Billionaire: Literally, My Time Is Money

A furious roar erupted through the phone, vibrating against Aaron’s eardrums. The barrage of insults that followed made his jaw clench, his fingers itching to slam the receiver down. *"I spent $648, and it’s been half an hour—where the hell are my diamonds?! I called you ten minutes ago, and you still haven’t fixed it! Are you incompetent? Get it sorted now, you useless waste of space!"* But he was a customer service representative. He couldn’t. Drawing a deep breath, Aaron forced a smile, softening his voice into practiced calm. *"Sir, I’ve already escalated your issue to the technical team. They’re working on it as we speak, and it should be resolved shortly. Also, I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from using offensive language."* *"You worthless CSR! What do you think your pathetic salary entitles you to respect? Who the hell do you think you are? "Give me your employee ID—I’m reporting you!"* The voice on the other end only grew louder, more venomous. *"My ID is 3184. As I’ve said, your issue has been forwarded to the technical team. Please wait patiently for resolution. Thank you for calling. Goodbye."* With that, Aaron ended the call. Even the most patient person would struggle to endure such a***e. He had done his best to remain composed, but the strain was wearing him thin. Leaning back in his office chair, Aaron closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips against his temples in slow, circular motions. The exhaustion was bone-deep. He worked for *New York No.1 Gaming*, a mid-sized mobile game company with around eighty employees. The firm had all the standard departments—development, marketing, customer service, finance—and pulled in annual revenues of twenty to thirty million. Aaron was just another faceless cog in the customer service machine. --- *Click-clack. Click-clack.* *"Aaron, the manager wants to see you in his office."* The sharp staccato of heels against linoleum preceded the saccharine voice of his coworker, Abigail. Aaron’s eyes snapped open. *"Huh? Me? "Do you know what it’s about?"* A flicker of unease passed through him. That disgruntled player *had* threatened to report him. "No idea,"* Abigail chirped, though her tone carried a barely concealed glee. But judging by his expression, it’s nothing good. Brace yourself."* Her beady eyes raked over him, searching for any sign of distress. A pang of bitterness twisted in Aaron’s chest. They were colleagues—why the schadenfreude? Even if he suffered, what did she stand to gain? Pushing himself up, he straightened his posture and headed toward the manager’s office. Behind him, Abigail’s muttered words slithered into his ears. *"What’s the point of being handsome when you’re broke? Acting all high and mighty—who does he think he is? I even invited him out last weekend, and he had the nerve to turn me down. Pathetic."* Aaron suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t about being aloof. For one, weekends weren’t free time for him. Beyond his CSR duties, he doubled as a *game promoter*—whenever the company launched new servers, he was expected to infiltrate them, stoking competition (and spending) among players. And then there was Abigail herself. Standing at barely five feet tall, weighing over a hundred and thirty pounds, with a round, ruddy face, a bulbous nose, and eyes that seemed perpetually half-shut… Well. She simply wasn’t his type. Better to nip any illusions in the bud. --- The manager’s door was ajar. Aaron knocked twice before stepping inside. *"You want to see me, sir?"* The manager didn’t look up from his screen. *"Aaron. Care to explain why we just got another complaint about you? The player claims you were *extremely* hostile—even cursed at him. Have you forgotten the CSR code of conduct? "Do you *want* to be fired?"* Aaron’s stomach dropped. *"Sir, that’s—that’s not what happened. The player was the one hurling a***e. I didn’t say a single inappropriate word."* The manager waved him off. *"Doesn’t matter. He’s an *A-tier* player. He’s dropped nearly eighty grand in our game—on the cusp of hitting *S-tier*. He made it clear that if we don’t ‘handle this to his satisfaction,’ he’s done spending. Permanently."* At *New York No.1 Gaming*, players who spent over ten thousand dollars were cataloged as *A-tier*—entitled to direct CSR access and expedited issue resolution. Aaron handled *A-tier* and below. Those who crossed the hundred-thousand threshold became *S-tier*, assigned dedicated VIP reps. His coworker Abigail, for instance, was a VIP rep. Her looks might have been… *lacking*, but her voice was honey-sweet. And the *SS-tier*? Players who splurged over three hundred grand. They were handled *personally* by the customer service director—complete with Mid-Autumn Festival moon cake deliveries. Aaron swallowed hard. The company’s philosophy was clear: *Players come first.* (Or rather, *paying* players.) *"So… what now?"* *"What now? Your performance bonus is gone this month. One more complaint, and you’re out. Got it?"* The manager’s glare was sharp, his oily skin glistening under the office lights. Aaron’s pulse spiked. Base salaries at the company were pegged to the local minimum wage—$2,200. The rest came from performance bonuses. His bonus alone was $2,300. Losing it meant his take-home pay would barely scrape $1,700. After rent ($800) and transit ($100+), he’d be left scrambling to afford *food*. *"Sir, please, let me explain—"* *"I don’t care. Get out. Don’t waste my time."* The manager flicked his hand dismissively, as if shooing a fly. Aaron hesitated. *"Sir, about my transfer request… Has it been approved?"* The manager rummaged through the papers on his desk before plucking out a sheet. He skimmed it, then let out a derisive snort. *"You want to switch to *operations*? What do you even know about ops?"* *"I’ve been studying. For almost a year now—asking the ops team questions, self-studying nights and weekends. I’ve read books on consumer psychology. This is what I want to do. Please."* *"You’re wasting my time. Your ‘dreams’ mean *nothing* to me. All I care about is this: *One more complaint, and you’re gone.* Now *leave.*"* The manager jabbed a finger toward the door. Aaron stood frozen for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, he turned and walked out. --- Another routine overtime shift. By the time Aaron trudged out of the office building, the clock had long since passed ten. He quickened his pace toward the bus stop, only to see his bus’s taillights flaring as it prepared to pull away. *"Wait! Hold on—!"* Instinct kicked in. Aaron broke into a sprint. Thankfully, he was a regular runner. His legs carried him forward in a desperate dash, and just as he thought he’d missed it, the bus hissed to a stop. Gasping for air, he hauled himself aboard. The last bus of the night was nearly empty. Only one passenger sat near the front—a young woman who watched him with mild curiosity. Fumbling for his phone to scan his fare, Aaron tapped the screen repeatedly. Nothing. Dead battery. Switching to his wallet, he rifled through it—only to find it barren save for his ID. Not a single bill or coin. "No fare, no ride, kid,"* the driver remarked dryly, eyeing him in the rearview mirror. Heat rushed to Aaron’s face. *"My phone died, and I don’t have cash—"* A slender arm reached past him, dropping two coins into the fare box. *"Here. I’ve got spare change."* Aaron turned, startled. It was a young woman. *"You should thank her,"* the driver chuckled. *"If she hadn’t pointed you out, I wouldn’t have noticed you chasing us down. You white-collar folks make enough—why not just take a cab? Look at you, sweating buckets."* Aaron gave a strained smile. His meager salary didn’t allow for such *luxuries*. Settling into the seat across from her, he finally got a proper look at her. She appeared to be in her early twenties, dressed like a college student—plain white cotton tee, faded blue jeans, pristine white sneakers. Everything about her was understated, clean. Her face was delicate, her skin fair. Wide, bright eyes—clear and intelligent—glistened under the bus’s dim lighting. Her hair, neither long nor short, cascaded just past her jawline, swaying gently with the motion of the bus. *"Thank you. Really. Could I… add you on Whats'Y'App?"* Aaron ventured. The girl blinked, caught off guard. *"I mean—just so I can pay you back,"* he clarified hastily. *"My phone’s dead now, but I’ll transfer the amount as soon as I get home". After that, you can delete me. I’d really appreciate it."* His pride wouldn’t allow him to accept charity, even for something as trivial as bus fare. After a beat, the girl retrieved a notepad and pen from her bag, scribbling down a number. *"Here."* She handed him the slip. *"If you insist. But really, it’s fine. Everyone needs help sometimes."* *"I insist."* Aaron smiled, tucking the paper carefully into his wallet. Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft hum of the bus’s radio. A melancholic tune filled the air—a man’s raspy voice singing of shattered dreams, of being *"drowned by endless taunts"* and *"buried under the weight of the world."* Aaron’s expression darkened. The lyrics seeped into him, resonating with the ache in his chest. As the song faded, a smooth, gentle female voice murmured: *"Hey, stranger. How was your day? "If you’re still listening this late… you must be lonely, huh?"* The bus’s AC was cranked high, the chill biting into Aaron’s skin. His body began to tremble—subtly at first, then uncontrollably. His posture, usually so rigidly upright, crumpled. *How was his day?* The events were replayed in his mind like a slideshow. *"You worthless service! "What do you think your pathetic salary entitles you to respect?"* *"Acting all high and mighty—who does he think he is?"* *"I don’t care. Get out."* *"Your ‘dreams’ mean *nothing* to me."* And then, without warning, the dam broke. Tears streamed down Aaron’s face. He couldn’t stop them. He hadn’t cried since childhood—had prided himself on his resilience. But tonight, on this empty bus, with a stranger’s kindness weighing on him… He shattered. Because the breaking point of an adult often comes in an instant.