the cash in his pocket and the cool hum of power in his mind.

As he locked the damaged-but-functional door of Room 7 behind him, the blue words flashed brightly, then dissolved:

[Wealth Consolidation: COMPLETE]

[Scattered Assets Consolidated into Accessible Reserve.]

[Bonus: $10.00 USD (System Funds) - Credited.]

The Neural-Interface updated silently: [System Funds: $510.00 USD].

Ace sank onto the edge of the bed, the lumpy mattress a minor annoyance. He pulled out the thick stack of bills – Mike's two twenties, the ninety-seven from the System. He smoothed them on the wobbly nightstand. The seventy-six cents sat beside them like a humble guard.

He was bruised, exhausted, and still haunted. But he wasn't broke. He wasn't helpless. He had real money. He had the System humming in his skull. He had survived Deke. He had fixed a door.

The drip… drip… drip from the bathroom faucet was still there. But tonight, it sounded less like despair, and more like… counting seconds. Counting seconds until he could leave this sour room behind. Counting seconds until he could use this money, this power, to step back into the world that had thrown him out.

He looked at the juice stain on his shirt, barely visible in the dim light under a fine layer of wood dust. A mark of where he'd been. Not where he was going.

He had $137.76 in cash, $510 in the System, a Neural-Interface in his head, and a world of trouble still lurking outside. But for the first time since Apartment 3B, Ace felt the faintest, most fragile flicker of something other than despair or fear.

It felt like ground. Solid ground beneath his worn sneakers. Time to start building.