Alex blended effortlessly into the crowd as he strolled through the spacious corridors of the mall, hood up, sunglasses on, and face mask covering half his face like some incognito celebrity or highly cautious germophobe. Oddly enough, no one even gave him a second glance. In a world still jittery from the last pandemic, people had become grateful when strangers took the extra step to conceal their coughs and sniffles.
He gave a deliberately casual sniff and an expertly faked throat-clear for effect, and a passing elderly woman even offered him a sympathetic smile.
"Bless you," she whispered, eyes crinkling behind her bifocals.
He nodded politely and glanced at his watch. He was early—by nearly an hour. But that was fine. He liked watching people, especially when he was cooking up plans that could either make him ridiculously rich or land him in federal prison.
Still, this was no adolescent fantasy. He was thirty—past the age of reckless mistakes and dumb decisions. At least, most of the time.
After waking up that morning with a literal treasure trove of diamonds in his bag, Alex had done what any educated man with access to the internet would do—research. He had sifted through dozens of articles, read obscure Reddit threads, watched a suspicious number of YouTube videos featuring suspiciously shady men handling "untraceable" gems, and eventually landed on the safest route: the broker network.
The goal was clear—find someone who could handle the diamonds discreetly, without inviting unnecessary questions or police officers with itchy trigger fingers.
He didn't just start calling jewelers outright. He was cleverer than that. He played a character—a naïve but well-meaning grandson who "inherited a box of old, antique gems" from his mysterious, now-deceased grandfather. He even offered referral fees to those who connected him to a trustworthy buyer. The old "I'm a desperate heir" ploy.
Eventually, one jewelry store owner whispered a name over the phone: Mr. Duran, a private broker with more connections than a flight attendant.
And now, Alex was on his way to meet the man at a quiet steakhouse tucked on the upper floor of the mall—where the booths were semi-private, the music was low, and the waiters never asked too many questions. With his high perception, he will know if there is something not right happening around him.
He arrived at the restaurant, scanned the room, and spotted a man in a crisp charcoal suit sipping water and staring at the menu like it owed him money. Alex approached casually.
"Mr. Duran?" he asked in a low voice.
The man looked up. Slicked-back hair, small glasses, manicured fingers. The kind of man who knew the exact dollar value of everything on his person—including his socks.
"You must be the young man with the… 'antique' stones."
Alex took a seat and quietly unzipped a small pouch, revealing ten diamonds nestled inside like eggs in a velvet nest.
Mr. Duran picked one up delicately, the stone catching light like a star caught mid-blink. He held it close, rotated it between his fingers, and then looked at Alex with eyes that had suddenly become very alert.
"My word," he breathed. "This is exquisite. Flawless cut. This isn't an antique—this is practically divine."
Alex shrugged, playing it cool. "I was told my grandfather had good taste."
The broker leaned forward. "You say you have more of these?"
Alex nodded. "Fifty. But I only brought ten. You know—trust issues."
Mr. Duran let out a low chuckle. "Wise man. You're not as desperate as you sounded on the phone."
"Well," Alex said, leaning back, "I am in a bit of a bind. I lost some money in a casino, and now I owe someone who's not exactly patient. I need quick cash, and I need it clean."
The broker's grin widened. "I like you. Straightforward. Here's my offer—one million pesos per diamond."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Come on. We both know it's worth more than that."
"Indeed. But value depends on how easily I can move them. And these stones are... let's just say extra-legal."
Alex smiled under the mask. He's not greedy. All he wants is freedom, to have time to train his skills and learn new ones. "Ok, fine. Let's not play coy. Make it 1.5 million each. I'll let you sell at whatever price you want. Just give me something I can work with."
Mr. Duran gave an approving nod, reached into his briefcase, and pulled out an envelope and a checkbook.
"Ten diamonds… that's fifteen million pesos. I'll write a check for ten million and give you five in cash."
He slid the envelope across the table. Alex peeked inside—bundles of freshly minted 1000 peso bills. Not a single wrinkle in sight.
"I'll deposit the check now," Alex said. "If it clears, we talk again."
"Of course," said the broker. "Trust is earned. Just don't wait too long to call me back. I already have buyers foaming at the mouth."
He stood, shook Alex's hand firmly, and added in a lower voice, "Well, it's not like any of us will be enjoying this wealth for long. If even half of the rumors are true—about what's coming—this will all be dust soon."
Alex raised an eyebrow.
"Then I suggest we enjoy what time we've got left."
"See you again, Mr. Cortero," Duran said, walking off with the pouch.
Alex left shortly after and made his way directly to the bank, envelope tucked tightly under his arm. The line was long, as usual, but he kept to himself, sunglasses still on, mask still covering most of his face.
When it was finally his turn, he stepped up to the teller with a rehearsed nonchalance.
"I'd like to deposit this check, please."
The teller—a woman with sharp eyeliner and a voice like a game show host—took the check and stared at the amount.
"Ten million?" she asked, blinking.
"Yes. My lucky day," he said flatly.
She nodded, typing it into the system.
"Let me just verify this with our head teller—"
Alex's heartbeat sped up. What if it bounced? What if Duran was a scam artist with a fake office and an expensive watch bought on credit?
After a few tense minutes and a quiet consultation between two bank officers, the woman returned.
"Congratulations, sir. It's cleared."
He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Then she noticed the envelope under his arm. "Would you like to deposit that as well?"
"No," he said, smiling under his mask. "That's for...shopping."
As he turned to leave, a young man behind him whistled low. "Damn. Ten million? What did you sell, your soul?"
Alex grinned as he walked away. "Something like that."
In his bag was five million pesos in cold hard cash, and in his mind—one very specific plan.
It was time to power up.