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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Reborn
Scenario:Shane Weber has led a hard broken life, a poor orphan, and his girlfriend is leaving him for a more richer prospect. But his fortune is about to change dramatically. Shane inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to the only multi-googolaire family in the world. He endures constant criticism and judgment from those around him. He vowed that those who labeled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet. How will he use his new-found wealth to shape those around him, as he reclaims his life?. With a new-found sense of responsibility, Shane will get revenge on those who mistreated him? Will he succeed?
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Shane Weber
male. He is a former orphan who was raised in foster care,discovering he is the heir to a multibillion dollar fortune. He is resilient,sarcastic,and determined. Shane faced immense poverty and hardship but never gave up. His life took a drastic turn when his adoptive parents kicked him out due to financial struggles. His exgirlfriend left him for someone richer. Despite criticism and judgment,Shane inherits the wealth,vowing revenge and social climb.
Penelope
female. She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for another man due to financial reasons. She is selfish,materialistic,and shallow. Penelope valued Shane only for his potential wealth,discarding him as soon as she found someone richer. Her relationship with Shane was emotionally distant,and she never truly cared for his struggles or past. Her decision to leave highlights her superficial nature and contributes to Shane's emotional turmoil.
Unnamed Adoptive Parents
male and female. They are Shane's adoptive parents who kicked him out when he was seventeen. They are cruel,heartless,and selfcentered. The parents viewed Shane as a means to an end,using his presence only for social prestige. Their callousness is evident in their decision to abandon Shane during his most vulnerable time,revealing their true nature as they seek external validation through his inheritance.
I was an orphan, a poor boy raised in foster care.
My life was harsh, and my future looked bleak.
But I never gave up, and my life took a drastic turn when I found out I was the heir to a multibillion-dollar fortune.
My new life was filled with wealth and privilege, but I never forgot where I came from.
I used my new power to get revenge on those who wronged me and to make others bow down at my feet.
My life changed once again when I met her.
Penelope was beautiful and kind, and I fell in love with her.
But she left me for another man, citing financial reasons.
I was heartbroken, but I knew I would be just fine.
After all, I had my wealth to keep me company.
But sometimes, it feels like something is missing.
I wish Penelope had stayed with me and seen the real me, not just the poor boy I once was.
Maybe then she would have realized that I was the one who truly deserved her love.
Maybe then, we would have had a future together.
But now, it's too late, and all I can do is move on with my life.
The day my life changed forever was the day my girlfriend left me for a richer guy.
It wasn't exactly a shock, but it still hurt.
We had been together for three years, and I thought our love was strong enough to withstand anything.
I sit in my study, staring at the financial reports spread out across my mahogany desk.
The numbers blur together, but one figure stands out - the millions I could allocate to help orphans.
My fingers trace the edge of a worn photograph on my desk, a picture of me and the other kids from the orphanage where I grew up.
I make a call to my financial advisor, instructing him to draft paperwork for establishing a foundation.
While he talks about tax benefits, my mind wanders back to the empty beds and cold meals I endured.
I pull up the website of the old orphanage on my laptop, noting its dilapidated condition.
I review the address from my old records and decide to drive there myself.
The chauffeur offers to come along, but I decline.
I want to go alone.
The building looks smaller than I remember - a weathered three-story structure with peeling blue paint and rusty playground equipment.
Through the chain-link fence, I spot children in worn clothes playing basketball with a partially deflated ball.
Their laughter carries on the wind, but it's tinged with desperation.
I recognize the look in their eyes - a mix of hope and resignation.
I remember wearing those same clothes, fighting for every scrap of food, and dreaming of a better life.
I park my Ferrari across the street, watching the children while gathering the courage to go inside.
A young boy notices my car and presses his face against the fence, eyes wide with wonder.
"Hey, mister, is that your car?" he asks, his voice a mix of awe and curiosity.
I nod, stepping closer to the fence. "It is, but I used to be just like you, dreaming of something better."
The boy's eyes light up with a spark of hope. "Really? So, dreams can come true?"
Inside the dimly lit hallway of the orphanage, I meet Mrs. Chen, the same caretaker who was here when I lived here.
She's older now, with graying hair and more wrinkles, but her stern expression remains unchanged.
When I explain who I am, her eyes widen in recognition.
She leads me through the facility, pointing out leaky pipes, crumbling walls, and overcrowded rooms.
In the dining hall, kids eat watery soup from chipped bowls - the same menu we had when I was here.
I pull out my phone, taking photos and notes while Mrs. Chen lists their most urgent needs.
The boy who admired my car waves from his table.
I walk over and sit beside him.
While sitting with the boy at lunch, Mrs. Chen suddenly excuses herself and hurries out of the dining hall.
I follow her through a familiar corridor to a door labeled "Office."
Mrs. Chen unlocks the door with trembling hands.
The room is small and cluttered, with stacks of paperwork and a worn desk.
She rummages through a filing cabinet, pulling out a yellowed envelope.
It's sealed and untouched, with my name written in elegant script across the front.
Mrs. Chen hands it to me, her voice barely above a whisper.
"This arrived shortly after you left the orphanage, but we couldn't find you. I kept it safe all these years, hoping you'd return."
I take the envelope, feeling its weight in my hands.
Before I can open it, a crash echoes from the dining hall, followed by children's screams.
I sprint down the dimly lit hallway, my expensive shoes squeaking against the worn linoleum floor.
The children's screams grow louder with each step.
As I approach the dining hall, I see the ancient ceiling fan has finally given out, crashing onto one of the metal tables and sending bowls of soup flying everywhere.
Kids huddle against the walls, some crying, others frozen in shock.
The car-loving boy from earlier stands paralyzed in the middle of the chaos, soup dripping from his shirt.
I move quickly to check him for injuries, then gather the other children away from the debris.
"Is everyone okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady amidst the chaos.
The boy nods, wiping soup from his face. "Yeah, but that was scary... Are you going to help us fix this place?"
I glance back at the envelope in my hand, feeling the weight of its promise. "Yes, I will."
Back in my penthouse, I spread Mrs. Chen's envelope and the photos from the orphanage across my desk.
I dial Jake's number, my hands shaking as I wait for him to pick up.
It's been months since we last spoke, ever since I disappeared after the inheritance news broke.
Jake's voice comes through, cautious but familiar.
"Hey, man. Is everything okay?"
I take a deep breath and explain everything - the billions, the orphanage visit, the fallen ceiling fan, and the kids' faces.
My voice cracks as I describe it all.
Jake listens silently, and when I finish, he says, "Hold on."
A few seconds pass before Landon and Lance join the call.
Instead of their usual jokes, they stay quiet as I recount my plans to renovate the orphanage and make a difference.
I open Mrs. Chen's envelope, finding my original admission papers inside.
Seeing my name and birthdate brings back memories I've tried to bury.
I spread the photos across my desk and dial the number for Wilson Construction, a top-rated contractor in the city.
Mr. Wilson answers on the first ring, his voice gruff but professional.
I explain the situation at St. Mary's Orphanage - the fallen ceiling fan, damaged pipes, and crumbling walls.
He agrees to meet me there in an hour for an assessment.
While waiting, I review the photos on my phone: the rusty playground equipment, the boy's soup-stained shirt, the broken ceiling fan.
Each image strengthens my resolve.
I grab my keys and head to my car, clutching the envelope from Mrs. Chen.
As I pull up to the orphanage, Mr. Wilson is already there, clipboard in hand.
He looks up from his notes and nods. "You've got your work cut out for you, but it's nothing we can't handle."
I glance at the building, then back at him. "I don't just want it fixed; I want it transformed."
We walk the grounds together, marking off areas that need attention.
The playground equipment creaks as children swing halfheartedly.
I point to the rusted metal. "Replace it all."
He nods, scribbling on his clipboard.
As we move through the building, I point out each issue: peeling paint, broken windows, and worn linoleum floors.
Mr. Wilson estimates costs and timeframes for each task.
I notice the car-loving boy watching us from a window, his eyes fixed on us.
I wave, and he presses his face against the glass, his nose smudging the pane.
Mr. Wilson mentions permits and construction phases, but I cut him off by pulling out my checkbook.
I write a check for five million dollars and hand it to him. "Whatever it takes," I say, looking up at the building.
"These kids deserve better."
Mr. Wilson nods, tucking the check into his pocket.
He pulls out his phone and starts making calls to his crew.
As we walk back to his truck, I notice a group of children gathering in the windows, watching us.
The car-loving boy is among them, his eyes wide with curiosity.
I wave again, and he waves back, a smile spreading across his face.
Mr. Wilson glances up at the window and chuckles.
"Looks like you've got an audience."
I turn to look at him, my mind still racing with ideas for the renovation.
"What?"
He nods toward the window.
"The kids are watching us."
I follow his gaze and see the children gathered there, their faces pressed against the glass.
I smile and wave again, and they all wave back, their smiles brightening the drab room.
Mr. Wilson gets into his truck and starts the engine.
"I'll get started right away," he says, rolling down the window.
"Thanks again for the opportunity."
I nod as he drives away, leaving me standing alone in front of the orphanage. I look up at the building again, this time noticing the cracks in the walls and the broken shutters on the windows.
It's going to take a lot of work to fix this place up, but I'm determined to do it.
As I turn to leave, I hear a voice behind me.
"Hey! Mr. Billionaire!"
I turn around to see a young boy running towards me from the orphanage.
He's wearing a faded t-shirt and ripped jeans, but his eyes are bright with excitement.
"You're back!" he says, stopping in front of me and looking up with wide eyes.
"What's your name?"
"Tommy," he replies without hesitation.
"I saw you talking to that man earlier. Are you going to fix our home?"
I kneel down so we're at eye level.
"Yes, Tommy. We're going to make it a better place for you and all your friends."
Tommy's face lights up with excitement as I stand up and look back at the building. The next day, Mr. Wilson's crew arrives bright and early with construction vehicles lining up in front of the orphanage.
I watch from my car as they unload equipment and start setting up scaffolding around the building.
Children gather at the windows to watch, their faces filled with curiosity as they point at each new arrival.
I gather the kids in the common room, pulling up a chair as they sit cross-legged on the worn carpet.
Tommy stays close to my side as I unfold the blueprints across a low table.
Using my finger, I trace the new additions - a modern playground with safety equipment, renovated dormitories with proper heating, and a spacious dining hall with an industrial kitchen.
The children lean forward, eyes wide as I describe the indoor basketball court and library.
Mrs. Chen stands in the doorway, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
When I mention private study areas, Tommy tugs my sleeve and asks if he can have a desk by the window.
"Of course, Tommy," I say with a smile.
Mrs. Chen steps forward, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Do you really mean all this?"
I nod, gesturing for her to join me at the table.
She sits down, her hands trembling as she traces the blueprint with her fingers.
The sound of construction fills the air - workers are already removing the damaged ceiling fan and clearing debris.
Mrs. Chen's eyes linger over the new dormitory layouts, her expression a mix of disbelief and gratitude.
I explain the timeline: complete renovation within three months.
She clutches my arm, her grip surprisingly strong.
It reminds me of how she used to hold my shoulder during those difficult days here.
I pull out my phone and show her photos of similar projects my construction company completed.
She studies them, her eyes widening at the before-and-after comparisons.
Finally, she looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of construction.
I smile and place a hand on her shoulder.
"We're going to make this place better for all of you."
She nods, her gaze returning to the blueprints.
I stand up and look around the room.
The children are all staring at us, their faces filled with curiosity.
Tommy steps forward and looks up at me.
"What about our rooms?" he asks.
"We'll get new beds and furniture too?"
I kneel down so I'm at his level.
"Yes, Tommy. We'll make sure you all have comfortable beds and nice furniture."
He smiles and hugs me tightly.
I hug him back and then stand up.
The sound of construction fills the room as workers continue to remove debris and clear out damaged materials. The next day, I sit in Mrs. Chen's cramped office, surrounded by stacks of old files that threaten to topple over any moment.
The musty smell of aging paper fills the air as I watch through the window as workers haul away debris from the renovation site.
Tommy is outside helping carry small boxes of supplies into the building.
Mrs. Chen sits behind her metal desk, its scratched surface holding the renovation plans we've been discussing for weeks.
I lean back in my chair, tracing my fingers along the edge of my old admission papers that she pulled out earlier.
The corners are yellowed with age, but I can still see my name printed neatly in black ink.
It lists my weight upon entry - a mere 28 pounds at age six.
Mrs. Chen releases her grip on my arm and opens a drawer, pulling out a small toy car that I left behind when I left the orphanage all those years ago.
I hold the small red toy car in my palm, its chipped paint and missing wheel flooding me with memories.
This was my only possession during those cold nights in the orphanage, when I'd push it back and forth across my thin blanket, imagining driving far away from this place.
Mrs. Chen watches as I trace the scratches on its side - marks from the time Billy tried to steal it and I fought back, earning us both a week of extra chores.
The plastic feels warm and familiar, like an old friend.
Tommy appears in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the toy in my hand.
He smiles, and I know this place will finally become a home.
I turn the worn toy car over in my hands one last time, running my fingers along the chipped red paint and bent wheels.
Tommy stands in the doorway, transfixed by the small object that meant everything to a lonely boy like me.
Mrs. Chen watches silently as I motion Tommy closer.
He approaches cautiously, his eyes never leaving the car.
I explain how this toy kept me company through countless nights, helped me make friends, and gave me hope when I had nothing else.
Tommy's hands tremble as I place the car in them.
I watch as he cradles it against his chest, his small fingers tracing the scratches I made years ago.
His eyes shine with unshed tears as he whispers his promise to take care of it.
The sound of construction fades into the background as he shows me how he'll keep it safe in his pillowcase at night, just like I once did.
Mrs. Chen dabs her eyes with a tissue.
Then Tommy pulls out a small pocket from his worn jeans and shows me the special spot where the car will stay during the day.
"Do you think it'll bring me luck like it did for you?" Tommy asks, his voice filled with hope.
I nod, smiling at the earnestness in his eyes.
"More than luck, Tommy; it'll remind you that you're never alone."
I crouch down beside him, watching as he continues to trace the deep scratch along the car's side - the same mark I made during my fight with Billy all those years ago.
The musty smell of Mrs. Chen's office fills my nostrils, mingling with the distant sounds of construction echoing through the building.
Tommy's dark hair falls across his forehead, and I reach out to ruffle it gently.
He freezes for a moment, then relaxes into the touch.
His small fingers clutch the car tighter, as if afraid I might take it back.
The gesture feels natural, like comforting a younger version of myself.
I sit down on the worn office couch, and Tommy follows suit, the toy car balanced on his knee.
I point to the deep scratch along its side.
"That's from the day I raced it down the main hallway during a rainstorm," I explain.
"The floor was slippery, and I didn't see the crack in the floor. The car hit it, flew into the wall, and almost broke."
Tommy's finger traces the scratch, his eyes wide with wonder.
"Did you get in trouble?"
I chuckle, remembering Mrs. Chen's stern expression that day.
"Mrs. Chen found me in the hallway, trying to straighten out the bent wheel. She scolded me for racing inside, but later that night, she helped me fix it."
Tommy looks up at me with sparkling eyes.
"Really? What else happened to it?"
I smile, knowing each dent and mark on that toy car holds a story of my time here.
Sitting with Tommy on the worn office couch, I point to the faded red streaks along the toy car's sides.
My fingers trace the amateur paint job I did using markers stolen from art class.
Tommy leans closer, squinting at the crude flames I drew along the sides to make it look fast.
"I wanted to make it look like a real race car," I explain.
"So I snuck the markers back to my bed and colored it under my blanket with a flashlight."
Tommy's eyes light up at the thought of sneaking around.
"What happened when Mrs. Chen found out?"
I smile, remembering her reaction.
"She didn't punish me for stealing the markers. Instead, she brought out proper paint from the craft cabinet. Together, we mixed this perfect shade of racing red."
I run my thumb over the hood of the car, feeling the smoothness of the paint.
I lead Tommy down the familiar hallway to the craft supply room.
Our footsteps echo against the worn linoleum floors.
The cabinet's rusty hinges creak as I pull it open, revealing the same disorganized shelves of art supplies I remember from my childhood.
Tommy stands on tiptoes, peering inside as I search for paint bottles.
Behind dried markers and crusty glue containers, I spot a dusty bottle of red paint similar to what Mrs. Chen used on my car all those years ago.
Tommy's eyes widen as he points to the bottle.
"Is that the same paint you used back then?" he asks, his voice filled with awe.
I nod, handing it to him carefully. "It might be old, but it's still got some magic left in it."
I pull out two plastic chairs from behind the craft cabinet and set them at the small art table.
Tommy places his inherited car carefully to the side, watching as I open the paint bottle.
The familiar chemical smell wafts up, transporting me back to those nights spent with Mrs. Chen, bringing my toy car to life.
We find a small wooden car in the toy bin, dinged up but perfect for painting.
Tommy dips the brush hesitantly, so I guide his hand, showing him how to make smooth strokes.
Red paint drips onto the newspaper we spread out, and Tommy giggles when I get some on my expensive suit sleeve.
We laugh together, knowing that some things are worth more than keeping clean.
I dip the brush in the red paint, showing Tommy how to make thin racing stripes like Mrs. Chen taught me.
The familiar chemical smell takes me back to those nights spent in this same room, learning patience as she guided my young hands.
Tommy listens intently as I tell him how Mrs. Chen would hum Chinese lullabies while we painted, making even the most mundane tasks feel special.
As he works, the car starts taking shape with wobbly red lines.
When paint drips onto the table, Tommy looks up with wide eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says, worried that he's made a mess.
I smile, remembering a time when I spilled an entire bottle of paint on the table.
"It's okay," I reassure him, wiping the paint with a rag.
"Mrs. Chen always said that art is about embracing the mess."
Tommy grins, his worry fading. "So, she wouldn't mind if we made a little more?"
I watch as Tommy carefully paints his wooden car, his tongue sticking out in concentration just like mine used to.
The smell of acrylic paint and wood shavings fills the air, transporting me back to those nights spent with Mrs. Chen, bringing my toy car to life.
As we work, Mrs. Chen appears in the doorway, her eyes watching us silently.
Tommy looks up and proudly shows her his almost-finished car.
Mrs. Chen nods with that same approving smile she gave me all those years ago.
I remember countless evenings spent here, learning patience through careful brushstrokes and pride in creating something beautiful.
Mrs. Chen places her weathered hand on my shoulder, her eyes filled with a mix of nostalgia and warmth.
"You've come a long way," she says softly, her voice carrying a hint of pride.
"Not just with your art, but with your heart."
I look at Tommy, who's now engrossed in painting his car, oblivious to the emotions swirling around him.
I lean against the art room wall, watching Mrs. Chen help Tommy clean his paintbrush just like she did with me years ago.
Her wrinkled hands guide his small ones under the running water, demonstrating the gentle strokes that preserve the bristles.
The familiar routine makes my chest tight.
When Tommy asks if he can paint another car tomorrow, Mrs. Chen looks at me with knowing eyes.
I step forward and pull out my checkbook, writing a donation specifically for new art supplies.
Tommy bounces excitedly as Mrs. Chen explains they'll need to organize the supply cabinet first.
Mrs. Chen turns to me with a grateful smile.
"You always knew how to give back," she says, her voice warm with appreciation.
Tommy looks between us, curiosity piqued. "Did you paint cars here too?"
I sit at the art sink with him, watching as he carefully dries his freshly painted wooden car.
The scent of tempera paint and soap fills the air as I tell him about the fleet of cars I decorated during my time here.
His eyes grow wide when I describe the blue racer with silver lightning bolts that won me the orphanage art contest.
Mrs. Chen interjects, reminding me how I spent three nights perfecting those bolts.
Tommy places his car on the windowsill to dry, then tugs my sleeve.
"Tell me more about your winning car," he pleads.
I settle into the art room chair beside him, and he cradles his car in his lap.
The afternoon sun streams through the paint-speckled windows as I describe entering my blue racer in the annual orphanage art show.
Tommy leans forward when I mention sneaking downstairs at midnight to add an extra coat of paint to make sure it was perfect.
Mrs. Chen clears her throat from across the room, reminding me that she caught me but let me stay to finish.
I show Tommy how I used a small brush to carefully paint the lightning bolts on the side of the car, guiding his hand through the motion.
Tommy's eyes light up with excitement. "Can I make one like that too?"
Mrs. Chen chuckles softly, her gaze shifting between us. "Well, you might just have to enter this year's contest and find out."
I nod, feeling a sense of continuity and hope. "And I'll be right here to help you every step of the way."
I lean back in my chair at the art table, watching as Tommy adds the final touches to his car's lightning bolts.
The careful way he holds the brush, his tongue poking out between his lips, reminds me of myself at his age—determined to make every detail perfect.
The air is thick with paint fumes and wood shavings as the afternoon sun streams through the dusty windows.
Mrs. Chen walks over with a framed photo from my old art show, showing Tommy how I posed proudly with my winning blue racer.
Tommy looks up at me with wide eyes.
"Your car won?"
I nod, remembering the rush of pride and accomplishment.
"And you think mine could win too?"
I smile, knowing that with the right technique, anything is possible.
"I'll let you in on a secret," I say, leaning in closer.
"The key to making those lightning bolts shine is mixing a little silver glitter into the paint."
Tommy's eyes widen with excitement. "Really? Can we try it now?"
Mrs. Chen chuckles, nodding toward the supply cabinet. "I think we might have just enough glitter left for a little experiment."
I lead Tommy to the large metal supply cabinet, its hinges creaking as I pull it open.
The familiar musty scent of art supplies hits me as I scan the cluttered shelves.
Tommy stands on tiptoes, peering around my arm as I push aside dried markers and crusty glue bottles.
In the back corner, I spot an old jar of silver glitter—the same kind I used on my winning car.
Tommy bounces with excitement as I hold up the jar, its contents sparkling in the light.
I carry it back to the art table and carefully unscrew the lid, revealing a sea of shimmering silver specks.
Tommy watches wide-eyed as I scoop out a small amount of red paint from his palette and mix in a pinch of glitter.
The paint swirls and sparkles, transforming from ordinary to magical before our eyes. "Now it's your turn," I say, handing him the brush.