Phoenix's sky shimmered in gold and blue as birds crisscrossed the airspace in sync with delivery drones. The city pulsed to its usual rhythm: modern, clean, vibrant. Cars from famous brands—yet with accessible designs—glided along the illuminated lanes of suspended highways. Creatively designed storefronts glowed with interactive ads, and along the floating sidewalks, families, youths, and hurried workers mingled like an urban symphony.
Inside a bar with faux-wood siding and a shimmering holographic sign, the tables buzzed with muffled laughter, glasses of synthetic nectar, and bioengineered snacks. But the ambient noise faded as the large screen above the bar flashed a familiar logo: [PHOENIX NEWS].
The anchor appeared, impeccably dressed in his smart-fiber blazer, wearing a practiced smile and a polished voice. "...and we're back with tonight's most anticipated segment. Joining me is none other than renowned expert in Planetary Development and Post-Digital Collaboration Policy, Professor Cael Mirandor. Good evening, Professor."
The man beside him—bald, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that seemed to have seen too much—smiled at the camera like greeting an old friend.
"Good evening, Elian. Always a pleasure."
The host leaned in, oozing the charm of a three-time neural-communication award winner. "Professor Mirandor, how would you describe the world today, in the year 3031?"
The expert took a deep breath, interlacing his fingers. His gaze locked onto the camera as if addressing billions directly.
"The world we know today, Elian... is almost unrecognizable compared to the 23rd to 25th centuries. The turning point came with the Global Non-Aggression Treaty of 2294. And of course, emerging technologies exploded—almost poetically. What was once scarce—clean water, energy, even rare metals—is now abundant. Or rather, replicable."
The entire bar fell silent. Even the humanoid android waiter stopped polishing glasses.
Elian nodded, narrowing his eyes. "Remarkable. What pulled the world from constant conflict into unified collaboration for nearly two centuries?"
Mirandor's smile widened, as if recalling something fictional. "Ah, that's a good one. It began when the climate became... unsustainable. Literally. The planet was on the brink. Perpetual wildfires, acid storms, mass desertification. Oxygen grew scarce in some urban zones. Then, the unexpected: China and the United States joined forces."
"In the 24th century?" the anchor interrupted, frowning.
"Exactly. They launched Project Gaia. The proposal was bold: no territorial expansion, no armed conflict—just joint efforts to regenerate the planet. Soon, others followed. For the first time, Earth had a motive beyond war or profit: collective survival."
"And that birthed the world we see now..." Elian gestured to the screen's backdrop: footage of pristine oceans, floating forests, lunar colonies, and aquatic cities.
Mirandor nodded. "A world reshaped into ten colossal continents. Absurd advancements followed—from hyperconscious AIs to solid holographic displays like these, courtesy of Phoenix Solarius, of course."
The anchor winked at the camera. "Rumor says we'll have viable flying cars within four centuries. True?"
Mirandor chuckled. "Maybe sooner. But here's the paradox: with evolution comes imbalance. The world now holds 30.9 billion people. And at least 1% are 99% smarter than the rest."
Elian's eyes bulged. "So we have... population-scale supercognition?"
"Precisely. They think, create, and solve at levels that defy reality itself."
The host glanced at his notes. "Recent data shows the global average monthly wage is $50,000. In some nations, it exceeds $130,000. Are we in an era of global wealth?"
Mirandor laughed, shaking his head. "Ah, a common jest. I earn $180,000 monthly—technically 'rich.' But it's not that simple. Production soared, costs plummeted. Yet some continents still survive on under $10,000 per family. Disparity didn't vanish. It just... changed costumes."
"So not all roses in the planetary garden."
"Exactly."
Elian winked again. "Speaking of artificial roses: robot workers dominate the market. Unemployment peaks at a 900-year high. Are we nearing human obsolescence?"
The professor sighed, crossing his legs. "Unfortunately—or fortunately—yes. We live in the Robot Age, where skyscrapers rise in four days. New clothes? Three minutes. A full artificial heart? Sixteen seconds. Production is absurd. That's why human wages skyrocketed: those still working do so because their time became a luxury commodity."
"So we're pricier than diamonds?"
"Exactly. And rarer," he said, winking.
The bar's patrons chuckled softly. The host joined in.
"Professor Mirandor, as always, a delight. Any final words for our viewers?"
Mirandor adjusted his blazer, stared into the camera, and said: "The future is here. But the real question is: are we here with it... or left behind?"
Hours later, somewhere in Phoenix.
Rainwater slithered down the collar of Luna's dress shirt as if the sky were laughing at her misery. Each step squelched—soaked shoes, a ruined soul.
"Unbelievable... even the insole's rebelling," she muttered, wiggling toes in soggy socks.
Clutching a drenched folder of résumés and the scraps of her dignity, she trudged through the gray city, stomach growling, self-esteem in a medically induced coma.
Sixth interview this week.
Sixth door slammed in her face.
Same excuses, different words:
"Strong profile, but we need more experience..."
"Overqualified."
"Underqualified."
"Your energy doesn't align with the team."
Ah, yes. Because "energy" now replaced salary.
She glared skyward, as if scolding an incompetent cosmic supervisor.
"Hey, universe... ever considered being less of a motherfu—?"
BZZZZZ!
Her phone vibrated in her sodden pocket. Trembling fingers fished it out, praying it wasn't the bank.
...It was the bank.
Automated message: "Luna da Silva, your installment plan was DENIED. Avoid higher fees. Reply '1' to sell a kidney."
She almost laughed.
Almost cried.
Did both, half-and-half.
Shoved the phone back, crossed the street without looking—
BAM.
White.
— ??? —
Strange. She could still hear sounds—distant, muffled. Sirens? Voices?
Someone yelling "Stabilize the patient!"
But the weirdest was the metallic, digital chime above her head:
[TYCOON SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
"Welcome, random user #000001."
"Congratulations! You've been selected for the Tycoon System™ Beta."
"Open your Welcome Package?"
Luna tried to move. Nothing.
Tried to open her eyes. Darkness.
Only that voice. That screen.
A floating screen.
Gold border, glowing icons... and casino-style sound effects.
"Great. I'm in a coma dreaming I'm a mobile-game NPC," she thought.
"Respond mentally: [YES] or [NO]."
"Yes. And I'll take a cheese croissant too,"she muttered spitefully.
The screen brightened.
A warmth pulsed in her chest—like something slotting into place.
[Command registered: YES. Opening package...]
Fanfare. Holographic confetti. Ridiculous trumpet sounds.
"Congratulations! You've received:"
- Supreme Tycoon Card™
(Tier: Unique. Limit: ∞. Global recognition.)
- Initial balance: $2,000,000,000,000 USD
(Taxes paid. Congrats!)
- Ultra Prime Mansion™
(Location: Exclusive zone. 37 acres. Active Residential AI.)
- Maximized Attributes:
Intelligence, Charisma, Stamina, Success with Automatic Doors.
- Cognitive Enhancement
(You now outthink 98% of humanity.)
Luna's eyes widened.
The screen hovered, undeniably real.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not a soap opera.
"Huh?"
[Claim rewards now?]
[YES] — [NO]
She hesitated.
It was so absurd it hurt.
But... what if?
She was already on the ground. Literally.
What else could she lose?
"Y-yes..."
[PROCESSING...]
Her body tingled.
Golden electricity raced down her spine.
Images of the mansion flashed in her mind.
Her bank balance erased poverty itself.
[Transfer complete.]
[Status: Tycoon]
Her heart lurched.
"I-I... I—"
She passed out.
Hours later
Light.
Perfume.
Silence.
Luna woke slowly, blinking as if the world were a corrupted JPEG.
The bed was impossibly soft. Egyptian cotton sheets.
A crystal glass of mineral water and fruit carved into flowers on the nightstand.
And on the table... a black box with a silver card.
She read the engraving:
"Supreme Tycoon Card™ – Holder: Luna da Silva
Balance: $2,000,000,000,000.00."
Silence.
A deep breath.
Then another.
"Guess I died and got promoted..."
KNOCK KNOCK.
The door opened.
Two men in flawless suits entered. One smiled like a NASA-trained British butler.
"Miss Luna. The helicopter is waiting."
"Your mansion is ready."
She blinked. "My... what?"
No time to think—
Moments after hospital discharge, the helicopter sliced through the sky with surgical elegance.
Luna, still groggy, tried processing it all with the expression of someone who'd opened their internet bill to find they also owed light, water, and dignity.
"Miss Luna, champagne, organic lychee juice, or the signature cocktail?" asked the butler.
"Coffee. Strong. With a soul."
He handed her a cup of liquid so fragrant it might've been filtered by caffeine-PhD Tibetan monks.
She sipped.
Closed her eyes.
"If this is a dream, let me sleep fifteen more years..."
—Thirty minutes later—
The helicopter landed on a glass platform.
Before her stretched an estate ripped from a billionaire superhero film.
The Tycoon Mansion.
Calling it a "mansion" insulted architecture itself.
It was Versailles and the Taj Mahal's lovechild, raised in Dubai on NASA funding.
The entrance: black marble with gold veins, flanked by fountains of liquid crystal. Ornamental statues looked carved by artists who'd sold their souls just to finish the front garden.
Hectares of emerald fields, topiary labyrinths. A lake mirroring the sky, koi carp large enough to file taxes.
Three pools: Olympic, harp-shaped heated, and—Luna blinked—a glittering foam pool with rainbow LED edges.
A helipad. Underground garage. Private golf course. Open-air theater. And a... zoo? No, just the Japanese garden with strutting albino peacocks.
Luna was speechless.
A white-haired assistant"Ivy, AI Services Tycoon" smiled with synthetic warmth.
"The residence is calibrated to your subconscious tastes. Quantum smart-tech automates everything. Your bed adjusts to emotions. The fridge suggests desserts by mood. Even the toilet plays motivational playlists."
"The... toilet?" Luna dared not ask what a toilet would sing.
Inside, glass doors slid open with a whisper.
The foyer: a floating-crystal chandelier, ebony staircases, a ruby-threaded carpet that probably carried rich-people guilt.
"Would you like to see your suite, Miss Luna?" Ivy asked.
She nodded, teetering between hysterical laughter and enlightenment.
The suite was an apartment unto itself.
Soft lighting auto-adjusted.
Jasmine scent.
Ocean sounds.
A bed so plush you'd sink by staring.
But what caught her eye was the full-length mirror.
Gold-white frame, glowing with digital runes.
Luna froze before it.
She—
Her reflection had... shifted. Not another person, but her features upgraded to STATUS: Goddess-tier.
Long blonde hair cascading like a shampoo commercial directed by a manga artist.
Silver-gray eyes holding compacted galaxies.
Flawless skin. Zero pores. Zero flaws.
A slender yet curved figure—natural bust, graceful shoulders, legs worthy of a runway.
And the kicker: no makeup.
This was her. Natural. Powerful. Unreal.
She touched her face.
Ran fingers through her hair.
Turned, watching the silhouette.
"What the...?"
The System replied:
"Congratulations, Miss Luna. Your appearance has been optimized to 99.7% aesthetic perfection, based on global standards and repressed subconscious desires."
She stepped back. "So this is being... beautiful?"
For the first time in years, Luna didn't need excuses. Didn't need to fake strength.
She was strong.
Rich.
Beautiful.
And the most dangerous part?
She was starting to like it.