Lin Zhao invited Nico to dinner at her apartment, which was unusual enough that he almost said no. But you didn't refuse Lin. Not when she'd lived in Level 8 for thirty years and had the kind of respect that couldn't be bought or intimidated.
Her apartment was in one of the older blocks—tiny, maybe eight square meters total, but immaculate. Clean floors, organized shelves, a small cooking plate that she was using to make something that smelled incredible.
"Sit," she commanded, gesturing at the floor cushions that served as her furniture.
Nico sat. Kade had offered to come along, but Lin had been explicit: just Nico. So here he was, in an elder's apartment, watching her cook with the efficiency of someone who'd made every movement count for decades.
She served him a bowl—rice, vegetables in a sauce he couldn't identify, small pieces of real protein that must have cost a fortune in Level 8.
"Eat," she said.
He ate. It was the best thing he'd tasted in years.
Lin watched him with those sharp eyes, waiting until he'd finished half the bowl before speaking.
"You know why I invited you?"
"To yell at me about something?" Nico guessed.
"To test you." Lin set down her own bowl. "You've been playing Uncle Nico for two months now. Feeding people, paying bills, fighting gangs. Very impressive. But I need to know—are you exploiting people's gratitude, or are you actually committed to them?"
"I'm not exploiting anyone—"
"Everyone exploits someone. Question is whether you know you're doing it." Lin leaned forward. "You employ thirty-two people. Feed thousands. Pay medical bills. Refuse gang protection money. All good things. But tell me—what do you get out of it?"
Nico didn't have an answer ready. "I... I don't know. Purpose? Feeling like I matter?"
"So you're using their desperation to make yourself feel important."
"That's not—" He stopped. Was she wrong? "Maybe. I don't know. But they're still getting fed."
"True. And what happens when the food stops?"
"It won't stop. I've got money—"
"For maybe a year." Lin's voice was matter-of-fact. "I've seen your burn rate. Word travels. You're spending three-quarters of a million credits per week. That's forty million a year. You've got... what, forty-five million left?"
Closer to forty-four, but close enough. "How do you—"
"Because I pay attention. And because I've seen this before." Lin picked up her bowl again, took a deliberate bite. "Thirty years ago, there was a man named Santos. Corporate executive, got caught embezzling, fled to Level 8 with twenty million credits. Decided to buy himself a kingdom—paid for housing, food, security. Everyone loved him. Called him Saint Santos."
"What happened to him?"
"Money ran out. Two years later, he had nothing left and no skills to survive without it. People he'd helped turned on him when they realized the charity was ending. He jumped into a recycling processor." Lin's eyes were hard. "That's what happens to saviors who don't teach people to save themselves."
Nico set down his bowl, appetite gone.
"I'm not Santos—"
"No, you're worse. Because he was just selfish. You actually believe you're helping." Lin's voice softened slightly. "Listen to me, child. You've done good things. Real good things. People are eating who'd starve. Getting medical care who'd die. That matters. But you're building a house of cards. When it falls—and it will fall—what's left?"
"I don't know."
"Exactly. So here's your test." Lin stood, moved to a shelf, pulled down a data pad. "This is a list of fifty families in my building. All of them desperate. All of them would take money if you offered. I want you to tell me—which ones do you help?"
She handed him the pad. Nico scrolled through it. Saw names, family sizes, employment status, medical needs. The Wang family: father dying of lung disease, mother working three jobs, four kids. The Petrov family: single parent, two kids with learning disabilities, no stable income. The Chen family—no relation to him—elderly grandparents raising three grandkids after parents died in an industrial accident.
Every single entry was heartbreaking.
"I can't choose," Nico said. "They all need help."
"Exactly. Now imagine you have money for ten families. Which ten?"
"I'd find money for all of them—"
"You can't. That's the test. You have limited resources and unlimited need. How do you choose?"
Nico stared at the pad. His hands were shaking. "I... the ones with kids? The medical emergencies?"
"So the Wangs get help because the father's dying, but the Petrovs don't because the disabilities aren't urgent?" Lin's voice was relentless. "The kids with a dying parent are more important than kids with learning disabilities?"
"That's not what I—"
"That's exactly what you mean. You have to choose, Nico. That's what power is—making choices about who gets help and who doesn't. And right now, you're making those choices based on who asks first, who you happen to see, who pulls at your heartstrings the hardest."
"Then what should I base it on?"
Lin took the pad back. "That's the wrong question. The right question is—why should you be making this choice at all?"
Nico looked at her, confused.
"You're one man with stolen money trying to solve systemic poverty. It doesn't work. Can't work. Because the problem isn't that people don't have enough charity—it's that the system is designed to keep them poor." Lin sat back down. "You want to really help? Stop being their savior. Start teaching them to organize. To demand better wages, better housing, better treatment. To build power collectively instead of depending on one junkie with a fortune."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Then learn. Because your money will run out, Nico. And when it does, either they'll know how to fight for themselves, or they'll just have nice memories of when Uncle Nico fed them."
She picked up her bowl again, resumed eating. The test was apparently over.
Nico sat there, the weight of it crushing him. She was right. About all of it. He'd been playing savior without thinking about what happened after. Building dependency, not independence. Making himself necessary instead of making himself obsolete.
"I don't want to be obsolete," he admitted quietly.
"I know. That's the selfish part." Lin's smile was almost kind. "You like being needed. Being loved. Being the King. But real leadership isn't making yourself necessary—it's making yourself unnecessary. Building something that outlasts you."
"I don't know if I can do that."
"Maybe not. But you better try. Because the alternative is Santos—leaving nothing but empty bellies when you're gone."
Nico stood. "Thank you. For the meal. And for... this."
"Don't thank me. Just think about what you're building. And whether it will stand without you." Lin walked him to the door. "You passed the test, by the way."
"I did?"
"You listened. Lots of powerful men don't. They just get defensive." She patted his arm. "Now go figure out how to make yourself unnecessary. That's the real work."
Nico left her apartment, her words echoing. The hallway was dark—power fluctuations again, probably wouldn't be fixed for days unless he paid someone to fix it—and he stood there for a moment, trying to process.
He'd thought he was building a kingdom.
Lin had just told him he was building a grave.
Unless he changed. Unless he taught people to fight instead of just feeding them.
But Nico didn't know how to organize a movement. He barely knew how to run restaurants.
He pulled out his tablet, looked at his accounts. Forty-four million credits. Maybe ten months left at this rate.
Ten months to figure out how to make himself unnecessary.
Ten months to build something that would outlast him.
Or ten months to be remembered as the guy who fed people until he couldn't anymore.
Nico started walking back to Chen's. He had work to do.
And a lot of learning ahead of him.