Back home, Jason stepped out of the bathroom, towel still draped over his neck, admiring the fresh cut in the hallway mirror. It looked good. Clean. Sharp. Like he wasn't just surviving anymore — he was coming into his own.
But as he sat back on his bed and opened the system again, the house listing still hovered in his vision. It hadn't left his mind all morning.
He stared at it.
Then stood up and grabbed his phone.
"System," he muttered, pulling on a hoodie and slipping a discreet pouch of cash into his pocket, "set the coordinates. I want to see it today."
[Secure vehicle is standing by—]
"No vehicle. Not today."
The system paused.
[Alternative transportation method?]
Jason's lips pulled into a grin. "We're going local."
⸻
He stepped out of the compound and locked the gate behind him. The sun was already high, and the streets buzzed with late-morning activity — plantain sellers shouting prices, the smell of waakye drifting from a roadside stand, motorbikes weaving through traffic like they had nine lives.
Jason made his way to the junction and waited with a few other passengers by the side of the road. A battered white trotro with faded decals rolled to a stop.
The mate leaned out the side window. "Ahodwo! Ahodwo! Last three! Kumasi Mall stop dey inside!"
Jason hopped in.
He squeezed into the back corner by the window, wedged between an older woman with a market basket and a teenager glued to his phone. The seat creaked under him. The air was thick with heat, noise, and the occasional gospel song from the front speakers.
And yet… it felt real.
Grounded.
He wasn't a trillionaire right now. Wasn't a demigod or a secret corporate overlord.
He was just a 14-year-old kid on a trotro heading across town.
⸻
It took 25 minutes, a couple of near-accidents, and more "Change no dey" arguments than he cared to count — but eventually, Jason got down near the estate gate.
The roads here were cleaner. Quieter. The trees taller, casting long shadows across paved sidewalks. He followed the pin on his system map until he stood outside the house.
It looked just like the listing.
Better, even.
Whitewashed walls. Tall golden windows. A wide green garden — already trimmed — and the almond tree near the gate, just starting to bloom again.
He stood across the road for a while, not saying anything.
Just watching it.
No one would've guessed that the boy in sneakers and a hoodie, holding a small pouch of change, was the actual owner of half the city's digital infrastructure — or that he'd bought three apartment complexes in the last 24 hours.
He didn't need them to know.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Jason took a slow breath.
Then crossed the road and reached for the gate buzzer.
It was time to see it up close.
He pressed the buzzer.
For a few seconds, nothing. Just the faint hum of a generator somewhere deeper in the neighborhood and the rustle of leaves overhead.
Then a voice crackled through the intercom.
"Yes, hello?"
Jason stepped closer to the panel. "Good morning. I'm here to see the property — the one listed through Maranatha Holdings?"
A pause.
"This is a private residence, young man. No tours are being conducted today. Come back with your parents if you're interested."
Jason blinked.
Right.
He looked down at himself — hoodie, sneakers, no visible status symbol in sight. Just another random teenager who looked lost or bored or both.
He sighed and leaned closer to the mic again.
"There should be a private appointment booked under the name… Adjie. Jason Adjie."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Jason could practically hear the silent typing in the background.
Then— click.
The intercom's tone changed.
"I—I apologize, sir. Please hold on just a moment."
A soft beep followed, then the gates slowly slid open with a quiet metallic hum.
Jason stepped through.
From the main walkway, a well-dressed man in his early thirties was already approaching — shirt neatly tucked, tablet in hand, the kind of crisp efficiency that usually accompanied expensive commissions.
"Mr. Adjie?" the man asked, slightly out of breath.
Jason nodded.
The man bowed slightly, then smiled with what looked like genuine warmth. "Apologies for the confusion at the gate. We weren't informed the client would be… coming in person."
"No problem," Jason said simply, brushing past it.
"If you'd follow me, I'll take you on a full walkthrough. Would you prefer a quiet tour, or would you like me to highlight specifications and figures as we go?"
Jason glanced around the front garden as they walked toward the porch. "Give me the full details."
"Very well." The man straightened. "The property sits on a half-acre plot. Five bedrooms, each en suite, with two additional guest rooms. Solar backup system installed. Water filtration through borehole with overhead tank and underground reserve. Kitchen fully fitted with imported appliances, all less than a year old. Smart security system with biometric locks and internal CCTV."
Jason nodded as they stepped through the front door.
The interior was bright — natural light pouring in from tall windows, soft tiles underfoot, cool air swirling gently through the rooms. No grand chandeliers or overly lavish decor — just tasteful elegance. Like someone had designed it to last.
They moved through the living room, dining area, and into the wide, open kitchen. Jason noticed the counter space immediately — plenty of it. His mom would love that. And the pantry actually had a walk-in door.
"The floors are reinforced hardwood under the tiling," the man continued, tapping through specs on the tablet. "Excellent insulation. Power bills are significantly lower than the average in this area. And the neighborhood is fully gated, with active patrols."
They moved upstairs, onto a hallway that wrapped around the landing. Large bedrooms, high ceilings, modern bathrooms.
The master suite was the last stop — floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony that overlooked the garden, and a bathroom the size of Jason's entire room back home.
Jason stepped out onto the balcony and leaned on the railing. The breeze carried the scent of hibiscus and dust from the trees down the road.
Jason stood in the center of the master bedroom, his eyes trailing across the clean lines of the ceiling, the way the light fell softly through the tall windows, how the walls didn't echo with a hundred other lives. Just space. Peace. Like the house was holding its breath, waiting for someone like his mother to exhale inside it.
The agent cleared his throat. "Would you like to proceed with the paperwork today, or would you prefer to—"
"I'm buying it now," Jason said, calm and clear.
The man blinked. "I—of course, sir. We can prepare an official deposit agreement. The listed asking price is—"
"₵5 million," Jason interrupted.
He tapped the side of his temple. A shimmer of soft light flashed in his vision as the system's banking interface opened.
[Confirm Direct Transfer – ₵5,000,000 GHS]
[Sender: J. Owusu – Tier One Private Account]
[Recipient: Valetta Property Group Ltd.]
[Transaction Purpose: Full Private Purchase, Silent Transfer]
Jason didn't hesitate.
He blinked twice.
[Transfer Complete ✔]
[Legal Documentation Authenticated]
[Ownership Flag Updated: Success]
He looked up.
"It's done."
The agent stared for a second too long, like his brain hadn't quite caught up to the moment. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. "The… full amount?"
Jason nodded once.
"No loans. No installments. No follow-up calls. Just wrap it. Quietly."
The man recovered quickly — well-trained — but there was a new stillness to him now. He straightened his tie slightly, cleared his throat again, and bowed his head.
"Understood. We'll ensure complete discretion. Title registration is already underway. Utilities will be pre-activated. Would you like us to assign basic staff for cleaning and maintenance?"
"No staff," Jason replied. "Just have the place deep-cleaned. I'll arrange the rest myself."
"And the keys?"
"Deliver them to the address I will send via email ," Jason said. "Sealed envelope. Marked internal."
The agent nodded. "Consider it handled. You've made an excellent purchase, sir. If you don't mind me saying—this house suits someone with vision."
Jason looked at him for a moment, then gave a polite nod.
"I don't need it to suit me," he said quietly. "It just needs to suit her."
They walked back down in silence. The air seemed clearer now — like the house itself had changed the moment it was claimed. No more for-sale desperation. No more guessing. It belonged to someone now. Not a name on a form, not a bank rep on the phone. Someone who stood in it. Someone who saw it.
Someone who had the power to walk in and say, I want this. And it's mine.
At the front door, the agent extended his hand. "It's been an honor, Mr. Owusu."
Jason shook it once, firm but casual. "You've been professional. I'll remember that."
Then he stepped out into the quiet sun, hoodie pulled up again. Just a teen walking down a street.
Except the house behind him? His.
He stopped at the corner and opened the system once more.
[New Asset Registered: Private Residence – Kumasi]
[Titleholder: Maranatha Holdings (Private Trust)]
[Status: Active – Unoccupied]
[Estimated Market Value: ₵7.3 million GHS]
Below it, another prompt flashed open.
[Would you like to notify your designated personal contact (Steven Amartey) of your latest purchase?]
Jason tapped No.
Not yet.
He didn't need Steven to handle this. Not this. This wasn't about power or reach or strategy.
This was personal.
This was him giving his mother a future she could never afford to imagine.
As he turned the corner and waited for a trotro, he opened his text messages.