The harsh, industrial buzzer of the commercial dryer jolted the older woman reading the Spanish newspaper, but Alex Turner didn’t even flinch.
He opened his eyes slowly, completely refreshed from a forty-five-minute nap in a hard plastic chair. He stood up, stretching his shoulders, and walked over to the tumbling machine.
Pulling out his three freshly laundered white t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and a handful of socks, Alex folded them with practiced, rhythmic efficiency. They were warm, smelling of cheap detergent and hot cotton. He stacked them neatly into his canvas duffel bag.
It was Thursday morning. Just four days ago, he had woken up in this timeline with a rattling cough, a broken body, and zero prospects.
Now, he was the sole proprietor of a Delaware shell corporation holding the music industry’s biggest label by the throat.
Alex slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and walked out into the blinding mid-morning sun of East Los Angeles. He didn’t head straight back to his apartment. Instead, he took a leisurely four-block detour toward the heavy glass doors of a commercial branch of Pacific Standard Bank.
According to a frantic, late-night voicemail from Richard Vance Jr., Sony Music’s legal department had been so utterly terrified of the threatened federal injunction that they had bypassed standard accounting protocols. To ensure the 85/15 publishing contract was legally binding and the song remained on the radio without interruption, Tommy Mottola had authorized an immediate, expedited wire transfer of a two-and-a-half-million-dollar royalty advance.
Alex needed to verify that the corporate shield’s plumbing was fully operational.
He pulled open the heavy glass doors of the bank and stepped into the fiercely air-conditioned lobby. It was a standard, slightly depressing commercial branch. A few people were waiting in line to cash paychecks or deposit small business earnings.
Alex joined the queue, his hands comfortably in his pockets. He was wearing one of his freshly washed white t-shirts and his usual worn-out Converse.
When it was his turn, he stepped up to a teller window manned by a young guy named Kevin, whose nametag hung slightly crooked over his polyester tie. Kevin looked incredibly bored, typing something into his terminal with a loud, clacking rhythm.
"Morning," Alex said smoothly, placing a crisp, watermarked document on the counter. "I need to check the balance on a commercial account that was opened yesterday afternoon, and I need to request a certified cashier’s check."
Kevin sighed, barely glancing up. "ID and account name, please."
Alex slid his newly issued California driver’s license—one of the few pieces of legitimate documentation he possessed—across the counter, along with the DBA registration paperwork for Tyrant Records.
"Account is under Tyrant Records," Alex replied.
Kevin picked up the paperwork, squinting at the DBA form, then typed the account routing numbers into his terminal. "Alright, Mr. Turner. Let’s see if that initial deposit cleared so we can get your business checks ordered. Usually takes forty-eight hours for small business—"
Kevin stopped typing.
He blinked, leaning closer to the glowing green text of his cathode-ray tube monitor. He hit the refresh key. The screen blinked, and the exact same string of numbers re-appeared.
Kevin’s mouth opened slightly. He looked up from the screen, his eyes locking onto Alex’s faded t-shirt, then down to the canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and finally back to the screen.
"Sir," Kevin whispered, his voice trembling as if he had just witnessed a bank robbery in reverse. "There... there is a wire transfer here from Sony Music Entertainment Corporation."
"They’re very prompt when properly motivated," Alex smiled lazily. "Did it clear?"
"It... yes. It cleared," Kevin stammered, his eyes wide. "The available balance on this DBA account is two million, five hundred thousand dollars and zero cents."
The sheer absurdity of the situation caused Kevin’s brain to momentarily stall. People with two and a half million dollars in liquid cash did not walk into local East L.A. branches wearing clothes they had just pulled out of a laundromat dryer. They had private wealth managers on speed dial.
"Excellent," Alex said, entirely unfazed. "I need a certified cashier’s check cut for the amount of five hundred thousand dollars, made out to myself, Alex Turner. I’ll leave the remaining two million in the holding account for now. And I’d like to order a corporate debit card."
Kevin swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "I... I can’t authorize a cashier’s check of that size at the window, sir. I have to get the branch manager. Please, um, please don’t move."
Kevin practically sprinted away from the window, nearly tripping over a wastebasket.
Two minutes later, a highly flustered branch manager in a cheap suit came rushing out of a back office, falling over himself to accommodate the kid who had just exponentially boosted the branch’s quarterly deposit metrics. He ushered Alex into a private room, offered him imported sparkling water, and personally cut the certified check with trembling hands.
When Alex walked back out onto the sun-baked sidewalk fifteen minutes later, he had a heavy, embossed envelope tucked into his back pocket containing half a million dollars in certified funds.
He pulled out his heavy Motorola cellular phone, extended the thick black antenna, and dialed the private pager number.
911 - 777
He didn’t have to wait long. Thirty seconds later, the brick phone buzzed in his hand.
"Turner," Alex answered.
"Good morning, Mr. CEO," Mariah’s voice drifted through the receiver, carrying a warm, playful lilt. She sounded rested, a stark contrast to the frantic energy of the previous night. "I saw the Billboard early projections this morning. ’The Ghost Mix’ is tracking to hit Number One by Tuesday. Tommy is parading around the executive floors taking all the credit for ’discovering’ the acoustic trend."
"Let him have his victory lap," Alex chuckled. "He paid a heavy premium for it. The wire transfer cleared this morning."
"Two million?" she asked, her voice dropping to a hushed, awe-struck whisper.
"Two point five. Which brings me to the reason for my call," Alex said, stopping at a corner crosswalk. "I have a check in my pocket and an absolute refusal to spend another night in an apartment that smells like wet drywall. You promised me real estate advice, Mary. I need a house."
"I have exactly what you need," Mariah said smoothly, shifting into a conspiratorial tone. "You don’t want to deal with standard Hollywood realtors. They talk too much, and they leak information to the tabloids to boost their own profiles. You need Evelyn Cross."
"Who is Evelyn Cross?"
"She’s a private broker for the ultra-wealthy. She doesn’t advertise, and she doesn’t take clients who are looking for anything under two million. She handles discrete purchases for foreign royalty and A-list actors who want ghost-purchases through LLCs. She is ruthless, incredibly efficient, and highly protective of her clients’ privacy."
"Sounds like my kind of terrible person," Alex noted approvingly.
"I just paged her assistant," Mariah continued. "She’s expecting your call. Tell her Mary sent you, and tell her you represent Tyrant Group LLC. She’s currently having coffee at the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Go meet her."
"Thanks, Mary. I owe you a dinner."
"I prefer diamonds, but dinner works," Mariah teased before hanging up.
The Polo Lounge, Beverly Hills Hotel. 11:30 AM.
The Polo Lounge was a bastion of old Hollywood money. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, blooming bougainvillea, and quiet, high-stakes negotiations.
Sitting in a secluded, emerald-green booth in the corner was Evelyn Cross.
She was a striking woman in her late forties, wearing a tailored Armani pantsuit that cost more than most cars. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a severe, immaculate chignon, and a Cartier watch gleamed on her wrist as she sipped a black espresso. She was currently reviewing a dossier of multi-million-dollar floor plans, exuding an aura of absolute, intimidating professionalism.
When the hostess led Alex over to her booth, Evelyn didn’t immediately look up.
"Evelyn Cross?" a smooth, deeply resonant voice asked.
Evelyn raised her eyes, preparing to dismiss whoever was interrupting her morning. Her gaze swept over the faded white t-shirt, the scuffed Converse sneakers, and the relaxed, slouching posture of the young man standing before her.
Her perfectly arched eyebrows knitted together in an expression of profound irritation.
"I’m sorry, do I know you?" Evelyn asked, her tone freezing the ambient air. "The kitchen staff entrance is around the back of the hotel."
Alex didn’t take offense. He simply offered that lazy, devastatingly handsome smile and slid into the green leather booth across from her, completely uninvited.
The [Aura of Tranquility] rolled over the table. Evelyn, who was accustomed to dealing with frantic, ego-driven celebrities, suddenly felt her defensive edge blunt against an invisible, impenetrable wall of absolute calm.
"Mary sent me," Alex said casually, resting his arms on the table. "I’m the sole managing member of Tyrant Group LLC. I’m looking to acquire a primary residence in the hills."
Evelyn’s irritation vanished, replaced by an intense, calculated shock.
Mariah Carey’s personal referral was a golden ticket in the real estate world. But this kid? This slacker in a t-shirt was the head of an LLC with enough liquid capital to afford her services?
Evelyn quickly recovered her composure, her eyes narrowing as she shifted into business mode.
"Mr. Turner, I presume?" she said smoothly, closing her dossier. "Mary speaks highly of your... unique situation. However, I must be completely transparent. My time is exceptionally valuable. I specialize in turnkey, luxury, private estates. My minimum commission threshold requires a property purchase of no less than two point five million dollars. Furthermore, I do not waste time with clients who require lengthy mortgage underwriting approvals."
She was testing him, trying to see if he would flinch at the financial weight.
Thanks to his [Business Management: Level 5], Alex read her negotiation tactics with the clarity of a first-grade spelling book. She was trying to establish dominance through artificial scarcity and price anchoring.
"Evelyn, let me save us both a lot of posturing," Alex said, his voice dropping into a cool, authoritative register that instantly commanded her absolute attention. He wasn’t aggressive; he was simply stating immutable facts.
Alex reached into his back pocket, pulled out the heavy embossed envelope, and slid it across the table.
"That is a certified cashier’s check for five hundred thousand dollars," Alex stated, leaning back against the plush leather. "It is entirely unencumbered. Consider it the earnest money deposit for whatever property we close on today. The remainder of the purchase price will be wired directly from the Tyrant Group corporate accounts at closing."
Evelyn looked at the envelope. She didn’t open it. She didn’t need to. The sheer, overwhelming confidence rolling off the young man, powered by his [Charisma: Level 3], was all the verification she required.
Her posture shifted completely. She sat up straighter, the cold professionalism melting into a state of rapt, respectful attention.
"I apologize, Mr. Turner," Evelyn said softly, a genuine note of reverence in her voice. "I am accustomed to dealing with people who pretend to have money. It is rare to meet someone who actually has it and feels no need to dress the part. What exactly are you looking for?"
"I am a man of very specific, very simple tastes," Alex said, ticking his requirements off on his fingers. "First: Absolute privacy. I want a gated driveway, high hedges, and zero sightlines from the street or neighboring properties. I don’t want to see my neighbors, and I don’t want them to see me."
Evelyn nodded, pulling a Montblanc pen from her purse and taking notes on a heavy cardstock pad. "Privacy is standard. Location?"
"Hollywood Hills or Bel Air. But here is the most important part, Evelyn," Alex leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers with intense seriousness. "No stairs."
Evelyn blinked. "Excuse me? You want a single-story estate? Most properties in that price range in the hills are multi-level architectural builds to maximize the square footage on the steep grading."
"I don’t care," Alex said firmly. "Stairs require walking upward. Walking upward requires cardiovascular exertion. I refuse to engage in cardiovascular exertion to get to my kitchen. I want a sprawling, single-story Mid-Century Modern. Open floor plan. Massive windows. A pool. And it needs to be fully furnished, because I have absolutely no desire to go furniture shopping."
Evelyn stared at him. The man was about to drop millions of dollars on a house purely so he wouldn’t have to walk up a flight of stairs or pick out a sofa. It was the most gloriously lazy display of wealth she had ever witnessed in her twenty-year career.
A slow, delighted smile spread across Evelyn’s face. She loved a challenge, and she loved a client who knew exactly what they wanted.
"Mr. Turner," Evelyn purred, tapping her pen against the notepad. "I have a pocket listing that hasn’t even hit the MLS yet. It’s a 1962 Mid-Century Modern masterpiece tucked into a private cul-de-sac in the Trousdale Estates section of Beverly Hills. Single story. Terrazzo floors. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking a zero-edge pool. It is currently owned by a European film director who is liquidating his American assets and left it fully furnished with vintage Herman Miller."
Alex’s eyes lit up. "Trousdale Estates. Secluded. No stairs. What’s the asking price?"
"Two point two million," Evelyn said smoothly. "But it is entirely turnkey. You could bring your toothbrush and sleep there tonight."
Alex smiled, tapping the envelope holding the half-million-dollar check.
"Evelyn," Alex said, standing up from the booth. "Finish your espresso. We have a house to buy."