The mirrored floors of the Cipriani Wall Street ballroom were so polished, John Anderson could see the reflection of the crystal chandelier, a galaxy of light, warped on the marble’s surface. He could also see the scuff marks on his own shoes. They were cheap, rented, and already pinching his toes.

John, employee number 774-B, was a janitor.

Or, at least, that’s what his current badge said. At Vanguard Capital, one of the most ruthless and successful private equity firms in New York City, you were what your badge said you were. And John’s badge, a simple laminated card, proclaimed him to be “Facilities Management.”

This was the annual Vanguard Gala, a night of grotesque self-congratulation, where the firm’s partners, VPs, and associates gathered to celebrate a year of corporate raiding and hostile takeovers. It was a sea of Tom Ford suits and couture gowns, a tidal wave of expensive champagne and even more expensive egos.

John, by some cruel twist of bureaucratic error, had been included on the all-staff-mandatory-attendance email. His direct supervisor, a perpetually angry man named Frank, had sneered. “They probably want someone to clean up the vomit. Don’t touch anything, Anderson. And for God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone.”

So John stood near the service entrance, a ghost in a cheap black suit, watching the predators of Wall Street in their natural habitat. He watched Marcus Thorne, the firm’s sleek, silver-haired CEO, laugh boisterously as he accepted congratulations. He watched the associates, young and hungry, circle each other like sharks.

And he watched her.

Eliza Hayes.

Eliza was the star of the evening, recently promoted to the youngest Vice President in Vanguard’s history. She was also the woman who had, six months ago, shared a tiny studio apartment with him in Queens, dreaming of a life they would build together. She was the woman who, three months ago, had told him she “needed more” than a part-time community college student and part-time janitor.

She hadn’t just left him; she had erased him. The moment her promotion came through, she had moved to a penthouse in Tribeca, changed her number, and, as of tonight, was clinging to the arm of Bradley “Brad” Sloane, the firm’s smuggest, most obnoxious managing director.

John had come tonight for one reason. Not to disrupt, not to make a scene, but simply to see her one last time in this new world she had chosen, to close that chapter of his life and move on.

His anonymity was his shield, until it wasn’t.

“Well, well, well,” a voice dripped with saccharine contempt. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or, in this case, what the service elevator spat out.”

John turned. It was Brad Sloane, his arm possessively wrapped around Eliza’s waist. Eliza herself looked… startled, then embarrassed, then cold. Her face, which he had once known better than his own, became a mask of aristocratic disdain.

“Bradley, please,” Eliza said, her voice a low murmur, but she made no move to leave.

“No, no, honey, it’s fine,” Brad boomed, loud enough for the nearby clusters of people to turn and look. He was a big man, broad-shouldered from the university rowing team he still talked about, his $10,000 suit straining against his muscles. “I’m just fascinated. I didn’t realize Vanguard had started a work-release program with the local sanitation department.”

A small, cruel laugh rippled through the onlookers.

John just stood there, his hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. Sloane.”

“Oh, he speaks!” Brad clapped his hands together. “Eliza, you never told me your ex was so… articulate. What was it you did again, John? You… mop things?”

“Brad, stop it,” Eliza hissed, but there was no force behind it. She was looking at John with a kind of pitying disgust that cut him deeper than Brad’s insults ever could.

“I’m just curious!” Brad said, taking a step closer, towering over John. “See, in our world, Eliza, we measure a man by his net worth. By his contribution. And looking at you, Anderson… I’d say your contribution is somewhere around negative fifty dollars, after we factor in the cost of that God-awful suit you rented.”

“He’s not worth your time, darling,” Eliza said, tugging on his arm.

“No, he’s not,” Brad agreed easily. “But a little… pest control… is always a good idea.”

And that’s when it happened. The breaking point. The moment that would be seared into the memory of everyone present.

Brad, with a theatrical “Oops!” snatched a full flute of champagne—Dom Pérignon, $800 a bottle—from a passing waiter’s tray and, in one smooth motion, inverted it over John’s head.

The icy, bubbling liquid streamed down John’s hair, into his eyes, and down the front of his cheap suit jacket. The entire ballroom, a hundred conversations, a live string quartet, all of it, went utterly silent. The only sound was the drip… drip… drip… of champagne onto the polished marble.

John didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He just closed his eyes for a single second as the champagne ran down his face.

Brad Sloane laughed. A braying, triumphant sound. “My apologies, Anderson! Looks like you needed a bath after all. Send me the cleaning bill. Oh, wait,” he tapped his temple. “You can’t afford a stamp.”

Eliza watched, her hand covering her mouth, a tiny, horrified smile playing on her lips. She had made her choice. She had chosen the winner.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Everyone was watching. Waiting. Waiting for the janitor to cry, to yell, to be dragged out by security.

Marcus Thorne, the CEO, had materialized at the edge of the circle, a glass of scotch in his hand. He watched the scene with a look of detached amusement, like a Roman emperor observing a fight in the gladiator pits. This was his culture. The strong devour the weak. He nodded, a small, approving gesture, toward Brad.

John opened his eyes. He slowly, methodically, wiped the champagne from his face with his sleeve. He looked at Brad. He looked at the laughing crowd. He looked at Marcus Thorne’s approving smirk.

And then, finally, he looked at Eliza. Her face was a perfect, cold, beautiful mask. She had chosen.

“You’re right, Brad,” John said. His voice was quiet, but it carried in the dead-silent room. “A man is measured by his net worth.”

He reached into his pocket. Not the pocket of the rental trousers, but the inside pocket of the jacket. He pulled out a phone.

It wasn’t an iPhone. It wasn’t a Samsung. It was a simple, matte-black device with no branding, a phone that looked more like a military-grade piece of equipment than a consumer product.

“What are you gonna do, Johnny boy?” Brad sneered. “Call your union rep? Call your mommy?”

John ignored him. He tapped the screen once, activating the phone. He made a single call. He didn’t put the phone to his ear, but instead, put it on speaker for the whole room to hear.

A single ring.

“Aguardando.” A crisp, female voice answered. Not “hello.” Not “how may I help you?” Just one word. Waiting.

“Diana,” John said, his voice changing. The subservient, meek tone was gone. In its place was a voice of absolute, cold authority. A voice that commanded. “It’s me. I’m bored.”

“Understood, Sir. Shall I activate the ‘New York’ protocol?” The voice was perfectly modulated, betraying no emotion.

“No,” John said, looking directly at Marcus Thorne, who had suddenly stopped smirking. “Too subtle. I’m feeling… theatrical. Activate Protocol ‘Scorched Earth.’ Target: Vanguard Capital.”

A beat of silence. “Sir? Protocol Scorched Earth is… final. It implies a full asset liquidation and dissolution of the target’s board, effective immediately. By my calculations, that would represent a… a significant personal financial loss. To you.”

“Your calculations are correct, Diana. My boredom is, however, more significant. How long?”

“The hostile takeover proxies are already in place, Sir. We’ve held a 49% shadow stake for six months. Acquiring the final 2% to force a majority vote… 120 seconds. The market-wide sell order to crash the stock to zero… 180 seconds. The press release announcing the dissolution… 190 seconds. Total time: Three minutes, ten seconds.”

Marcus Thorne’s face had gone from amused, to confused, to the color of ash. His scotch glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.

“Who… who the hell is this?” Thorne stammered, taking a step forward. “What is this, a prank? Anderson, you’re fired! Security!”

“Too slow,” John said. He looked at his own phone. “Diana. Execute.”

“Executing, Sir.”

A chime. And then, all at once, hell broke loose.

Every phone in the room, every partner’s, every VP’s, every associate’s phone, buzzed and lit up simultaneously with a single, brutal stock alert.

VGCAP: -99.8%

A single trade, a block of 50 million shares, had been dumped onto the market at $0.01 per share, triggering every automated stop-loss and algorithm in the financial world. The stock, which had closed at $450 per share, was now worthless. In less than a-minute.

“My stock… my options…” a woman gasped, her knees buckling.

“It’s… it’s gone,” another man whispered, staring at his phone. “It’s all gone.”

Marcus Thorne was hyperventilating. “This is impossible! It’s market manipulation! I’ll have you arrested! This is…”

“This,” John said, “is a rounding error.”

The main doors of the ballroom burst open. Not with the hotel security Thorne had called for, but with a team of six individuals in dark, severe, military-cut suits. They moved with an economic, silent precision. They were led by a woman with jet-black hair pulled into a severe bun and a tablet in her hand. This was the physical presence of the voice on the phone. Diana.

They ignored the stunned crowd, parting the sea of frozen socialites like Moses. They walked directly to John.

Diana stopped three feet from him, her team fanning out, securing the room. She held up the tablet. “Sir. Vanguard Capital is no longer a viable entity. The brand is toxic. The assets, approximately $80B, have been absorbed by the holding company. The board is dissolved. All employee contracts are terminated, effective immediately.”

She paused, then looked at the champagne-soaked janitor. “Your helicopter is on the roof. Your flight to Geneva is wheels-up in forty-five minutes. Will you be requiring a change of clothes?”

John finally allowed himself a small, thin smile. “No, I don’t think so. I want to remember the… aroma… of the evening.”

“Sir?” Brad Sloane said, his voice a tiny squeak. He was trembling. The man who, five minutes ago, was a master of the universe, now looked like a terrified child. “I… I don’t understand… Who… what… are you?”

John turned to him. He walked forward until he was inches from the bigger man. Brad, despite his height, seemed to shrink.

“Me?” John said. “I’m the guy who was cleaning your toilets this morning. I’m the guy who makes $18 an hour. I’m the guy who, according to you, is worth negative fifty dollars.”

He leaned in closer. “I’m also Johnathan Blackstone. My family started the bank you people gamble with. That 49% shadow stake? That was me, buying this company piece by piece, just to see what kind of people I was employing. Just to see if one… one… of you was worth a damn.”

He looked around the room. “Turns out, you’re not.”

He turned back to Brad. “You measured me by my net worth. Let’s measure you.” He looked at Diana. “Diana. Mr. Sloane here. What’s his net worth?”

Diana tapped her tablet. “Bradley Sloane. Net worth, $4.2 million, primarily in now-worthless VGCAP options. Current liquid assets: $88,000. Debt-to-income ratio: critical. He leveraged his Hampton’s property to buy a yacht he couldn’t afford. He’s underwater.”

“Hmm. Underwater. I like that,” John said. “Diana, buy his debt. Buy his mortgage. Buy his yacht. Foreclose on all of it. I want him on the street by Monday.”

“Sir…” Brad was on his knees now, grabbing at the cuff of John’s cheap, wet trousers. “Please… please, I have a family! It was a joke! A stupid joke!”

John kicked his hand away in disgust. “You don’t have a family. You have expenses. And you’ve just been… liquidated.”

He turned to Marcus Thorne, who was being quietly, but firmly, detained by two of John’s security team. “Mr. Thorne. Gross mismanagement. Creating a toxic work environment. And… insider trading. I’m sure the SEC will be very interested in that little ‘private’ fund you’ve been running out of the Cayman Islands. You’re not just fired. You’re going to prison.”

Thorne’s face went white. He didn’t say a word. He just… collapsed.

Finally, John turned to Eliza.

She was the only one who hadn’t moved. She was frozen, her face a mask of utter, complete shock. The calculation was happening behind her eyes, the desperate, frantic search for a way out, for a way to spin this.

“John…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “John, I… I didn’t know.”

“That’s the point,” John said, his voice softer now, but infinitely sadder. “You didn’t know. You didn’t care to know. You just saw the suit. Not the man.”

“I… I can fix this!” she said, a hysterical edge to her voice. She detached herself from Brad, who was still weeping on the floor, and took a step toward John. “We can fix this! I always loved you, John! I was just… I was scared! This world… it’fs so much pressure! I made a mistake! Please, John… Johnny… take me with you.”

She reached out to touch his arm.

John looked at her hand, then at her face. He saw the woman he had loved, the woman he had cooked pasta for in their tiny kitchen, the woman he had held when she cried after a bad day. And he saw the stranger standing in front of him.

“You’re right about one thing, Eliza,” he said. “You did make a mistake.”

He didn’t look at her again. He turned to his team. “Diana. We’re leaving.”

“Sir,” Diana said, “What about… them?” She gestured to the two hundred frozen, unemployed financial professionals in the room.

John walked towards the grand exit, his team falling into formation around him. As he reached the door, he paused and looked back. The room was a tableau of ruin, a modern-day Pompeii of greed.

“Oh,” he said, as if just remembering. “Mr. Thorne was right about one thing. This gala… this is a grotesque waste of money.”

He looked at the stunned hotel manager who was cowering by the door.

“The bar is closed. The buffet is closed. And nobody is validating parking. Send them all a bill. Individually.”

He adjusted the cuffs of his cheap, damp, $50-a-night rental suit.

“And Diana,” he said, stepping out into the cool New York night, the thwack-thwack-thwack of his helicopter’s blades already echoing off the skyscrapers of Wall Street.

“Yes, Sir?”

“When I get to Geneva… buy me a new suit. This one smells like cheap champagne.”