Chapter 29: [Facility: Blackstone Private Residence]

Damon walked out of the apartment building, the wooden door clicking shut behind him one last time. He carried no luggage, no boxes, and no lingering thoughts.

He flagged down a yellow cab at the corner of the avenue.

"Where to?" the driver asked, barely glancing back through the rearview mirror as Damon opened the rear door.

"Blackstone Drive. The north estate lane," Damon said, sliding into the seat.

The driver raised his eyebrows, taking a second look at Damon’s suit in the mirror before shifting into gear. "North estate lane? You got it, pal."

As the cab rattled over the asphalt of the lower district, Damon looked out the window. The change in his circumstances was absurd. Less than forty-eight hours ago, he was living in a cramped, single-room box.

Now, twenty-eight point eight million dollars sat completely liquid in a private account. And floating in his mind was the second notification from the system: Blackstone Private Residence. Status: Fully Owned.

The cab crossed the river bridge. The roads widened. The cracked concrete gave way to smooth, dark asphalt bordered by mature oak trees and fencing. Large, gated properties sat set back from the road, separated by green lawns and private driveways.

The driver slowed the cab near the end of a long tree, pulling up before a pair of large black iron gates set into a high stone wall.

"This is as far as I go without a keycard, chief," the driver said, staring up at the stone pillars. "That’s thirty-four dollars."

Damon pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, dropped it into the front seat without a word, and opened the door.

"Hey, keep the - " The driver stopped, blinking at the bill, then looked back at Damon. "Thanks, man."

Damon stepped out into the quiet air of the North District. The iron gates were unlocked. As he approached, a faint hum clicked from the side pillar, and the heavy black gates swung inward on silent hinges.

He walked past the gatehouse. At the end of the long drive sat a sprawling, three-story stone manor with steep roofs, high arched windows, and manicured hedges lining the wide front steps. It was a massive compound.

Before he reached the bottom step of the main porch, the front doors swung wide open.

An elderly man in a dark grey three-piece suit came rushing down the marble steps. His hair was pure silver, slicked back neatly, and his face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp. The moment his gaze locked onto Damon’s face, the old man froze dead in his tracks.

His mouth opened, then closed. A sudden rush of emotion broke through his rigid posture, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

"Young Master..." the old man breathed, his voice cracking with relief. He took three quick steps forward, bowing deeply. "You’re alive. Thank God... you’re finally back!"

Damon stopped on the gravel.

His eyes remained completely calm, but inside his mind, a spark ignited. He had never seen this man before in his life. He had never set foot in this district, nor had he ever lived in a manor like this. Yet this old man was looking at him with deep-seated emotional attachment - the kind that couldn’t be faked by a hired actor under pressure.

The system didn’t just transfer a deed, He realized instantly. It didn’t just register my name on a municipal ledger. It forged a background.

"You’ve been waiting long?" Damon asked, his tone neutral.

The old butler straightened, wiping his eyes with a folded handkerchief.

"Four years, Young Master. Ever since you left the city after the deaths of your parents, I’ve maintained the estate exactly as you instructed."

Damon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Everything is still in order?"

"Yes, sir. The estate, family accounts, and legal records are all intact. The temporary restrictions placed on the family assets during the probate process have also been cleared now that you’ve returned."

He paused before adding quietly, "The Blackstone estate remains under the Thorne family’s ownership. Nothing was lost."

Damon nodded as if the information were exactly what he expected.

Inside, however, his thoughts moved quickly.

So the system didn’t just create an identity.

It created history.

The old man bowed slightly.

"I am Thomas. I have served the Thorne family since you were a child. It is an honor to welcome you home, Young Master Damon."

Damon studied him for another second.

"Bring the family records to the study."

"Immediately, Young Master Damon," Thomas replied with a deep bow. "Your personal study on the second floor has been cleaned daily. I shall bring tea."

Damon walked up the broad staircase alone. His hand slid over the railing.

As he reached the landing, he opened his vision, checking the interface.

[Facility Assistance: Fully Synchronized]

[Public Identity: Damon Thorne]

[Legal History: Verified]

[Social Credit & Tax Ledger: Clean]

Damon let out a faint breath, a smile touching his lips.

The system was far more terrifying than he had initially given it credit for. It hadn’t merely handed him twenty-eight million dollars and a luxury building; it had seamlessly woven him into the fabric of the city’s high society. A dead aristocratic family, a surviving heir returning after years away, a faithful old butler who remembered a childhood that never existed it was an ironclad cover story.

Nobody would immediately question where a young master of the Thorne family had obtained twenty-eight million dollars or why he lived in a multi-million-dollar compound in the North District.

He walked into the primary study, a massive room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a dark desk, and wide windows overlooking the private gardens behind the manor. He sat in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, leaning back as Thomas entered carrying a silver tray with a teapot and a leather-bound family ledger.

"The current local standings, Young Master," Thomas said, placing the ledger neatly on the desk before pouring the dark tea. "The old associates of your late father have inquired occasionally, but I maintained absolute silence as instructed. None know you have returned to the city."

"Good," Damon said, taking the leather file. "Keep it that way for now."

"Understood, sir." Thomas bowed. "Will you be dining at the manor tonight?"

"No," Damon said, closing the ledger. He looked out the window. "I need transportation."

"Ah," Thomas nodded comprehendingly. "The old family vehicles were liquidated during the probate freeze four years ago to settle the estate taxes. Shall I call for a private car service?"

"No," Damon said, standing up. "I’ll handle it myself."

Riding around in a yellow cab or waiting on a private driver might have suited an anonymous consultant working out of a cheap apartment, but it did not suit Damon Thorne. If he was going to position himself at the peak of the city, his presence needed to match his backing.

An hour later, as dusk fell over the commercial core of the North District, a taxi dropped Damon off in front of a sprawling glass-and-steel building. Broad floodlights illuminated the polished stone courtyard, shining through massive display windows that showcased rows of aggressive luxury vehicles.

Above the entrance, platinum lettering gleamed under the lights: Vanguard Motors.

Damon pushed through the heavy glass doors.

Inside, the showroom was quiet and spotless. Half a dozen high-end luxury sedans, sports coupes, and armored SUVs sat gleaming under the ceiling spotlights. Near the back desk, three salespeople in dark suits turned their heads at the sound of the door closing.

Damon adjusted his cuffs, his eyes sweeping across the line of high-performance engines.

"Let me see what kind of car suits Damon Thorne," he murmured to himself.