Rain had a way of making Lagos honest.
In the sunlight, Victoria Island was all chrome and glass, tinted windows and white shirts, perfume and polished shoes. But when the heavens opened and the sky turned heavy and grey, the city's edges showed. The gutters overflowed. Cars crawled. Hawkers wrapped their wares in nylon and huddled under balconies, and the world smelled of wet dust, petrol, and fried plantain.
Daniel Okafor stood outside Eko Breeze Bistro, shirt clinging to his back, watching rainwater bead and drip from the edges of the restaurant's white awning. Behind him, through the floor-to-ceiling glass, soft jazz played over the speakers. Warm yellow lights glowed against polished marble floors. Couples laughed over plates that cost more than his weekly groceries.
He checked his phone again.
Tasha 💙
> I'm almost there. Just finishing up something.
The message was from thirty minutes ago.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. No wahala. I'm waiting. He'd already typed it twice and deleted it twice. It sounded too needy and too calm at the same time. Instead, he slid the phone back into his pocket and took a slow breath.
He'd been anxious about this dinner all week.
Not because of the restaurant — though paying for it had punched a clean, painful hole in his bank balance — but because of what he planned to do there. He'd rehearsed the speech in his mind until the words felt like a song: Tasha, I know things have been rough, but I believe in us. I know I'm not where I want to be yet, but I'm working. I'll give you the life you deserve. Just… stick with me.
He'd imagined her eyes softening, maybe glistening. He'd imagined her reaching across the table, fingers curling around his, nails painted that burnt orange color she liked.
Instead, he was staring at his reflection in the glass: twenty-six, tall, lean, with tired eyes and a beard that grew in uneven patches because stress had been eating his sleep. His white shirt was washed-out more than bright, ironed at home because he couldn't justify dry cleaning prices anymore.
He stepped inside to escape the rain for a moment, the blast of air conditioning hitting his damp skin. A waiter in black and white approached him with the easy confidence of someone who knew he didn't belong here.
"Good evening, sir," the waiter said, accent polished, smile professional. "Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes," Daniel said, clearing his throat. "For two. Name is Daniel Okafor."
The waiter checked the tablet in his hand, nodded. "Yes, sir. Table seven, by the window. Will your companion be joining you soon?"
"She's on her way," Daniel said. "I'll just… wait at the table."
"Of course, sir. This way."
Table seven was near the glass, overlooking the rain-streaked street. The tablecloth was white, linen heavy and crisp under his fingers. A small vase held a single white rose. There were three different kinds of forks. He knew because he'd Googled "fine dining etiquette" earlier that day, heart beating a little too fast as he scrolled.
He sat. The leather chair sighed under his weight.
"Can I get you something to drink while you wait?" the waiter asked.
Daniel hesitated, mentally calculating numbers again. He'd already checked the online menu three times. The prices had made his stomach drop, but he'd told himself: This is important. This is an investment. That's how he'd justified it — like he justified buying online courses and data plans and a second-hand laptop. Investments.
"Just water for now," he said. "Bottle. Cold."
"Yes, sir."
The waiter disappeared. Daniel loosened his collar, just a little. The jazz washed over him, too smooth, like it didn't care whether you could afford to be here or not.
His phone buzzed. He snatched it up.
Tasha 💙
> I'm here. Parking now.
His heart kicked. He typed:
> Okay, I'm inside.
He watched the entrance.
Tasha had a way of making rooms bend around her when she walked in. He'd noticed it the very first day they met, in that stuffy lab in school, when she'd walked in late, braids swaying, eyes scanning for a seat. Guys who thought they were too cool to care had straightened in their chairs.
Now, as she stepped into Eko Breeze, hair sleek in a low bun, gold hoops catching the light, the effect was the same. Several heads turned, subtle, almost unconscious. Her dress was a soft brown that matched her smooth skin, hugging her figure in a way that made Daniel's throat dry. She shook raindrops off a small black umbrella, handed it to the hostess, and scanned the room.
He waved, ridiculous relief flooding his chest when her eyes found his. She smiled, that small, practiced smile that didn't show too many teeth.
He stood up as she came over. "You look… wow," he managed, then hated himself instantly for sounding like a teenage boy.
"Thank you," she said, leaning in to hug him. She smelled like vanilla and rain. "You clean up nice, Daniel."
He laughed softly, pulling out her chair. "I tried."
They sat. For a moment, it was almost like the old days: before rent reminders and unpaid internship promises and "baby, just hold on, things will get better." Back when they were both students with nothing but dreams and shared Indomie noodles.
The waiter returned with Daniel's water and offered menus. They ordered — Tasha chose a seafood pasta and a mocktail with a name Daniel couldn't pronounce; he picked the cheapest chicken dish he could find that didn't scream I'm broke in bold letters.
As the waiter left, an awkward silence hovered between them like a third person.
"So," Tasha said finally, stirring the ice in her glass with a thin straw. "How's work?"
Work.
Daniel resisted the urge to laugh. Work was a three-month-old contract job with a small startup that paid late more often than on time. Work was side gigs on Upwork and Fiverr, trying to design websites for strangers in different time zones for peanuts. Work was waking up at 2 a.m. to fix bugs for someone in the US who paid in dollars that got swallowed by exchange fees and bank charges.
"It's… moving," he said instead. "We shipped a new feature last week. The client liked it."
"That's good," she said, nodding. Her eyes flicked briefly to his shirt, his watch — the same black one he'd worn for three years. "Any, um, salary increase talk?"
He took a sip of water. "Not yet. But there are bonuses in the works if we hit certain metrics."
Lie. There were no bonuses. There was just hope and a CEO who liked saying "there will be opportunities" the way pastors said "there will be a breakthrough."
"Hmm." She looked out the window, watching the rain for a moment. "And your… app idea? The one about helping small businesses track inventory?"
His chest warmed. "Yeah. I'm still working on it at night. I've made progress. If I can get a bit of capital for marketing, I think it could really—"
"Daniel." She cut him off gently, turning back to him. Her eyes were… tired. Not the usual playful sparkle that had made him fall in love with her.
Something in his stomach tightened.
"Tasha?"
She exhaled, fingers smoothing an invisible wrinkle on the tablecloth. The jazz felt louder suddenly, like someone had turned the world's volume up.
"I'm happy you invited me," she said. "Really. This place is… nice."
"Yeah." He smiled weakly. "It's— I thought we could, you know… just talk. It's been a while since we went out properly. I miss that." He swallowed. "I miss us."
Her eyes flicked up to his. For a second, he saw pain there, and guilt, and something like pity. A cold wave washed over him.
"Tasha," he said slowly, voice almost a whisper. "What's going on?"
She looked away again, jaw working.
"You know I care about you, right?" she said.
His heart sank. That sentence never ended well.
"Of course," he said, though his voice betrayed him. "I love you."
"I know." She chewed her bottom lip, then forced herself to meet his gaze. "That's what makes this hard."
The restaurant blurred at the edges. The rain, the jazz, the clink of cutlery — all faded into a distant echo. It was just her and the words she hadn't said yet, hanging between them like a knife.
"Just say it," he whispered. "Please."
She swallowed. "Daniel… I can't do this anymore."
The knife fell.
He felt it, physically, like a punch to the chest. "Can't… do what?"
"This." Her hand made a vague circle, taking in the table, the air between them, his face. "Us. The relationship. I'm tired."
Tired.
The word stung more than he expected. He'd been tired too — of hustling, of chasing jobs, of promising "soon" — but he'd never attached that to her. He'd never said I'm tired of us.
"Tasha," he said, leaning forward. "Things are rough now, I know. But I'm working. You know I'm not lazy. I just need time. Just—"
"That's the thing," she cut in, voice still soft, but firmer now. "It's always time. 'Just give me six months.' 'Just give me one year.' 'When this project lands.' 'When I get this contract.' Daniel, we've been 'waiting' for two years."
Two years.
He thought of the nights she'd stayed up late testing his apps, giving feedback. The times she'd sent airtime when his line was barred. The way she'd defended him to her friends when they mocked his small dreams.
"You said you believed in me," he said. It sounded childish even to his own ears, like a kid reminding his mother of a promise to buy ice cream.
"I did," she said quickly. "I do. But believing doesn't pay rent. It doesn't cover my younger brother's school fees. It doesn't help my mum with hospital bills."
He stared at her. "You never told me your mum was—"
"I didn't want to dump all my problems on you," she snapped, sharper now. "You were already drowning in your own."
Silence.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. When she spoke again, her tone was calmer, but the damage was done.
"I'm not saying you're a bad person, Daniel. You're one of the best people I know. You're kind. You're hardworking. But I'm getting older. I'm thinking of my future. Stability. Security. I can't build my life on promises and potential forever."
The waiter approached with their food, oblivious to the emotional wreckage on the table. Plates clinked down: steam and aroma rising from the pasta, the chicken glistening on his plate. The mocktail sparkled.
"Enjoy your meal," the waiter said with a smile, then melted away.
Neither of them picked up their cutlery.
Daniel's hands trembled slightly under the table. He clenched them into fists.
"So that's it?" he said slowly. "You're leaving me… because I'm not rich enough yet?"
She flinched. "It's not that simple."
"What else is there?" he asked, a bitter laugh escaping. "If I had money, would you be saying this right now?"
She opened her mouth, closed it. Her eyes shifted, just for a second.
His world tilted.
"There's… someone else," he said, voice flat.
She didn't deny it.
He sat back, air whooshing out of his lungs. The restaurant felt smaller, the ceiling lower. His cheeks burned.
"Who?" he asked, throat dry. "Someone from work?"
"Daniel, this is not—"
"Who?"
Her jaw tightened. "His name is Kelvin."
Kelvin.
The name rolled around in his head like a marble in an empty glass. Meaningless, then suddenly heavy with association as she kept talking.
"He runs a company," she said. "Fintech. They build payment solutions. He's… established. He has connections. He's been supportive. He helped with my mum's bills without making me feel bad about it."
Supportive. Bills. Established.
In his mind, images flickered: a man in a tailored suit, smooth voice, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. A man who could drop half a million naira the way Daniel dropped 500 for akara and bread.
"How long?" Daniel asked.
She stared at her hands. "A few months."
He swallowed hard. "While we were still together."
"Yes," she whispered.
A harsh laugh tore from his throat before he could stop it. The couple at the next table glanced over, then looked away quickly.
"So I was the rehearsal," he said. "The audition. And he's the main show."
"That's not fair," she protested. "I was there for you when you had nothing. I believed in your dream when no one else did."
"And now that someone with money has appeared, you get to cash out your loyalty, right?" He knew he was being cruel, but the words were acid on his tongue and he couldn't swallow them. "Is that how it works?"
Her eyes flashed. "You think this was easy for me? You think I woke up one morning and said, 'Ah, today I will cheat on Daniel'? I fought it. I tried. But every time your landlord called, every time NEPA cut your light, every time you said 'babe, just manage, just endure…' I started to wonder if love is supposed to feel like constant suffering."
The words hit him like blows. He had no defense. Because somewhere deep down, in the part of him that wasn't bleeding right now, he understood. He'd watched his own mother stay with a man who had nothing but anger and excuses, and he'd sworn he'd be different. Yet here he was, being left for the same reason: lack.
"What does he give you that I don't?" Daniel asked quietly. It was a stupid question, but he needed to hear it.
"Peace," she said, equally quiet. "Security. The feeling that, if there's a problem, he can actually solve it, not just pray about it."
They sat there, breathing.
"And why tell me here?" he finally asked, voice rough. "Why this restaurant? Why this drama?"
"Because I wanted to talk to you properly," she said. "No shouting. No neighbors listening through thin walls. And… because he's coming."
The world froze.
"What?"
She winced. "I didn't want it to be like this, but he insisted. He said it was the respectful thing. He wants to talk to you too."
Respectful.
Daniel's laugh was hollow now, a broken instrument.
"You're bringing the man you cheated with to our breakup dinner," he said slowly, making sure he heard himself correctly. "To talk to me. Respectfully."
"I know how it sounds," she said quickly. "But he's not a bad person. He—"
The restaurant door opened again. A gust of damp air fluttered napkins and carried in the smell of rain and cologne.
Daniel didn't need Tasha to point. He knew.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark blue suit that fit like it had been tailored last week. Wristwatch that cost more than Daniel's entire wardrobe — he knew because he'd seen adverts for it on YouTube and laughed at the price.
The man walked in with the casual confidence of someone who had never had to calculate the price of anything in his life. The hostess smiled, deferential. He nodded, eyes already scanning the room.
Tasha raised a hand.
The man — Kelvin — smiled and walked over.
"Babe," Tasha said softly, standing up. She kissed his cheek, quick but intimate enough to slice Daniel cleanly down the middle.
Kelvin's eyes slid to Daniel.
"You must be Daniel," he said, extending a hand. His voice was smooth, British-Nigerian accent tinged with money and foreign conferences.
Daniel stared at the hand for a second too long, then shook it. Kelvin's grip was firm, dry, assured. Daniel made sure his own grip was not weak.
"Yeah," Daniel said. "That's me."
They sat. Kelvin took the chair beside Tasha, not across from her. The placement felt deliberate.
"I know this is awkward," Kelvin said, smiling apologetically. "I just felt it was better we had this conversation man-to-man. No secrets. No drama."
Daniel wanted to ask what kind of man thought this counted as "no drama," but he swallowed the words.
"Okay," he said instead. "Talk."
Kelvin adjusted his cufflinks. The watch flashed.
"I respect you," Kelvin began. "From what Tasha has told me, you've been there for her. You've supported her. You're hardworking. I like that."
"Is this a performance review?" Daniel asked, eyebrow lifting.
Kelvin's smile faltered for a second, then returned. "No. I just want you to know this isn't about you being a bad guy. It's about compatibility. Tasha and I… we're in the same space. I understand her career, her ambitions. I can provide the stability she needs."
"And I can't," Daniel said.
Kelvin hesitated, then nodded. "Not right now, at least."
The honesty hurt more than any lie.
"Tasha deserves comfort," Kelvin continued. "Health care for her mother. A decent apartment. The ability to focus on her work instead of worrying about whether there will be fuel for the generator."
"And you're the hero of this story," Daniel said. "The savior."
"Tasha is not a project," Kelvin said, a hint of steel in his tone now. "She's my partner. And I'm willing to take on her burdens. That's what men do."
The implication was clear. Daniel heard it.
"So what do you want from me?" Daniel asked. "Your blessing? A handshake? A 'no hard feelings, bro'?"
Kelvin's gaze met his, level. "I want peace. No drama. No stalking, no online subbing, no showing up at her house at 2 a.m. crying. I want you to move on, build your life. There's space in this world for all of us to win."
Daniel stared at him.
In that moment, something inside him went very still. The anger, the hurt, the humiliation — it all condensed into a cold, hard point in his chest. A singularity.
He smiled. It surprised even him.
"You don't have to worry," he said quietly. "I won't disturb your relationship. I won't stalk. I won't sub. Honestly, I don't have time for that."
Tasha's eyes widened. She hadn't expected him to take it like this.
"Daniel—"
He held up a hand. "It's fine. I get it. Money talks. Or in this case, it drives a 2024 Range Rover and wears a watch with more complications than my life."
Kelvin's lips twitched despite himself. "It's a Patek."
"Of course it is," Daniel muttered.
He pushed back his chair and stood.
"Enjoy your meal," he said. "It's on me."
Kelvin frowned. "You don't have to—"
"But I insist," Daniel said, voice calm. "Consider it my parting gift. For both of you. The least I can do is pay for the last date I'll ever have with my ex."
He pulled out his wallet. The sight of his debit card felt like a punch. He signaled the waiter.
"Please, bring the bill," he said. "I'm paying now."
The waiter nodded and hurried off.
Tasha stood too. "Daniel, you don't have to embarrass yourself. Let Kelvin—"
"I said I've got it," Daniel snapped, then took a breath. "Just… let me do this one thing. For my pride if nothing else."
She sank back down slowly.
The bill arrived. Daniel didn't look at the total. He tapped his card on the POS, hearing the soft beep like a gunshot. The waiter smiled, the machine printed, and the receipt slid towards him like a taunt.
DEBIT ALERT: he knew the message was already hitting his phone. His balance — his fragile, barely-held-together balance — would now be a skeleton.
"Thank you," Kelvin said, inclining his head slightly. "That was… generous."
Daniel tucked the card away. "Don't mention it," he said. "Ever."
He turned to Tasha. For a moment, the hardness cracked, and he saw not the woman who had just betrayed him, but the girl who'd stolen chips from his plate in the JABU cafeteria, who'd held his hand during sleepless exam nights.
"Take care of yourself," he said softly. "And… take care of your mum."
Her eyes shone. "Daniel, I—"
"Don't," he said. "Please. I'm not strong enough to do the whole 'let's be friends' thing today."
He walked out before the tears in his own eyes could betray him.
---
Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle, tiny drops spraying his face as the warm Lagos night wrapped itself around him again. The streetlights were halos in the mist.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking with no real destination, just away. Away from the restaurant, away from the rose on the table, away from the Patek and the mocktail and the words I can't do this anymore.
He passed a vendor selling roasted corn under a makeshift umbrella. The smell was tempting, but his stomach was knotted. Still, his feet slowed, betraying his habits.
"Fine boy, buy corn na," the woman called, flipping the yellow cobs over red-hot coals. "See as you fresh. Corn go make you happy."
He almost laughed. Nothing can make me happy tonight, he wanted to say. Instead, he checked his pocket.
His phone buzzed again. He pulled it out, more to silence it than anything else.
Two notifications.
First, as expected:
Debit Alert: -₦ 47,800.00
Available Balance: ₦ 3,200.00
He swallowed. Less than ₦5k to his name. Super.
The second notification, though, made him frown.
No bank logo. No app icon he recognized. Just a plain white square with a small blue dot in the corner.
System Notification
> Expense Logged: ₦ 47,800.00
Calculating Reward…
"What the hell?" he muttered.
He tapped it.
Nothing happened.
Then, somewhere—not in his ears, but in his mind—he heard it.
Ding.
A clear, digital chime, like the sound effect from a video game menu.
The world wobbled.
He stopped walking, heart thudding. He glanced around. People moved past him under umbrellas, cars splashed through puddles, generators hummed. No one else seemed to have heard anything strange.
"Fine boy, you dey buy corn?" the vendor called again, impatient now.
Daniel shook his head, trying to dislodge the… whatever it was. He took a step, then another.
Ding.
This time, it was unmistakable. Inside his skull, bright and sharp, accompanied by—
A floating blue rectangle appeared in front of him.
Not in the air like some Marvel movie. Not physically. It was… overlayed on his vision, like someone had installed a HUD in his brain. Transparent, luminous, bordered by a soft glow.
His legs went weak. He grabbed a nearby wall for support, breathing fast.
The rectangle had text.
> 10,000X EXPENSE SYSTEM
Initialization Complete.
Host: Daniel Chinedu Okafor
Status: Active (Level 1 – Broke & Broken)
Recent Expense Detected: ₦ 47,800.00 (Restaurant)
Reward Multiplier: 10,000x
Calculating Reward Disbursement…
"What… the…" His voice came out as a croak.
He squeezed his eyes shut. The blue rectangle followed, as if it were printed on the back of his eyelids.
"I'm losing it," he whispered. "Finally. All this stress. I'm hallucinating."
> Negative.
You are not hallucinating.
Cognitive and neural activity within normal parameters for a human under acute emotional distress.
System is real. Please remain calm.
He choked out a half-laugh, half-sob. The words were answering him.
"Okay," he said slowly, because apparently he was talking to a voice in his head now. "Okay. If you're real, then what are you?"
> I am the 10,000X Expense System.
A reality-anchored, resource amplification interface.
In simpler terms:
For every legitimate expense you make, I generate and disburse 10,000x the value as untraceable financial resources for you.
Example:
You just spent ₦ 47,800.00.
Calculated Reward: ₦ 478,000,000.00 (disbursed in diversified channels).
Daniel blinked slowly.
"Four hundred and seventy-eight million naira," he repeated numbly. "Because I paid for spaghetti and chicken for my ex and her rich new man."
> Correct.
Also, mocktail.
He nearly laughed.
"This is insane," he said. "Money doesn't just… appear. That's not how the world works."
> Correction:
That is not how your world used to work.
New parameters have been established.
Funds have been distributed as follows:
– 25% → Anonymous Multi-Currency Crypto Wallet (Access Granted)
– 25% → Offshore Account via Shell Corporate (Access Pending Verification)
– 20% → High-Yield Global Index Funds (Auto-Managed)
– 15% → Local Fintech Platforms Under Disposable Identities
– 10% → Physical Cash Disbursement Nodes (Available On Request)
– 5% → System Maintenance & Expansion Pool
Would you like to view your Crypto Wallet access phrase?
Daniel stared at the glowing blue text. The rain pattered gently on his hair and shoulders, the world moving in slow motion around his stillness.
"Fine boy, if you no go buy corn, commot for road abeg," the vendor grumbled, nudging him with her eyes.
He stepped aside mechanically.
"Why me?" he whispered. "Why now?"
> Emotional Threshold Reached.
Despair Level: Critical.
Financial State: Near-Zero.
Betrayal Event: Active.
Probability of Host giving up on all ambitions: 82.3%
System Intervention: Authorized.
Congratulations, Daniel.
You have been selected as Host of the 10,000X Expense System.
Please spend responsibly.
A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in his chest.
"Spend responsibly," he echoed. "You just told me I have hundreds of millions from one transaction and your advice is 'spend responsibly'?"
> Uncontrolled exponential spending may draw unwanted attention from financial authorities, criminal organizations, and global economic monitoring bodies.
System will assist in cloaking your activities.
However, discretion is advised.
He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and let the drizzle wash over his face.
He'd just been dumped by the love of his life. He had less than ₦5,000 in his visible account. His self-worth was somewhere on the ground near the gutter.
And now, a voice in his head claiming to be some kind of money-multiplying System was telling him he was almost half a billionaire.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay. Let's assume for five mad seconds that this is real. How do I… check?"
> Displaying Starter Wallet.
The blue rectangle shifted. A series of numbers and letters appeared, along with a QR-code-like pattern hovering in the corner of his vision.
> NSPIRE_Crypto_Wallet_01
Balance: $236,500.34
(Equivalent ~₦ 354,750,510.00 at current rates)
Transfer, Withdraw, or Invest?
His knees genuinely buckled this time. He slid down the wall, landing on the slightly damp pavement, uncaring of who saw him.
A car drove past, splashing water. Someone laughed on the other side of the street. A generator coughed to life.
"This is not possible," he whispered.
> Possible.
Achieved.
Explanation (Simplified):
System interfaces with probabilities, digital infrastructures, and underutilized economic flows in your reality to redirect value to you.
Untraceable.
Undetectable.
Every expense you make moving forward will be multiplied by 10,000x and converted into resources under your control.
He thought of his earlier calculation. Less than ₦5,000 to his name.
"How much… how much money can I spend?" he asked, voice small. "Is there a limit?"
> No hard upper limit.
Practical limit is defined by your ability to spend without drawing dangerous attention.
You are currently Level 1 – Broke & Broken.
System recommends small-scale controlled spending to build a safe foundation.
Starter Quest Available:
"Turn $10 Into A Fortune"
Objective:
– Starting with the equivalent of $10, make strategic expenses that lay the foundation of a sustainable, legitimate income stream.
Reward:
– System Stability Buff
– Reduced Detection Risk
– Unlock: "Insight Mode" (business intuition enhancement)
"Ten dollars," he said faintly. "I'm in Nigeria. Why are you talking dollars?"
> For narrative flair.
Local equivalent accepted.
A half-hysterical giggle escaped him. Even his miracle system was sarcastic.
He checked his physical wallet. A few crumpled notes. His bank app showed ₦ 3,200.
That was it. That was his $10.
"Okay," he whispered, more to himself than to the System. "Okay. Fine. If this is real, then… we start from here."
He pushed himself to his feet slowly.
Across the street, a small cybercafe glowed, its sign flickering: "SkyNet Business Center – Printing, Scanning, Browsing, Graphics." Next to it, a mama put shop was frying akara. Further down, a banner flapped weakly in the wind: "Office Space For Rent – Affordable Rates."
Suddenly, the street didn't look like a random collection of buildings anymore.
It looked like a menu.
> Quest "Turn $10 Into A Fortune"
Status: Available
Accept?
Daniel took a deep breath. His heart was still cracked, his chest still ached, his eyes still stung with the ghost of Tasha's perfume and Kelvin's smug little nod.
But under the pain, a spark caught.
"Accept," he said.
> Quest Accepted.
Ding.
A tiny, quiet smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, sharp and humorless.
"Kelvin," he murmured, starting to walk towards the glow of the cybercafe. "You can keep the girl."
He clenched his fists, feeling rain and possibility on his skin.
"I'll take the world."