Just as he was lamenting how boringly predictable his life was, his phone rang. He checked the screen. Jerry.


Max sighed and picked up.


"I heard everything from Marco! Have you lost your mind, kid? Did you seriously take half a million dollars to play the stock market? Don't tell me you took that money from your dad. Where did you get that kind of cash? You didn't go to a loan shark, did you?"


"Uh... Jerry, chill."


"Chill? Chill my ass! Tell me the truth right now, and get that money back! Stocks? Of all the stupid ideas! Put that money back where it came from! Immediately! Now!"


"Didn't you tell me to go hit a brick wall earlier?"


"I said hit a wall, I didn't say use your water-logged brain as the battering ram!"


Max rubbed his temples. If this got back to his family, it would be total chaos. His dad would probably chase him down the street with the antique double-barreled shotgun.


There was only one option left: strategic lying.


"Jerry, you go it all wrong. I'm trading for a friend. Come on, you know I can barely make rent. How could I have money to invest?"


"You think I was born yesterday? Which friend? And why do they need you to trade for them?" Old Jerry wasn't going to be fooled that easily.


"He's a trust fund baby from my dorm," the young man lied into his cell phone, his voice steady. "Works for the SEC now. Federal regulations say he can't trade on his own account, so he needs a proxy."


"And you expect me to believe you didn't just grab a loan from a shark to gamble on the market? You think I'm buying that?"


"Come on, Uncle. Do I look suicidal? Who does that?"


"True. You've always been a bit of a flake, but you've never been stupid."


"See? You know me best."


"Fine. I'll trust you this once. But listen to me—if you get possessed by greed and dump your own money into this, you pull out immediately. Do you hear me?"


"Loud and clear. Don't worry."


He hung up and let out a long breath. Dodged a bullet there.


He walked out of the brokerage firm, mingling with the busy street traffic. As he moved, he muttered under his breath, a smirk playing on his lips.


"Pull out? With over a million bucks on the line? Yeah, right..."




March 22, 2018. 12:00 PM.


Justice Delayed dropped its scheduled update.


The title page flashed two bold words: The Chronicle.


My life was boring. That's the only word for it.


School, graduation, work. I lived the default settings. I felt the average joys and the average sorrows of an average guy.


That is, until a rainy night in March 2018, when Fate decided to put my spine in a chokehold.


It was 10:15 PM. I had just turned down a 'corrupt opportunity'—a chance to sell my soul—and was heading back to my studio apartment in the rain, feeling complicated.


That's when the demon made his move.


Everything was going according to my plan, but reality glitched at the last second. The guy realized he couldn't beat me in a fair fight, so he did the cowardly thing: he pulled a gun.


I didn't see that coming.


In the heat of the moment, maybe guided by some ghost or guardian angel, I threw myself in front of Vivian.


Bang.


The bullet lodged between my L4 and L5 vertebrae. It crushed the nerve roots. Just like that, everything below my waist went offline.


The shooter was caught. Justice was served. But my sentence? Life in a wheelchair.


...


The evidence was ironclad. York confessed to the shooting but refused to give up a name. He claimed it was just personal revenge against Hazel.


We found out later he was lying. York had an illegitimate son, Sam, studying film abroad. His scholarship was fully funded by the Schuster Corporation.


Attempted murder, grievous bodily harm, illegal possession of a firearm. York got life without parole. The Schuster Corporation walked away without a scratch.


Later, Hazel told me the Schuster-Gould divorce case ended in a total victory for Victor Sterling.


It was a setup. A colleague named Hannah Lee leaked Hazel's legal strategy, and Sterling suddenly produced proof of infidelity. He'd planned the whole thing. The devil, as they say, is always in the details.


But honestly? All that drama just became gossip for people to chat about while sitting next to my sickbed.


The outside world felt like it was drifting away, leaving me on an island.


Paralysis is hell. It's a thousand times worse than the movies make it look. You can't imagine the humiliation of needing help just to use the bathroom. The despair eats you alive.


Living through 'The Hustle' took more courage than dying.


'Survivor.' That's just a label people slap on you to make themselves feel better.


...


Aside from my parents, Shane visited a lot. Everyone needs a best friend like that—someone to share the boring, memorable times with, even when the world goes to crap.


Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I got really into buying lottery tickets.


Maybe I liked the microscopic chance of a miracle. Or maybe I just needed a physical reminder not to give up hope.


I even memorized the winning numbers from the night I got shot. The 'Night of Fate.'


03, 11, 14, 27, 32, 05, 07.


I made them my lucky numbers.


Ironically, the only thing going right in my life during rock bottom was my luck with women.


Three of them showed up, claiming they wanted to take responsibility for me.


First was Lily. She swore she'd take care of my daily life, feed me, and look after me until I died. Every time she put on that serious face and said, "I'll raise you," I couldn't help but laugh.


Then there was Hazel. She gave me a professional breakdown of 'humanitarian aid,' insisting she was just repaying me for saving Lily.


And finally, Vivian.


When I took that bullet, I wasn't trying to be a hero. I just didn't want innocent people to get hurt because of my mess. If I saved one person but got another killed, I'd be back at square one.


I thought my stab vest would hold. Turns out, stab vests don't do much against guns.


But Vivian... she was different. She looked flighty, but she had a one-track mind. She treated saving her life like a blood debt. She came to me with this weird gangster-style honor and asked if I wanted to join 'the family trust.'


Basically, she proposed.


I had a chance to marry into billions. In the end, I turned it down.


The three of them kept their promises. They took turns caring for me, pushing my wheelchair, never complaining once.


But their guilt wasn't a good enough reason for me to become a burden. I couldn't just sit there and enjoy their lives being wasted on a cripple.


So, after three months of their kindness, I wrote a note. I thanked them, wished for world peace, and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills.


Max stared at the book. He was speechless


He read the end of the story, then looked down at the photograph that had come packaged with the book.


In the photograph, Max sat in his wheelchair, looking like the king of a very specific, very complicated castle. To his left stood Hazel, radiating that sharp, intellectual beauty that suggested she could dismantle a car engine or a debate opponent with equal ease. To his right was Vivian, looking valiant and ready for battle. And directly behind him, with her arms wrapped affectionately around his neck, was Lily.


Their smiles were warm. Genial. It looked like the perfect family portrait.


Yes, Max was paralyzed. But looking at that picture, he couldn't help but wonder: Why do I feel like such a winner?


But while Max was mentally roasting the latest update on his life, a storm was brewing on the other side of the ocean. A storm that was about to sweep the globe.