The Shadow Tycoon
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 4: The Price of First Risk
After leaving Mr. Fox, William wandered around the street for a while. Now that the deal had been settled, he would soon have his first income, and the size of that income was directly tied to how much he put in.
The more he invested, the higher the profit. In fact, even the top financial groups would be envious of a business like this.
During this period, he had been reading newspapers constantly. Even with the whole world throwing itself into development and construction, even with all the talk about financial growth and economic improvement, the annual rate of return promised by certain funds had not exceeded fifteen percent.
In the first-quarter issue of The Wall Street Journal this year, some detailed data from the previous year had been disclosed. The foundation with the highest actual rate of return had achieved only 9.74 percent for the year, not even ten percent, and that was already the most profitable fund of the year.
So this deal was extremely important. At the same time, however, it created a new problem: he needed a sum of “principal” to exchange for all that change and those coins.
Mr. Fox had not mentioned that money. Given his investigation into William’s background, it was impossible for him not to know that William had less than a hundred dollars on him and in his bank account combined, never mind enough to fulfill the scale he had promised for helping Mr. Fox complete his “transition” as soon as possible.
He had to get another sum of money. It did not need to be too much. A few hundred dollars, or one or two thousand, would be enough, because once the machine started turning, it would only spin faster and faster. For a small amount like that, he planned to speak with Eleanor when he got home that night.
Although he did feel that what he was doing was somewhat ... improper, there was no way around it if he wanted a future.
Time passed bit by bit as he wandered. Today, William returned home early. At six-thirty in the evening, Eleanor came back from outside carrying a bag.
Inside were meat scraps the supermarket where she worked had planned to throw out that day, along with some vegetables that did not look especially fresh. Things like this were usually divided among the employees. After all, the whole reason people accepted oppression and exploitation there was to get these things for free.
The moment she entered the apartment, Eleanor was somewhat surprised. Recently, William had always come home very late. This was the first time in quite a while that he had returned so early.
At first, she had still fantasized that William might honestly find a job, preferably at a plant.
Although work in a plant was exhausting and carried a certain amount of danger, there was no denying that factory workers had the best benefits and social protections.
Those major factory owners not only had to take care of them in all kinds of ways, but the workers could also join organizations like labor unions. Eleanor, who worked at a supermarket, had no way to join one, because she was not a worker.
Besides, there was no unofficial organization called a “Cashiers’ Union.”
Nightmares had a way of holding people inside them. Good dreams, on the other hand, were far too easy to wake from.
After a full week, William, who had seemed to pull himself together again, had returned to his original state. Only now he had changed the pattern. Instead of staying home, he used job hunting as an excuse to go outside and kill time.
Thinking of this, Eleanor felt a wave of despair. She began to think her past choice had not merely been stupid. She had been blind.
It was precisely because she had gone through all this that she realized how right her mother had been: good looks were useless. Life needed a foundation, not a pretty face.
She glanced up at William, changed her shoes, and carried the bag into the kitchen, where she began washing the meat scraps.
The scraps had been shaved off bone racks, irregular pieces with no proper shape. Most were about the size of a finger, little lumps here and there. For certain reasons, they looked darker than the neatly arranged cuts of beef.
So even though they were very cheap, they were hard to sell. Most people bought them not for themselves, but to feed dogs.
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