The Tragedy Script

"Did someone new move in next door?" Max muttered to himself as he walked deeper into his apartment.

His studio was located in the old district tenements. It wasn't exactly the Ritz. The tenants here were mostly drifters and migrant workers—people from all walks of life just passing through. The turnover rate was high, and the living conditions were hostile at best. The only perk? It was cheap.

Gurgle.

His stomach gave a violent protest, reminding Max he hadn't eaten anything substantial all morning. Instinctively, he grabbed a packet of instant noodles off the table.

He boiled the water. He was just about to rip open the seasoning packet when his hand froze in mid-air.

A memory, sharp and cold, sliced through his mind. That day... I drank too much. I was vomiting blood. The doctor holding the clipboard... late-stage stomach cancer.

Late-stage.

The words bounced around his skull like a bad echo. Max shivered.

Right. His past life, recorded in The Tragic Life of Max Mason, wasn't just a tragedy because of failed investments.

Some people trade health for money. Some trade money for health. Max's previous life had been a masterclass in failure—he'd managed to end up with neither.

Like a lot of college kids, he'd destroyed his body early. Skipping breakfast, crushing greasy kebabs for lunch, hunting down food trucks for dinner. Once he left home, he was like a wild horse off the leash, enjoying the freedom to make terrible decisions. Then came the workforce, where takeout and instant ramen became his primary food groups.

Apparently, there was a price tag on all that freedom.

Max sighed, slowly setting the noodle packet back on the table. His eyes hardened with resolve.

From this day forward, he was going to be a "Wellness Guy." He would embrace the domestic life—firewood, rice, oil, salt. He would care about grains and vegetables. He'd find a place with a kitchen, a bathroom, maybe even a room with a view.

"Okay... let's see what counts as 'wellness' these days," Max muttered, pulling out his phone. "Right! Dad is always spamming the family group chat with those articles. I used to ignore them because I was young and invincible. Now? Time to learn from the masters."

He tapped on the screen, ready to plan his new, long-term survival diet.

Goodbye, fried chicken and beer. Goodbye, potato chips and Coke. It's not that I don't love you. I'm just terrified of dying.

"Let's see here... 'Wellness 101: Zen Health Hacks.' This looks reliable. Wait... what?"

Max squinted at the screen. "Put kale in your beer? Drop a ginseng root into your Coca-Cola?"

Is this a joke? That counts as healthy?

"Okay, maybe I clicked the wrong link. Let's try 'Advanced Wellness: Secrets of the Elite.' Saffron, caviar and truffles... Great. So if you're rich, you live to be 999. Next!"

He kept scrolling. "'Ancient Wellness: The Miraculous Meridians.' ..."

Max stared at the wall for a long moment, then silently turned off his screen.

Dad, you troll.

Below that were articles on "Alchemy Wellness" and "Astrology Harmony." Max felt that clicking them would be an insult to his own intelligence. The path of wellness was apparently too deep and profound for a beginner.

Besides, looking around his studio apartment, he realized he had zero pots, zero pans, and absolutely no food.

Max let out a long sigh. "Forget it. Cooking isn't realistic right now. I'll just go out and find a salad or something."

But first... he had to hide the treasure.

Max reached into his jacket and pulled out the book. He froze.

In the short time since he'd last looked at it, the book had completely transformed. The cover, originally a dull black and white, was now a sleek, solid black. And the title—The Tragic Life of Max Mason—had vanished.

In its place were two bold words:

The Hustle.

Max felt like his brain had just been put through a blender. Even though he'd braced himself for something weird, seeing it happen right in front of his eyes was a total system shock.

If he hadn't been clutching the book to his chest like a lifeline the entire time, he would have sworn someone pulled a switcheroo.

Was this the Butterfly Effect kicking in?

He looked down at the cover. It was pitch black, with stark white, blocky lettering in the center. It gave him the creeps—specifically, the kind of creeps you get looking at a tombstone in a graveyard at midnight.

Max shook his head violently, trying to rattle the spooky thoughts out of his ears. Focus, he told himself. You know the original future. You avoided the bad investment. The dominoes of disaster shouldn't fall anymore.

He read the new title embossed on the cover: The Hustle!

Now that was a power word! It screamed "energy," "success," and "grindset." It was a total one-eighty from his previous destiny of misery. Surely, this meant his future self was living the dream, right?

"The future!" Max grinned. "A glorious, shiny future is waiting for me!"

With trembling fingers, he cracked open the book.

Once, my dream was to be a Top Cop. I got halfway there... I became a Mall Cop.

Later, my dream was to make a million bucks a year, marry a hot professor, and reach the pinnacle of life. Reality check: I made two grand a year, and the hot professor married some other guy.

So, I learned a lesson: Keep your feet on the ground. Aim for that first million. Join the Fortune 500!

...And I did it! I joined Horizon Life Insurance. As a salesman.

...Eventually, I realized keeping your feet on the ground is for losers. Like Tony always said, you gotta make money work for you, or you'll be a slave to the wage. So, I borrowed cash from every relative I had, maxed out my credit cards, leveraged everything, and shorted Horizon Energy. Then, I popped the champagne for the Crash of '18 and made my first fortune!

However... it was also my last...

Just when I was living large, ready to take over the world... Lily died.

Yes. Lily. Cute, heartbreakingly sensible Lily... gone.

She was only seven. Just a kid. She should have had her whole life ahead of her, but someone butchered her in a studio apartment. They found her body in a flowerbed nearby. The reports said she'd been tortured.

When I heard the news, I felt... everything. Grief. Rage. Helplessness.

Seeing her pale face on the news, all the color drained out of her, I felt like I was going to shatter into a million pieces. Angels walk among us, but apparently, so do demons.

But the real nightmare was just starting.

The day after they found her, the cops came for me.

The investigation was thorough. The evidence was irrefutable. And it all pointed to... Me.

Street cams, fingerprints on the door, the weapon, the bloody clothes, even hair and skin cells found at the scene.

It was a perfect frame job.

I was hauled into court. No witnesses to clear me. No alibi. Zero sympathy. The public wanted my head on a spike. I looked at Bella, Lily's mom, and saw pure murder in her eyes. I could only give her a bitter, broken smile. I listened to my parents screaming and crying, and it felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

Verdict: Life sentence. No parole.

I refused to accept it. I wouldn't rot in jail for something I didn't do. I wouldn't let the real killer walk free.

So, I turned my cell into a law library and a gym. I was the model prisoner, hoping for a sentence reduction. I even started sharpening a spoon, Shawshank-style. I just wanted one chance—one day of freedom to find the monster who killed Lily and make him pay.

...But life isn't a movie.

The prison conditions were garbage, and the stress destroyed me. I started coughing up blood. Diagnosis: Stage four stomach cancer.

The Hustle... was a waste of time.

Max stood frozen in place for ten solid minutes.

Finally, he snapped, screaming a curse word that echoed off the walls.

"Where's my glorious future? Huh?!"

This was strictly worse than the previous version, The Tragic Life of Max Mason!

He flipped to the chapter header.