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MidReal Story
The Billionaire's Revenge
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
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.
Grandfather
He is Shane’s wealthy grandfather who left him his entire estate. He is wise,secretive,and protective. Grandfather showed kindness to Shane by taking him in as a child and providing for his needs anonymously through gifts. Only revealing the extent of his generosity after his death,Grandfather’s actions ultimately changed Shane's fate from poverty to wealth,giving Shane the means to seek revenge on those who wronged him.
Penelope
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 marked by her constant criticism and desire for luxury,ultimately leading to their breakup and failure of their future plans.
I was an orphan, a poor one even.
I was in foster care until I was seventeen, and then my adoptive parents kicked me out because they no longer got the check for taking care of me.
I had to fight for every scrap of food I got, every cent I earned.
I had to work multiple jobs just to survive, and even then some nights I went to bed hungry.
I had no family, no friends, and definitely no prospects.
But even with all that, I never gave up.
I kept on fighting until one day, a knock on the door changed everything.
It was a lawyer, and he informed me that my grandfather, who I had never known existed, had left me his entire estate.
It was in the billions.
Suddenly everything I had ever been told, everything I had ever believed about myself, was a lie.
All the people who said I wouldn’t amount to anything, all the people who called me trash, were wrong.
I wasn’t trash.
I was the son of two wealthy parents who saw me as nothing but a means to an end.
My hands tremble as I take the stack of papers from the lawyer's polished briefcase.
The documents feel heavy, each page filled with legal jargon and astronomical numbers.
The lawyer, Mr. Harrison, points to specific lines requiring my signature, his manicured finger tapping impatiently on the paper.
I scan the details of my inheritance: properties across continents, investment portfolios, offshore accounts - all now mine.
The leather chair creaks as I shift, remembering nights spent sleeping on park benches.
Mr. Harrison clears his throat, offering me an expensive pen.
I take the pen, knowing this moment marks the beginning of a life I never imagined.
My hand shakes as I grip the Mont Blanc pen, its weight unfamiliar in my palm, a stark contrast to the cheap ballpoints I'm accustomed to.
Mr. Harrison points to each line requiring my signature, his voice droning on as he explains terms I barely comprehend - trust funds, offshore accounts, corporate holdings.
The leather chair creaks again as I lean forward to sign my name on each marked line.
The scratch of the pen glides across the paper with an unfamiliar elegance, a stark contrast to the scribbled signatures on pay stubs and second-hand purchase receipts.
With each stroke of the pen, memories flash through my mind - dumpster diving for meals, the night my adoptive parents changed the locks and left me on their doorstep, the cruel smirk on Penelope's face as she chose her rich boyfriend over me.
I sign the final page, sealing a future that no longer belongs to the shadows of my past.
My hands shake slightly as I pass the thick stack of documents across the mahogany desk to Mr. Harrison.
He inspects each page methodically, nodding at the signatures.
I watch him, then my gaze drifts around the opulent office - crystal decanters on a polished sideboard, oil paintings on the walls, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes bound in supple leather.
Everything screams wealth, a world so far removed from the one I've known.
Yet, for the first time in my life, I don't feel out of place.
Instead, an unfamiliar sense of power courses through my veins.
Mr. Harrison slides a golden key across the desk.
"The penthouse is ready, Mr. Weber," he says, glancing at his Rolex.
"Your grandfather's private elevator awaits."
I follow Mr. Harrison through the marble-floored hallway, our footsteps echoing against the polished stone.
The private elevator stands before us, its brass doors gleaming under recessed lighting.
Mr. Harrison demonstrates how to insert the golden key into a hidden panel.
"Security protocols are in place," he explains.
"The key is required to access the penthouse floor. The code is 3-1-4-1-5. Memorize it."
I repeat the numbers in my head as Mr. Harrison steps back.
My hands still slightly as I slide the key into the panel.
It fits smoothly, and a soft blue glow illuminates the panel.
Mr. Harrison nods.
"Now, place your thumb on the biometric scanner."
I press my thumb against the glass surface, feeling a slight tingle as the scanner reads my print.
The elevator mechanisms whir to life.
I watch Mr. Harrison reach into his briefcase and pull out a cream-colored envelope.
It's thick, filled with documents.
"This is for you," he says, extending the envelope.
"There's another inheritance waiting."
My heart pounds in my chest as I take the envelope.
"What do you mean?"
"There's another inheritance," Mr. Harrison repeats.
"It's not from your grandfather. Someone else wanted to leave you something."
My fingers tremble as I open the envelope.
Inside, there's a stack of papers detailing offshore accounts and property deeds.
I scan the numbers, but they blur before my eyes.
Another fifty quintillion dollars.
"Who left this money?"
I ask, looking up at Mr. Harrison.
He shakes his head.
"The benefactor insisted on complete anonymity. I'm not at liberty to disclose their identity."
I carefully fold the papers and slip them into the inside pocket of my jacket.
I lean back in the leather chair as Mr. Harrison hands me a thick portfolio.
He opens it, revealing page after page of financial data and property deeds.
"This is a comprehensive breakdown of your inheritance assets," he explains, his voice measured and professional.
I watch him, my eyes wide with wonder.
The numbers are staggering - 350 googol dollars spread across global banks, private islands in the Caribbean and Mediterranean, a fleet of mega yachts, and properties on every continent.
I flip through the pages slowly, my hands trembling as I take in the scope of my new wealth.
Photos of sprawling estates and pristine beaches fill the pages, each one more breathtaking than the last.
And then, there's the Citibank card - metallic blue with a platinum W emblem embossed on its surface.
Mr. Harrison slides it across the table toward me.
"Your grandfather's personal card," he says.
"It's linked to his main account."
I pick up the card carefully, turning it over in my hand.
Just last week, I couldn't afford to buy a bus ticket to get to this meeting.
Now, I own the world.
I notice Mr. Harrison reaching into his suit jacket, pulling out a cream-colored envelope sealed with a crimson wax stamp.
He slides it across the table toward me.
"This is for you," he says, his voice low and serious.
"A personal letter from your benefactor."
I take the envelope, my fingers tracing the embossed seal.
It's heavy, made of expensive paper.
I break the seal carefully, unfolding the letter inside.
The handwriting is elegant, flowing across the page in cursive script.
Dear Mr. Weber,
I've watched you from afar for years now, witnessing your struggles and triumphs.
You've faced poverty and abandonment, yet you remain kind and compassionate.
You help others even when you have nothing to give.
That's why I chose you for my legacy - because I believe in you.
Yours truly,
A Friend
I look up at Mr. Harrison, my voice barely a whisper.
"Do you know who this 'Friend' is?"
He shakes his head again, but there's a hint of something in his eyes.
"All I can say is, they have a vested interest in your future."
I lean forward in my chair, studying the vast array of documents spread across Mr. Harrison's mahogany desk.
"What should I do first?"
I ask, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of my inheritance.
Mr. Harrison pulls out a leather portfolio and begins explaining the immediate priorities - setting up security measures, establishing financial oversight, and arranging meetings with wealth management teams.
As he outlines each step, I take careful notes on the expensive stationery he provides.
I don't want to squander this opportunity like so many lottery winners do.
When he mentions hiring a personal security team, I think of all the people who might come crawling back, wanting a piece of my fortune.
"Do you think anyone from my past might pose a threat?" I ask, my voice tinged with concern.
Mr. Harrison pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"It's possible, but with the right precautions, we can mitigate any risks."
"Should I reach out to anyone before they find out on their own?" I continue, thinking of old friends and distant relatives.
He nods.
"Discretion is key. It's better to control the narrative than let rumors spread."
I pull out my old phone with its cracked screen, a relic from my days living paycheck to paycheck.
I should contact my three closest friends before they hear it through the grapevine or see it on the news.
These guys stood by me even when I had nothing - David sharing his food during lunch breaks at the warehouse, Ethan letting me crash on his couch after my adoptive parents kicked me out, and Marcus helping me find odd jobs to survive.
My fingers hover over their names in my contacts.
After several attempts, I finally type out a simple message: "Need to meet. Something big happened. Usual spot tonight?"
I pace around Mr. Harrison's office, rehearsing how I'm going to break the news to them.
The message I sent seems too casual for something this life-changing.
My worn sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I walk, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"Perhaps we should schedule a meeting at a more suitable location," Mr. Harrison suggests, gesturing to his sleek conference table.
I shake my head.
"No, it has to be at the usual spot."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Is that wise?"
I nod.
"The usual spot is a dingy pizza place where we always met when we were broke, sharing cheap slices and making plans that never worked out. It feels right."
He shrugs, returning to his papers.
"Very well. Just be cautious."
I check my phone again, and there are three quick replies - each confirming they'll be there at 8.
I tuck the phone back into my pocket, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves.
I check my reflection in Mr. Harrison's office window, adjusting the jacket he lent me.
It's a far cry from the worn denim I usually wear, and it feels out of place against my skin.
I run a hand through my unruly hair, trying to tame it.
The private elevator whisks me down to street level, where the security guard nods respectfully as I pass.
His demeanor has changed since he witnessed my meeting with Mr. Harrison - no longer dismissive but overly attentive.
Outside, the city streets seem different.
I walk past stores I could never afford to enter, their windows displaying designer clothes and glittering jewels.
My stomach churns as I think about meeting the guys at Tony's Pizza, where we'd scrape together coins for a slice.
I push open the familiar glass door, and the smell of garlic and tomato sauce hits me like always.
David, Ethan, and Marcus are hunched in our corner booth - the one with the torn red vinyl we've claimed for years.
They're sharing a small cheese pizza, probably scraping together cash like we used to.
Marcus spots me first, waving me over while wiping grease from his fingers.
My new leather shoes click against the checkered floor as I approach.
The weight of the inheritance documents feels heavy in my jacket pocket.
I slide into the booth next to Marcus, feeling the cracked leather against my new suit pants.
David and Ethan glance up, their eyes widening at my unusual attire.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting harsh shadows across our faces.
"Hey, man," David says, his voice tinged with curiosity.
"What's with the suit?"
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant despite the nervousness knotting in my stomach.
"Just thought I'd dress up for a change."
Ethan raises an eyebrow.
"You look like you're going to a job interview or something."
I force a laugh, reaching into my jacket pocket.
My hands tremble slightly as I pull out the thick manila envelope containing the inheritance documents.
The official letterhead catches Marcus's eye as I spread the papers on the greasy table.
He stops mid-bite of his pizza slice, cheese dangling from his mouth.
"What's this?"
I clear my throat, my voice coming out hoarse.
"We're not just dreaming anymore."
I lean forward in the booth, sliding the papers across the greasy table toward them.
David wipes his hands on a napkin before touching the documents, while Ethan and Marcus lean in closer.
I explain about my grandfather, the billions, and the mysterious benefactor.
Their expressions shift from disbelief to shock as I speak.
When Marcus starts to pull away, I grab his arm.
"I have an idea," I say, my voice filled with urgency.
"Remember that tech startup we talked about during those late nights between job hunts?"
Marcus's eyes widen as realization dawns on him.
"You're not serious, are you?"
I nod, pulling out the metallic blue Citibank card from my pocket and placing it deliberately on the table.
The card glints under the fluorescent lights, its weight heavy with possibility.
David drops his pizza slice, sauce splattering on the table.
"We can make it happen," I say, my voice filled with conviction.
"I'll fund it completely. We'll be equal partners."
David glances at his phone, which vibrates against the table.
He frowns, then reads aloud from the screen, his voice filled with disbelief.
"Free office space offered to promising tech ventures in the area. Apply now."
Marcus and Ethan lean in closer to see the details on David's cracked screen.
The timing feels too perfect, and a shiver runs down my spine.
I wonder if my mysterious benefactor is pulling strings behind the scenes.
David looks up, his eyes wide.
"Guys, this is exactly what we need. We should check it out."
I nod, glancing toward Tony's front window.
Mr. Harrison stands there, watching us through the glass.
For a moment, our gazes lock, and I swear I see a flicker of recognition.
He gives me a slight nod before disappearing into the crowd.
The offer must be more than just coincidence.
Ethan leans back, crossing his arms with a skeptical look.
"Are you saying Mr. Harrison is involved in all this?"
Marcus shakes his head slowly, still processing.
"If he is, then why us? Why now?"
I pull my phone out while they continue examining the ad.
The glossy paper shows a modern office building downtown - exactly where we always dreamed of working.
My hands tremble slightly as I dial the number, remembering countless rejections when I tried renting spaces before.
The call connects, and a familiar voice answers.
"Hello?"
It's Mr. Harrison.
"Hi, Mr. Harrison," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I saw an ad for free office space. Is this something you're involved in?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line.
"Ah, yes. I represent the owner of the building. We're looking to support promising ventures."
I take a deep breath, glancing at my friends.
"Can we schedule a viewing? Maybe tomorrow?"
Mr. Harrison agrees immediately.
"How about 9 AM?"
We step out of my new Tesla, the four of us dressed in suits borrowed from Mr. Harrison's collection.
David, Ethan, and Marcus look like they've been transported to a different world.
The glass-and-steel building towers above us, its revolving doors gleaming in the morning sun.
Inside, a young receptionist in a navy blazer stands up from behind a marble desk.
Her heels click on the polished floor as she approaches.
"Good morning, Mr. Harrison," she says, her voice smooth and professional.
I notice her eyes flicker to the security cameras mounted discreetly in the corners of the lobby.
"Mr. Harrison sent detailed instructions for your tour," she continues, her gaze returning to me.
"If you'll follow me, please."
She swipes her keycard against a reader on the wall, and the elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh.
As we step inside, I catch my friends exchanging whispers among themselves.
I grip the polished brass railing, watching as floor numbers climb higher.
David fidgets with the tie he borrowed from Mr. Harrison's collection.
Marcus and Ethan press themselves against the mirrored walls, taking in their reflections in the suits that fit them surprisingly well.
The receptionist, whose name tag reads "Ms. Chen," stands beside me, her eyes fixed on the display above the doors.
"As you can see, we have 41 floors in total," she explains, her voice steady and confident.
"The first 40 floors are primarily used for commercial offices and businesses. The top floor is reserved for our executive suite."
The elevator chimes softly as we pass level 40, then 41.
My heart quickens with each ascending floor.
When we reach level 50, Ms. Chen swipes her keycard again to access the executive suite.
The doors open with a soft hiss, revealing a sprawling open office space bathed in natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows.
David steps out first, his eyes wide with awe.
"Wow, this place is incredible," he breathes, turning to face us.
Ethan nods, still looking around in disbelief. "But why would they offer all this to us?"
I push open the glass doors, leading my friends into the heart of the executive suite.
The space stretches before us - an open floor plan with individual offices lining the walls, each with its own breathtaking view of the city skyline.
Ms. Chen gestures to a door on the far side of the room.
"That's our dedicated server room," she explains, her voice filled with pride.
"It's fully equipped with state-of-the-art technology and security measures."
My friends move cautiously through the space, as if afraid to touch anything.
I run my hand along the polished mahogany surface of a sleek conference table, remembering the countless hours we spent huddled in a diner booth, sketching out our business plans on napkins.
I walk to the head of the table, gesturing for David, Ethan, and Marcus to take seats in the leather chairs.
The floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline, a constant reminder of the world we once knew - a world where we had to fight every day to survive.
I open my laptop, pulling up our old business plan - the one we sketched out on napkins during those late nights at the diner.
My hands steady as I connect to the projector mounted on the ceiling.
The logo of our dream startup flickers to life on the wall, a symbol of our shared vision.
David leans forward in his chair, his eyes wide with excitement.
Ethan crosses his arms skeptically, but I can see a flicker of curiosity in his gaze.
Marcus pulls out his worn notebook, ready to take notes.
I stand up, straightening my borrowed suit jacket and clearing my throat.
"We're not just visitors anymore; this is our beginning."
I stand at the head of the mahogany conference table, my borrowed suit feeling more natural now.
I click to the first slide of our presentation, and the familiar graphs and charts we sketched during those late nights at diners appear crisp and professional on the wall screen.
David nods encouragingly as I detail our AI-driven security platform - the same concept we refined over cheap coffee and late-night conversations.
My voice grows stronger as I outline projected earnings and market penetration rates.
The room falls silent, anticipation hanging in the air as I deliver the final words of our pitch: "Let's make history."
I finish my presentation and grip the edge of the conference table, waiting for a response.
The silence stretches as David, Ethan, and Marcus exchange glances.
My heart pounds against my borrowed suit jacket as I watch David slowly rise from his leather chair.
His face breaks into a wide grin, and he starts clapping - loud, deliberate claps that echo through the pristine office space.
Marcus joins in immediately, then Ethan follows with a slight smile.
Even Ms. Chen, standing by the door, adds her applause.
The sound builds until it fills the room, drowning out the hum of the city fifty floors below.
I grip the edge of the table as the applause dies down.
David's grin falters, replaced by a look of curiosity.
He leans forward, his hand raised like we're still in school.
Ethan crosses his arms, his expression skeptical.
Marcus flips open his notebook, pen poised.
The weight of their impending questions presses down on me.
I straighten my shoulders and nod at David, giving him permission to ask what's clearly on his mind.
David clears his throat, his voice steady but laced with urgency.
"How do we know the AI won't turn against us like the others did?"
Ethan leans back, his eyes narrowing as he adds, "And what makes us think we're ready to handle something this big?"
I lean against the polished conference table, my fingers brushing against the sleek surface.
A few taps on the wall screen, and detailed schematics of our security architecture appear.
The lines and symbols are familiar - we spent countless nights at the diner, pouring over these designs until they became second nature.
I trace a path through the multi-layered system with my finger, explaining each component as I go.
David's eyes widen as I demonstrate how each AI module is isolated in its own separate containment system, preventing any single point of failure from bringing down the entire network.
Ethan shifts in his seat, his voice cutting through my explanation.
"And what about breaches? How do we know someone won't find a way in?"
I bring up a new screen, displaying the triple-redundant monitoring dashboard we designed.
Marcus scribbles notes furiously as I walk him through the automated shutdown sequences and emergency protocols we've put in place.
David leans back, his skepticism giving way to cautious optimism.
"So you're saying it's practically foolproof?"
I nod, meeting his gaze with confidence.
I stand at the whiteboard in the executive suite, marker in hand.
The smooth surface stretches before me, a blank canvas waiting for the intricate diagrams that will bring our security system to life.
With swift, precise motions, I begin to sketch the fail-safes we've built into our AI's core architecture.
Red lines intersect and loop, illustrating the emergency shutdown protocols we developed during those long nights at Tony's Pizza.
David's voice cuts through my focus, his tone tight with concern.
"What about containment? How do we know this AI won't break free like the others?"
I turn to face him, marker poised in mid-air.
"Let me show you."
A few swift strokes on the board illustrate the triple-layer isolation system we've designed.
Each AI module operates within a sealed environment, completely disconnected from the outside world.
Marcus points to a potential vulnerability in the diagram, his brow furrowed with worry.
"And what if someone finds a way past that first layer?"
I smile, anticipation building in my chest.
"That's where our backup measures come into play."
With a flourish, I add another layer of protection to the diagram - a fail-safe that will kick in automatically if any breach is detected.
Ethan leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he studies the details.
"And what about technical breaches? How do we know someone won't find a way in through some backdoor?"
I nod, anticipating his question. "We've accounted for every possible breach scenario," I explain, capping the marker with a decisive click.
"The system is designed to adapt and learn from any potential threats."
As I finish speaking, I step back from the whiteboard, surveying the intricate web of safeguards and countermeasures we've created.
