The streets buzzed with a rhythm that had become familiar to him over the years. But now, it felt different. Each step he took was like a whisper in the wind, echoing in a life that no longer belonged to the invisible man known as Mr. Dime. Now, he stood beneath golden lights, embraced by the towering facade of Draxon Corporation not as a weary paper pusher, but as Elias Thorne Jr., the long dead heir who had returned from a forgotten past.
He hadn't expected it. He hadn't asked for it. Yet here he was, dressed in a finely tailored navy suit, Italian leather shoes hugging his feet, and a driver waiting for him by the black Maserati parked outside. Everything about this moment screamed privilege.
The marble floors clicked under his shoes as he approached the revolving doors. Two doormen in black uniforms pulled them open for him, one of them nodded respectfully.
"Welcome back, Mr. Thorne."
He gave a small nod in return, lips pressed into a straight line. The scent of expensive cologne, no longer foreign, wrapped around him as he stepped into the sleek building. Every polished tile, every etched glass wall screamed opulence and legacy. This building, once a distant place of legends, now breathed at his fingertips.
The receptionist looked up from behind her walnut desk and smiled too brightly, too quickly.
"Good morning, Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice syrupy.
Mr. Dime nodded subtly. "Good morning."
He made his way to the elevator, fingers gliding over the brass button labeled "Executive Floor", as the doors closed, he caught his reflection in the mirrored wall no longer the ghostly, tired man hunched over paperwork. This man stood tall, shoulders firm, eyes sharp. Elias Thorne Jr. was everything Mr. Dime was not.
But inside, he was still Mr. Dime still the man who remembered the smell of stale office coffee, the hum of broken fluorescent lights, and the sound of Mr. Landon Crick's laughter as he took credit for work he hadn't done.
Ah, Mr. Landon Crick.
The man who made Dime's days a living hell. Who stole every idea Dime contributed, every solution he created, and twisted them into his own victories. The man who received praise after praise while Dime faded into the background. Crick was not just a bully he was a parasite, feeding off Dime's brilliance, leaving only scraps for the man who had given 25 years of sweat to a thankless company.
He remembered one particular evening still vivid in his mind when Crick had slammed a draft report onto his desk.
"You see this?" he barked. "This needs complete rewriting. You think management has time to read your technobabble? Simplify it. Or don't bother showing up next week."
That same report had won Crick the "Innovative Systems" award.
But now, the tables had turned and Dexter, the man mistakenly called Landon in his first days here, was merely another executive, unaware that this Elias was anything but ordinary.
The elevator opened to the executive suite a corridor of glass offices and quiet luxury. A woman in a pencil skirt walked by, blinking in surprise before offering a quick greeting.
"Mr. Thorne."
"Morning."
He stepped into the Executive Boardroom. The room fell silent, all eyes turned to him men and women in power, gathered to welcome the prodigal son.
"Mr. Thorne," a gray-haired man stood, possibly the COO. "We're honored by your presence. Your father would've been proud."
He gave a polite nod. "Let's get to business."
He sat at the head of the table, noting the cautious admiration in their eyes, some were afraid, others skeptical, one or two genuinely curious. He didn't speak much, he observed, absorbed.
During the meeting, a younger executive whispered to another, "He doesn't talk much, does he?"
"He doesn't need to," the other replied. "He already owns the table."
By the end of the session, he had made three mental notes: who supported him, who pretended, and who planned to backstab.
Later that evening, he sat in the penthouse apartment overlooking the city skyline. It was nearly silent, except for the faint hum of the central heating. His fingers danced over the rim of a crystal glass, scotch inside untouched.
He was not here to bask in wealth.
He was here for retribution.
He pulled out the old company report he had written all those years ago one that had revolutionized internal processes but had been credited to Mr. Landon Crick. Now, he had the authority to reopen old records, now, he could expose the roaches.
The plan was already forming.
The first phase is the internal audit. Initiated by the board, but guided by his hand.
The second phase carefully outlined strategic restructuring. Every deadweight, every power-hungry leech would be reviewed.
The third phase implementation of a merit-based recognition system, no more backroom promotions, no more credit theft.
And the final phasehis favorite personal retribution.
"Mr. Thorne, sir?" his assistant called from the hallway.
"Yes?"
"A Mr. Dexter is requesting a meeting, he says he's an old friend."
Dime chuckled softly. "Send him in. Let's hear what this 'old friend' has to say."
Dexter walked in, grinning with the same smugness he had seen on Crick so many years ago.
"Elias! It's been years. I thought you were dead," Dexter laughed. "It's good to see you, man. You look great."
"Do I know you?" Dime asked, tone flat.
Dexter faltered. "I..I mean, we met back at boarding school, you were a quiet guy, but I always admired your calm."
"Hmm. Is that so?"
Dexter shifted. "I just wanted to say, if there's anything I can help with as you transition into leadership, I'm your guy. I've always believed in Draxon's mission."
Dime smiled coldly. "I'll keep that in mind. Dismissed."
As Dexter left, Dime made a note in his journal: Dexter watch. Pattern of false familiarity. Investigate."
He leaned back in his chair and smiled for the first time in decades.
The next morning, the audit began.
There were whispers in the hallway.
"Did you hear about the sudden financial reviews?"
"Yeah, I heard he's turning the place upside down."
In one of the private offices, Crick was already fidgeting.
"He's sniffing around," Crick muttered to his assistant. "The prodigal brat thinks he can play CEO. Let's see how long this game lasts."
Mr. Dime now Elias entered unannounced.
"Mr. Crick," he said smoothly.
Crick stood, fake warmth radiating from his outstretched hand. "Elias, what a surprise. I was just reviewing this quarter's numbers."
"Were you? Then you'll have no problem walking me through them."
Crick blinked. "Now?"
Crick shocked to have a one on one conversation with the whole daft CEO boy.
"Yes."
He pulled a chair and sat directly across from the man who had stolen his life's work. The man fumbled over charts, stats, explanations. Dime asked subtle questions designed not just to test his business acumen, but to expose the gaps in his supposed contributions.
Twenty minutes in, Crick was sweating, gritting his teeth in resent how can this uncultured boy, put him through such humilation.
Dime finally stood.
"I expect a full report by end of day. You'll email it, CC the board, and note every departmental contribution clearly. Names included."
As Dime walked out, Crick exhaled loudly, gripping the edge of his desk.
In the days that would follow, Dime moved quietly but swiftly. He decided and began identifying his allies, building a circle of competence people who had long been overlooked, much like himself.
One of them was Janice, a woman in operations, whose reports he'd once proofread late at night before she ever became management material. Now, she was quietly brilliant, underused, and waiting for someone to believe in her.
"Janice," he said in passing, "send me a summary of the logistics audit you've been compiling."
Her eyes widened, shocked to be recognized "You know about that?"
"I know more than you think."
In private meetings, he listened. Not just to numbers but to voices, Stories, Patterns, Lies, Regrets.
He wasn't just leading, He was dissecting.
People was shocked at the irresponsible spoilt brat civility
And slowly, the Daxton Corporation would begin to shift under his influence.
One night, standing at the edge of his balcony, he looked out at the stars. Below, the world moved unaware. Above, silence offered no judgment.
He whispered to himself, "Maybe this time I won't waste it."
He didn't know how this second life came to be. But it had.
And he would use it.
For every time he was ignored.
For every long night of unpaid overtime.
For every moment Landon Crick laughed while he sat in silence.
This wasn't just about success.
It was about retribution.
And it had only just begun.
It is now he story starts.