Mike Spector sat slouched in his seat, the dim hum of the city bus filling the silence as he stared out the window. It wasn’t the worst bus he’d ever been on, but it wasn’t great either. A faint smell of stale coffee and someone’s forgotten lunch lingered in the air, and the driver had that dead-eyed, “I’ve seen some shit” expression that only came from years of public transit work.

  He glanced around. The guy sitting a few rows ahead of him, some dude in a hoodie with a Bluetooth earpiece, looked equally lost in thought. Not that it mattered. Just another random commuter.

  Mike sighed, rubbing his face. ‘How the hell did he end up here?’ He should be in a courtroom by now, slamming some legal brief on a desk, making high-powered arguments, and having some judge nod thoughtfully while dramatic music played in the background. Instead, he was broke, sitting on a shaky bus, heading to Cars 4 a Better Future for a damn used car like he was some kid fresh out of high school.

  Not that he could be mad about it. This was his fault.

  He’d been so close. One semester away from finishing law school, everything was lining up—then boom. Girlfriend got pregnant. Suddenly, student loans weren’t enough, part-time jobs weren’t cutting it, and childcare cost more than rent. What was he supposed to do? Tell his kid, “Sorry, champ, gotta finish tort law before I can afford formula”?

  So, he dropped out. Figured he’d go back later, once things settled. That was six years ago.

  Six years of side hustles, legal consulting for people who technically shouldn’t need lawyers, and—his personal masterpiece—taking bar exams for other people.

  Because here’s the thing: Mike was built for this.

  The whole reason he’d gotten a scholarship in the first place was his insane photographic memory. He didn’t just read law books—he absorbed them. He could recite entire cases word for word, cite obscure legal precedents off the top of his head, and—if people could actually see his stat sheet—his Intelligence would be sitting at 1.99, just shy of breaking the damn meter.

  Under skills?

  ?Master of Law (Unofficial)

  ?Human Legal Database

  ?Can Reason His Way Out of Parking Tickets Like a Magician

  But did any of that matter if you didn’t have a degree? Nope.

  So, instead of racking up courtroom victories, he was quietly making money taking bar exams for rich idiots—the kind of guys who spent more time on yachts than in class but still wanted to slap “Esq.” at the end of their names. And the best part? He never got caught.

  These morons would fly him out wherever they needed a passing grade. Alberta last-minute crammers, Ontario legacy kids, Vancouver trust-fund babies—if they wanted to be lawyers without doing any actual work, Mike made it happen.

  Most of them had gone to Kingston Dominion University, the so-called “Hahvahd of Canada.” And sure, KDU looked good on a resume, but it didn’t guarantee you could pass the bar. That’s where Mike came in. For a price, he’d sit in the exam room, breeze through the test, and walk out with their legal future secured.

  Ironically, he’d taken bar exams in more provinces than most real lawyers, hopping from one jurisdiction to another. Alberta had its CPLED program, Ontario had its open-book barrister and solicitor exams, and British Columbia had its own set of hoops to jump through. He knew every trick, every loophole, and every last-minute excuse that let his “clients” avoid actually learning the law.

  And yet, for all his skill, he wasn’t a lawyer himself. Not technically. Not legally. Just a guy who could pass the bar better than the people who actually wanted to be lawyers.

  Sure, it wasn’t exactly legal, but hey—he never failed.

  Mike stretched and glanced at the guy a few rows ahead. The dude was bobbing his head to music, probably lost in his own problems.

  Funny thing was, they were headed to the same place.

  ***

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  POV : Cars 4 a Better Future

  Maluck was half-listening to Dennis’s update, nodding along as he went through the list of people still needing to be paid off to keep the whole internal hostile takeover under wraps. Maluck had to admit, for a guy he’d more or less bullied into submission, Dennis was doing a damn good job.

  That’s when the System interrupted.

  [System Task: Stop Paying These Fuckers]

  Seriously. Why are you giving away your money? What right do they have to it? The longer you delay, the bigger your bonus.

  Somewhere in the astral universe, Envy was seething, glaring at all the money flowing out of Maluck’s pockets into the hands of people who hadn’t done a damn thing to earn it.

  ‘Shit,’ Maluck thought.

  He cleared his throat. “Dennis, is there any way you can delay those payments a little longer?”

  Dennis frowned. “I mean, I’m already stretching it, Maluck. Some of these guys are getting antsy.”

  “Just think of it this way. The longer you delay, the more money we keep. The more money we keep, the happier I’ll be. And the happier I am, the more trips to the casino we take.”

  Dennis visibly perked up at that. “Well… now that you put it that way.”

  “Don’t crash the whole operation,” Maluck warned. “But a few waves wouldn’t hurt, right?”

  Dennis grinned. “Absolutely.”

  “Oh,” Dennis added as an afterthought. “Did you want to attend the car giveaway event?”

  Maluck blinked. “The what?”

  Dennis sighed. “You do remember we’re a charity, right?”

  “Barely.”

  “Well, ever since you changed the split from 90-10 to 50-50, we actually have enough cars to give away. So today, we’ve got a whole bunch of recipients picking up their vehicles. Big event. Press coverage. Publicity. And more importantly—potential donations.”

  Maluck thought about it. He had a couple of hours to kill. And more importantly, his Appraiser’s Lens was still active from his morning lottery run.

  “Why not?” he said with a shrug.

  “***

  The Cars 4 a Better Future event was in full swing.

  Rows of used but well-maintained cars gleamed under the midday sun, each one polished to perfection. A massive banner stretched across the stage, reading “A Better Future, One Car at a Time.” Cameras flashed as local news reporters interviewed recipients, the occasional corporate sponsor, and of course, the carefully selected charity representatives.

  The lot had been transformed for maximum spectacle—balloons bobbing in the breeze, volunteers handing out coffee and snacks, a podium set up with a microphone for an inevitable round of speeches. The mayor was rumored to be stopping by, which meant everything had been dialed up to full PR mode.

  For most people, this was just another charity event. A place to shake hands, make speeches, and take photos with smiling recipients while quietly congratulating themselves for “making a difference.”

  For Maluck? This was recon.

  He wasn’t standing in front of cameras or shaking hands with politicians. Instead, he was in the background, casually sipping a coffee, taking in the scene.

  He had two goals:

  1.See how the event ran now that the money was actually reaching people.

  2.Use his Appraiser’s Lens to spot anyone interesting.

  And there they were.

  It was subtle.

  Most people looked… normal. They were excited, nervous, happy. Their expressions ran the usual emotional range you’d expect at an event like this.

  But two men stood out to Maluck—not because of what they were doing, but because of the faint, unmistakable glow that surrounded them.

  Jamal Williams and Mike Spector.

  Neither of them knew each other.

  They were just two guys standing in line, waiting for their cars.

  But they had something.

  Maluck couldn’t tell what. His lens didn’t work like that. It wasn’t a stat sheet or a detailed character profile. But when someone had that glow, it meant they had potential.

  He smirked. ‘Well, well. What do we have here?’

  ***

  Jamal stood near the back of the line, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  He looked like a guy who had been through it. He wasn’t dressed fancy—just a hoodie, jeans, and sneakers that had seen better days. His expression was a mix of skepticism and hope, like he wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t some elaborate prank.

  Which made sense.

  Because in his life, good things didn’t happen.

  Jamal had been getting by on instincts for years. His real talents? Well… they were the kind of things that didn’t get you job offers. They got you favors. Free drinks, better deals, getting out of trouble—he knew how to read people. He just didn’t realize that was a skill.

  Right now, though? He wasn’t thinking about that.

  He was thinking about his kids.

  So many of them, and so many ex’s.

  And how a car would mean he could actually pick them up on time instead of making excuses. No more waiting for the bus, no more borrowing rides from unreliable friends.

  For once, something was going right.

  Jamal exhaled slowly, still half-expecting the call to come in saying this was a mistake.

  ***

  A few spots ahead in line, Mike Spector was staring at the podium, arms crossed.

  He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t excited.

  He was analyzing.

  The way the charity rep spoke, the way the event was structured, the little hints that told him what kind of tax write-offs this whole thing was getting. He wasn’t even trying—it was just how his brain worked.

  A year ago, he had been on track for law school. That was before life threw him a curveball in the form of an unexpected pregnancy and a financial nosedive.

  Now?

  He was waiting in line for a car like everyone else.

  He had long since accepted his situation, but he hadn’t given up. Not even close.

  He still studied. Still read case law for fun. He wasn’t going to sit around and let life bury him.

  But today?

  Today was about something simple. Transportation. A means to an end. A way to actually get to job interviews without spending half his paycheck on QuickieCabs.

  For Mike, this wasn’t charity. It was strategy.

  ***