Find a quiet spot, turn the page, and let’s see what this story has been hiding 🌙
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Billy: Ethan, I’m officially converting.
From now on, my religion is whatever you tell me to bet on.
Bo: Shut up.
You put in fifteen thousand.
I only had ten grand.
Warren: That’s because every time you see a new gadget, you buy it.
Also cigarettes.
A lot of cigarettes.
Bo: I’m under attack in my own group chat.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and watched the MSN window fill with noise.
After the Portugal match, every one of them had made money.
Billy had started with fifteen thousand dollars and walked away with roughly a hundred thirty-five thousand before the usual fees and conversions.
Bo had earned less only because he had begun with less, which made him sound personally betrayed by the universe.
Warren was quieter than the others, but not by much.
Judy, as usual, had no interest in being modest.
Judy: Gentlemen, please admire greatness.
An image file appeared in the chat.
It was a screenshot of her account.
Nearly half a million dollars.
For a few seconds, no one typed.
Then Billy exploded.
Billy: HOW?
Warren: I hate that I am impressed.
Bo: Judy, what exactly did you do in Brazil?
Judy: I worked.
Unlike some of you.
Ethan smiled despite himself.
Judy had gone to Brazil with less starting money than Billy, but she had never treated that as a limit.
According to her daily updates, she had spent the downtime selling gym memberships, private training packages, and a very expensive fantasy of physical improvement to anyone with a pulse and a credit card.
She did not cross lines.
She did, however, know exactly where the lines were.
A lonely banker wanted to believe a younger woman found him interesting.
A bored wife wanted to believe her body could still make a room turn.
A married couple wanted a reason to flirt with each other again and pretend the trainer in the room was part of the joke.
Judy sold all of them contracts, smiles, and just enough heat to make the pen move.
No wonder she had made more than the rest of them. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Judy: Brazil is a beautiful country full of people who believe fitness is a moral obligation.
I simply served the market.
Warren: You are terrifying.
Judy: Thank you.
Bo: Ethan, tell her to stop making us look bad.
Ethan: I can’t fix your personal failings.
Bo: Betrayed again.
Ethan looked at Bo’s messages and typed another line.
Ethan: Also, quit smoking.
Or at least get your lungs checked when you come back.
Bo: What?
Ethan: You heard me.
Consider it an executive order.
Bo sent a string of offended emoticons.
The chat kept moving, but Ethan’s attention drifted to the numbers on the spreadsheet beside him.
Five major positions had pushed the operation toward eight hundred million dollars, depending on pending settlements, fees, wire delays, currency conversion, and tax exposure.
It was absurd.
It was also still not enough.
Buying MGM was no longer a fantasy, but the deal would take more than cash.
He needed leverage, timing, a father with access, banks willing to smell blood, and a seller ready to believe that keeping the studio was more trouble than letting it go.
One more major result would decide whether he walked into that fight with a knife or a cannon.
On June 18, Italy played South Korea.
Ethan watched the match with a coldness he did not feel.
Across five locations, the group chat went quiet before kickoff.
His friends had learned enough by then to understand the stakes even if they still did not love the sport.
Italy’s lineup was loaded with names that even casual sports fans could recognize: Buffon, Maldini, Zambrotta, Totti, Del Piero, Vieri.
Cannavaro, Inzaghi, and Gattuso were there as well, even if injuries and tactical choices complicated the lineup.
On paper, it should not have been close.
But Ethan knew better.
The 2002 World Cup had one stretch that fans in his old timeline never stopped arguing about.
South Korea’s run had become a furnace of controversy: missed calls, soft calls, disallowed goals, red cards, conspiracy theories, and enough national anger to keep message boards burning for years.
He was not here to solve that history.
He was here to profit from it.
That did not make the match easier to watch.
Italy took the lead, and for a while, everything felt normal.
Then the match bent the way Ethan remembered it bending.
South Korea fought back late.
Francesco Totti was sent off after a second yellow for what the referee judged to be a dive.
A potential Italian winner was ruled offside.
Every questionable whistle made the air tighter.
By the time Ahn Jung-hwan scored the golden goal, no one in the chat celebrated.
South Korea 2.
Italy 1.
The position won.
The win felt like profiting from a funeral.
Billy: I know we made money, but that felt wrong.
Warren: That whole match felt wrong.
Bo: If I were Italian, I’d be breaking furniture.
Judy: How much did we make?
Ethan checked the messages coming in from the accounts, the runners, and the offshore contacts.
Ethan: Enough.
Judy: That’s not an answer.
Ethan: It’s the only answer you need right now.
For a moment, no one replied.
The others were still young enough to want numbers because numbers made the world feel controllable.
Ethan was old enough, at least in the ways that mattered, to know that numbers could also make people stupid.
This match had been ugly.
The next one might be worse.
He typed before anyone could ask the next question.
Ethan: If this made you uncomfortable, do not watch South Korea’s next match.
Billy: Are we betting on them again?
Ethan: Yes.
Bo: After that?
Ethan: Especially after that.
No one answered for several seconds.
Then Warren typed:
Warren: I hate that I believe you.
Ethan closed the spreadsheet and looked at the silent television.
The money was getting big enough to change his life.
It was also getting ugly enough to remind him why this door could only be used once.
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Ready for more?
I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.