The bank branch near my apartment was one of those modern glass and steel affairs that seemed designed to make poor people feel uncomfortable. I walked in, immediately aware of how out of place I looked among the well dressed clientele.
A young woman at the customer service desk looked up as I approached, her professional smile dimming slightly as she took in my appearance.
"I'd like to apply for a credit card," I said.
"Of course, sir. If you'll just take a number and have a seat, someone will be with you shortly."
Shortly turned out to mean watching three people who arrived after me get called first. The woman kept apologizing with that special tone that said she wasn't actually sorry at all, just following protocol about prioritizing people who looked like they had money.
By the time a forty-something man in an expensive suit walked past, I'd had enough.
"Excuse me," I called out, probably louder than necessary. "I've been waiting for an hour. Is there a reason people who arrived after me are being seen first?"
The man stopped, his expression flickering between annoyance and practiced courtesy. The name tag on his suit read "James Carl, Branch Manager."
"Sir, I apologize for the wait. What seems to be the issue?"
"I want to apply for a credit card. Apparently, that's a complicated request."
"Of course not." He pulled out a tablet, probably to access my account and politely shuffle me along. "If I could just get your account number or ID..."
I rattled off my account number, the one I'd memorized from staring at it in disbelief the night before.
His fingers paused mid-swipe. His expression changed so completely I almost laughed. Professional courtesy transformed into something between shock and eager hospitality.
"Mr. Sinclair!" His voice went up half an octave. "Please, please come with me. Let me handle this personally. Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Water?"
"Just the credit card would be fine."
He ushered me into a private office, practically tripping over himself to pull out a chair. "Of course, of course. I'll handle the application myself. This will only take a few minutes."
He pulled up my account details on his computer, and I watched his eyes go wide. A hundred million definitely got attention.
"I see you've recently had a significant deposit," he said carefully. "If you don't mind me asking, are you expecting similar transactions in the future? We offer specialized services for high net worth clients."
"Possibly. I'm starting an import and export business."
"Excellent! We have business accounts specifically designed for international trade. Much better rates and features than a standard personal account." He was already pulling up forms. "Let me just get some basic information. Current address?"
I gave him my apartment address, feeling slightly embarrassed about it.
"I am actually planning to relocate as soon as I find a new place."
"Perfect! Tell you what, take my personal number." He scribbled it on a business card. "Just text me your new address once you've settled, and I'll have your credit card sent by courier. Platinum tier, naturally. No spending limit."
No spending limit. Twenty-four hours ago, that would have been a fantasy. Now it was just Tuesday.
"I appreciate that. Is there anything else I need to do?"
"Just sign here, and here, and... perfect. Oh, and Mr. Sinclair?" He leaned forward slightly.
"I know a real estate specialist, Anna Chen, who handles luxury properties exclusively. Very discreet, very professional. I can have her give you a call if you're still looking for properties?"
I nodded, surprised by the offer. Having money really did make everything move faster.
My phone rang soon after I had even left the bank. The caller ID showed an unknown number.
"Mr. Sinclair? This is Anna Chen, with Prestige Property Group. Our mutual friend at the bank mentioned you might be interested in residential properties?"
Her voice was warm but businesslike, the kind of professional courtesy that came from years of dealing with wealthy clients.
"That's right. I'm looking for something in the city."
"Wonderful! Can you tell me a bit about what you're looking for? How many bedrooms, preferred neighborhood, any specific requirements?"
I realized I hadn't actually thought about this beyond "bigger than my current place."
"I live alone, so I don't need anything massive. But I need space for storage and privacy. Good security, good location. Somewhere I can come and go without neighbors getting too nosy."
"Hmm." I could practically hear her making notes. "Storage suggests you might prefer a house over an apartment? And privacy is easier to maintain in a gated community or standalone property than an apartment."
"Yeah, that sounds right. Definitely not an apartment."
"I have a few properties that might work. There's a lovely gated community in the Riverside district, very exclusive. Several homes available, five bedroom range, private garages, basement for your storage needs. Perfect for someone who values privacy but wants to stay in the main city."
Five bedrooms seemed excessive for one person, but the storage and privacy aspects sold it. "That sounds promising."
"Excellent! I have three properties available in that community currently. Would you like to view them tomorrow? I can clear my schedule for the morning."
"That works. Thank you, Anna."
"My pleasure, Mr. Sinclair. I'll text you the address and time. Oh, and congratulations on your success! It's always wonderful to help young entrepreneurs find their perfect home."
Young entrepreneur. I guess that's what I was now. Weird.
After hanging up, I headed to the government office to register for a driving test. I knew how to drive, sort of. I'd practiced in the orphanage's van a few times and have been taught the basics. But I'd never bothered with a license because owning a car seemed like a distant fantasy.
Not anymore.
The government office was the same bureaucratic nightmare it always was, but at least here, money didn't speed things up. Everyone suffered equally in the land of forms and waiting. I filled out my application, scheduled a test for next week, and counted it as a productive day.
On the bus ride back to my apartment, I pulled up my phone and started making notes.
Tomorrow was property viewing. After that, I needed to buy a new phone, maybe a laptop. The banking manager had mentioned business accounts. I should probably look into that properly.
But most importantly, I needed to finalize my product list for Blue Light Planet. The silver ring was out there somewhere, looking for my future business partner. When it found them, I needed to be ready.
I spent the evening diving deep into research. What did medieval societies need most? What could I provide that would generate the best returns?
Food preservation was huge. They didn't have refrigeration. Salt, sugar, honey, these were valuable.
Medicine. I'd need to be careful here, but even basic first aid supplies would be revolutionary.
Tools. Modern steel tools would last longer and work better than anything they could forge.
Luxury goods. Spices, fine cloth, exotic items for the wealthy.
I made lists, checked prices on Earth, and tried to estimate values on Blue Light Planet. The profit margins were insane. A bag of modern salt that cost me a few dollars could probably sell for silver or gold there.
My old phone struggled with multiple tabs and kept freezing. Definitely needed to upgrade that tomorrow.
Around midnight, I finally crashed, my head full of trade routes and profit calculations. The silver ring was out there, looking for the right person. My hundred million was sitting in the bank, ready to be transformed into merchandise.
I was really doing this. Building an interdimensional trading empire from my crappy apartment.
The absurdity of it made me smile as I drifted off to sleep.
Tomorrow, I'd go look at houses that cost more than I'd ever imagined owning. Then I'd figure out how to buy goods in bulk without raising suspicion.
Then I'd wait for my Blue Light Planet connection to materialize.
One step at a time. That's how you build a business empire.
Even if it's a business empire spanning multiple dimensions.